filled the doorway. His round face looked too small atop his powerful shoulders. Both the roundness and the size was heightened because he was totally bald. His head gleamed softly in the lamplight. The bones of his skull seemed thick under his skin. Thordin held the door while Blaine limped in behind him. ”Blaine, you should be in bed, resting,”
Jonathan said.
”I haven’t made my report on what happened in the forest.”
”Thordin can report for both of you.”
”I tried to tell him that.” Thordin’s voice was painfully deep. A jagged edge of scar curled under his jaw to show why his voice sounded like rough sandpaper. ”The boy would not listen to me.”
The younger man shook his head. ”The man was under our protection, and now he’s dead. I owe him at least this much: to report in person.” ”The dead do not care about grand gestures,” Thordin said. ”They are just as dead.”
”His name was Pegin Tallyrand, and he’d never traveled more than a few miles from his home. He traveled for days in the dead of winter to find us; then we let him get killed.”
”We did no such thing, boy. You nearly died trying to save him.” ”And you, Thordin—did you take no wounds? You are not one to let a fight pass you by.”
Thordin grinned. ”Ah, that is a fact.” His face sobered as if a hand had wiped it clean. ”I fought, but it was a great, bloody tree. You can hack at it, but you can’t rightly wound it. And I thought the lightning had killed it already.” ”It was dead,” Blaine said, ”nothing of life inhabited what we fought.” Jonathan stared up at the younger man. He had never really questioned that Blaine had a feel for the land. He knew things about what grew or crawled or flew, knowledge observation could not account for. Like Elaine’s visions, Elaine’s intuition was something they had relied on without questioning its source. Was it magic, too? Was Blaine a budding mage? Jonathan searched the familiar face. The gleaming lamplight showed the same earnest eyes, the handsome, if somewhat delicate, face. Nothing had changed, but suddenly Jonathan was looking with fresh eyes.
”How did you know the tree was not inhabited by some life-force?” Blaine shifted on his crutch, frowning. ”I don’t know.” He tried to shrug but couldn’t quite manage it with only one good arm. ”For pity’s sake, Blaine, pull up a chair and sit down.” Thordin drew two straight-backed chairs from the corner of the room. He steadied one chair for Blaine to ease into. When the boy was settled, he sat on his own chair. Thordin looked too large for the thin chair. Blaine let out a shaky breath. Lines showed at his eyes and mouth. The candlelight gleamed on the sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He was hurt, only staying upright through sheer determination. Tonight was not the time to question his abilities, magical or not.
”Make your report, Blaine, before you collapse and we have to carry you off to bed.”
”I’m not...”
Jonathan waved the protestations aside. ”Tell me what happened.”
Blaine drew a deep breath, nodded. ”We were in Chebney.”
”Was the report of a monster just fancy, or true?”
”All too true,” Thordin said.
Jonathan did not prompt him. He knew Thordin would continue in his own good time.
”A ghost walked the corridors of the meister-singer’s house. A phantom beast with poisonous breath that had stolen the meistersinger’s voice. He was said to have a lovely voice, but we heard it not, at least not from the man. The ghost stalked the halls, singing in beautiful, mournful tones, like a great ringing bell that tolled the hours of darkness. With daylight, it vanished, and the meistersinger could speak with us.
But he could not sing.” ”A meistersinger that cannot sing cannot defend his seat.” Thordin nodded. ”That was why he was so frantic for us to come, I think. It was only a matter of time before some young upstart challenged him. Without
Jonathan said.
”I haven’t made my report on what happened in the forest.”
”Thordin can report for both of you.”
”I tried to tell him that.” Thordin’s voice was painfully deep. A jagged edge of scar curled under his jaw to show why his voice sounded like rough sandpaper. ”The boy would not listen to me.”
The younger man shook his head. ”The man was under our protection, and now he’s dead. I owe him at least this much: to report in person.” ”The dead do not care about grand gestures,” Thordin said. ”They are just as dead.”
”His name was Pegin Tallyrand, and he’d never traveled more than a few miles from his home. He traveled for days in the dead of winter to find us; then we let him get killed.”
”We did no such thing, boy. You nearly died trying to save him.” ”And you, Thordin—did you take no wounds? You are not one to let a fight pass you by.”
Thordin grinned. ”Ah, that is a fact.” His face sobered as if a hand had wiped it clean. ”I fought, but it was a great, bloody tree. You can hack at it, but you can’t rightly wound it. And I thought the lightning had killed it already.” ”It was dead,” Blaine said, ”nothing of life inhabited what we fought.” Jonathan stared up at the younger man. He had never really questioned that Blaine had a feel for the land. He knew things about what grew or crawled or flew, knowledge observation could not account for. Like Elaine’s visions, Elaine’s intuition was something they had relied on without questioning its source. Was it magic, too? Was Blaine a budding mage? Jonathan searched the familiar face. The gleaming lamplight showed the same earnest eyes, the handsome, if somewhat delicate, face. Nothing had changed, but suddenly Jonathan was looking with fresh eyes.
”How did you know the tree was not inhabited by some life-force?” Blaine shifted on his crutch, frowning. ”I don’t know.” He tried to shrug but couldn’t quite manage it with only one good arm. ”For pity’s sake, Blaine, pull up a chair and sit down.” Thordin drew two straight-backed chairs from the corner of the room. He steadied one chair for Blaine to ease into. When the boy was settled, he sat on his own chair. Thordin looked too large for the thin chair. Blaine let out a shaky breath. Lines showed at his eyes and mouth. The candlelight gleamed on the sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He was hurt, only staying upright through sheer determination. Tonight was not the time to question his abilities, magical or not.
”Make your report, Blaine, before you collapse and we have to carry you off to bed.”
”I’m not...”
Jonathan waved the protestations aside. ”Tell me what happened.”
Blaine drew a deep breath, nodded. ”We were in Chebney.”
”Was the report of a monster just fancy, or true?”
”All too true,” Thordin said.
Jonathan did not prompt him. He knew Thordin would continue in his own good time.
”A ghost walked the corridors of the meister-singer’s house. A phantom beast with poisonous breath that had stolen the meistersinger’s voice. He was said to have a lovely voice, but we heard it not, at least not from the man. The ghost stalked the halls, singing in beautiful, mournful tones, like a great ringing bell that tolled the hours of darkness. With daylight, it vanished, and the meistersinger could speak with us.
But he could not sing.” ”A meistersinger that cannot sing cannot defend his seat.” Thordin nodded. ”That was why he was so frantic for us to come, I think. It was only a matter of time before some young upstart challenged him. Without