bard.”
Garn said nothing, unfamiliar with the term “bard” and confused by the guard’s decision to volunteer information to one he should have been questioning. The oddities of the man’s manner made Garn cautious, and the fog that hazed his mind made even simple concepts difficult to grasp.
Mar Lon pressed. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Garn shook his head and immediately wished he had not. The throb intensified. He winced.
Mar Lon flinched in a response Garn could only interpret as sympathetic. “Hundreds of years ago, my forefather angered the gods with his curiosity. In punishment,Odin cursed him with a driving need to know everything, yet to pass the knowledge on only in song. We’re musicians.” He paused, one brow cocked, awaiting some comment from Garn.
Long years of listening without speaking made Garn a poor conversationalist. Uncertain what Mar Lon expected from him, he remained insolently silent. He noted that the need to play an instrument might explain Mar Lon’s caution with his fingers, but he saw no reason to announce this observation aloud. Surely, Mar Lon already knew his reason for using gauntlets.
When he received no response, Mar Lon kept his gaze locked on Garn as he spoke, as if to gauge the response to each word. “Odin also saw to it that the current bard, male or female, became the closest personal bodyguard of the king of Béarn.”
Garn returned Mar Lon’s attention stare for stare, though the effort dulled his vision. Garn had no idea why Mar Lon continued to talk about himself, but he feigned interest. Behind his back, his fingers explored the fetters, the attempt reawakening the pains in his arm, wrist, and the fingers bruised by the trapdoor. For an instant, their sharpness stole his attention from the pounding in his head and the dense fog that smothered his thoughts. Someone had tied bandages across the dog bite as well as the gash the king’s stiletto had raked across his wrist. The cloth added bulk to Garn’s meaty forearms, making the shackles unnaturally tight. His tactile exploration told him that the weakest point was the chain between the cuffs, yet breaking even that would require a burst of mentally-enhanced physical strength. He lowered his head, trying to dredge power from his innermost core, as Colbey had taught him.
Mar Lon continued, “My grandfather served King Buirane, then his son Valar. My father protected Valar, even through Morhane’s coup. But once the fighting was over and Morhane proved the survivor, he had no choice but to guard the new king, no matter how Morhane came to power. Had Valar survived, it would have become my lot to serve his heir. And I would have done so with honor.” He fell silent.
Garn raised his head to Mar Lon’s earnest and somewhaturgent glance. Though inexperienced with puzzles, Garn was gradually placing inconsistencies together and trying to find sense in them.
He could have killed me, but he didn’t.
Garn concentrated on the grinding in his head, aware Mar Lon must have pulled the blow that grounded him.
He could have killed me twice, at least.
For the moment, Garn put escaping on hold.
He’s volunteered useful information without pressure. And he’s all but pledged his services to Sterrane.
Two possibilities seeped sluggishly into Garn’s concussion-slowed mind.
Either he’s guessed who I’m working for and he’s trying to join our cause, or he’s trying to get me to trust him so I accidentally betray my friends.
Preparation for breaking his bonds was forgotten as Garn struggled with a decision he felt ill-equipped to make. To keep Mitrian safe, he knew he would do better not to place faith in the goodwill of a stranger, especially one so obviously trusted by an enemy. Yet to pass up the opportunity to have an ally inside the castle seemed folly, especially with his own wits blunted. “My name is Garn,” he said, uncertain where to go from there.
Mar Lon sheathed his sword. He avoided Garn’s
Garn said nothing, unfamiliar with the term “bard” and confused by the guard’s decision to volunteer information to one he should have been questioning. The oddities of the man’s manner made Garn cautious, and the fog that hazed his mind made even simple concepts difficult to grasp.
Mar Lon pressed. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Garn shook his head and immediately wished he had not. The throb intensified. He winced.
Mar Lon flinched in a response Garn could only interpret as sympathetic. “Hundreds of years ago, my forefather angered the gods with his curiosity. In punishment,Odin cursed him with a driving need to know everything, yet to pass the knowledge on only in song. We’re musicians.” He paused, one brow cocked, awaiting some comment from Garn.
Long years of listening without speaking made Garn a poor conversationalist. Uncertain what Mar Lon expected from him, he remained insolently silent. He noted that the need to play an instrument might explain Mar Lon’s caution with his fingers, but he saw no reason to announce this observation aloud. Surely, Mar Lon already knew his reason for using gauntlets.
When he received no response, Mar Lon kept his gaze locked on Garn as he spoke, as if to gauge the response to each word. “Odin also saw to it that the current bard, male or female, became the closest personal bodyguard of the king of Béarn.”
Garn returned Mar Lon’s attention stare for stare, though the effort dulled his vision. Garn had no idea why Mar Lon continued to talk about himself, but he feigned interest. Behind his back, his fingers explored the fetters, the attempt reawakening the pains in his arm, wrist, and the fingers bruised by the trapdoor. For an instant, their sharpness stole his attention from the pounding in his head and the dense fog that smothered his thoughts. Someone had tied bandages across the dog bite as well as the gash the king’s stiletto had raked across his wrist. The cloth added bulk to Garn’s meaty forearms, making the shackles unnaturally tight. His tactile exploration told him that the weakest point was the chain between the cuffs, yet breaking even that would require a burst of mentally-enhanced physical strength. He lowered his head, trying to dredge power from his innermost core, as Colbey had taught him.
Mar Lon continued, “My grandfather served King Buirane, then his son Valar. My father protected Valar, even through Morhane’s coup. But once the fighting was over and Morhane proved the survivor, he had no choice but to guard the new king, no matter how Morhane came to power. Had Valar survived, it would have become my lot to serve his heir. And I would have done so with honor.” He fell silent.
Garn raised his head to Mar Lon’s earnest and somewhaturgent glance. Though inexperienced with puzzles, Garn was gradually placing inconsistencies together and trying to find sense in them.
He could have killed me, but he didn’t.
Garn concentrated on the grinding in his head, aware Mar Lon must have pulled the blow that grounded him.
He could have killed me twice, at least.
For the moment, Garn put escaping on hold.
He’s volunteered useful information without pressure. And he’s all but pledged his services to Sterrane.
Two possibilities seeped sluggishly into Garn’s concussion-slowed mind.
Either he’s guessed who I’m working for and he’s trying to join our cause, or he’s trying to get me to trust him so I accidentally betray my friends.
Preparation for breaking his bonds was forgotten as Garn struggled with a decision he felt ill-equipped to make. To keep Mitrian safe, he knew he would do better not to place faith in the goodwill of a stranger, especially one so obviously trusted by an enemy. Yet to pass up the opportunity to have an ally inside the castle seemed folly, especially with his own wits blunted. “My name is Garn,” he said, uncertain where to go from there.
Mar Lon sheathed his sword. He avoided Garn’s
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