Daughter of Prophecy by Miles Owens Page B

his breath. Several sat frozen with spoons of food halfway to their mouths.
    After looking contemptuously at Lord Gillaon the guard turned back to his companions. “Best we eat down there,” he sneered, lifting his chin toward the direction of the wool merchants’ table. “The air on this end of the room seems . . . tainted.” The other two snickered loudly in agreement before they sauntered off to join their employers.
    The warrior was halfway to his feet, eyes flashing and right hand reaching for a sword hilt that was not there. Lord Gillaon gripped the man’s arm and whispered curtly. The warrior hesitated for a heartbeat, then settled stiffly back into his chair.
    All present let out a pent-up breath and returned to their meals.

    Harred swallowed his anger. From the look in his lord’s eyes, he knew he had erred.
    â€œThey did that under orders from their Sabinis masters,” Lord Gillaon lectured coldly, his face expressionless. “Why?”
    â€œMy pardon, m’lord.”
    â€œI do not want your apology! I want you thinking!”
    Harred watched as his lord’s gaze swept the dining room. Normally, when Gillaon Tarenester was angry, his face would wither a tree. Not so tonight. The man’s expression was bland with a hint of a smile on his lips.
    The innkeeper came up to inform them that the meal was coming soon. Gillaon nodded pleasantly and continued. “Harred de Tarenester en Wright, your skills are formidable. You are the best swordsmen we Tarenesters have produced in my memory—and your prime is yet to come. Beyond that, I believe you have the potential to become more than a gifted warrior. But if you are to remain by my side as rhyfelwr, you must learn to control both your emotions and facial expressions and to use your mind as a weapon.”
    Harred took a deep breath. He unclenched his fists, relaxed his shoulders, and tried to appear as calm as his lord. He grappled with the swirling subtleties involved in what he had naïvely assumed would be a straightforward process of buying wagonloads of wool. You offered more than anyone else did, and it was yours. That seemed simple, as had everything else in his life to this point—which had been man to man, sword against sword, with the strongest and quickest walking away the acknowledged winner.
    But he was learning that if his clan bought Dinari wool, it could have an effect on the balance of power among the six high lords. That level of maneuvering was beyond Harred. But for the moment, it meant he must ignore sneering comments made by ill-mannered, pot-bellied ruffians whose loyalty was to a coin purse.
    â€œThink upon this as a different type of battle, fought with different weapons,” Lord Gillaon went on, continuing his closed-face inspection of the dining room. “While I have no doubt that you could have killed all three, what would you have gained me? The Sabinis would be almost blameless. One of their hired guards said something indiscriminate. They render an apology while commenting on how difficult it is to hire good men. And my rhyfelwr would have proved himself a quick-tempered lout while calling my judgment into question.”
    Gillaon swung his gaze back to fix Harred with an anvil-hard stare. “And my judgment, my trustworthiness, is what I am attempting to prove here more than anything else. All that would have gone to the Sabinis side of the ledger at the bargain price of three hired blades!”
    Harred had no reply. Thankfully, further conversation was halted when the young waitress wove smoothly among the tables toward them. Perched on her shoulder was a round tray of dishes. From brief conversations during previous meals, Harred knew her to be the innkeeper’s daughter. Fifteen or sixteen years of age, she was pretty, with a long neck and slender figure. Her dark blond hair was pulled back and tied with a leather string.
    She lowered the tray with practiced skill