Defenders of The Sacred Land: Book One of The Sacred Land Saga by Mark Tyson Page B

think after this long I would take this outlawing of magic more seriously, Sylvalora.”
    “I had hoped you would, Lady Shey. You have always had a quick tongue, dear, and sometimes it is quicker than your brain.”
    Lady Shey flinched like a child just scolded by her mother. A hush came over the camp.
    After Tatrice and Lady Shey washed the dishes and put them away, Dorenn found Tatrice drying her hands near the wagon. He swallowed hard and approached her, hoping to make up. “Beautiful night out tonight,” he said.
    Tatrice glanced up at the sky. “I suppose.”
    Dorenn searched for a way to get back in Tatrice’s good graces. “Look at the stars; they sure are clear and bright; how about taking a walk with me?” It was the best he could come up with.
    “It’s bedtime,” she answered without looking at him.
    “Are you sure? We could talk about how I made you angry and…”
    Dorenn stopped cold as Tatrice shot him an even angrier look. “Do not start with me, Dorenn Adair. If you still have not figured it out by now, you never will.” She handed him the drying cloth and stomped away. Reluctantly, he followed her until Sylvalora appeared from behind the red ale wagon.
    “Let her go, lad.”
    Dorenn leaned against the wagon and tossed the drying cloth over the rear wheel. “Am I that thick in the head? I have no idea why she is so angry.”
    Sylvalora chuckled. “Even the wisest men are confounded on such matters as the behavior of women. It is best if you let her come to you when she is ready. And when she does come to you, you must apologize even if you don’t understand why she is angry.”
    “If you say so,” Dorenn said, his mind shifting to Sylvalora. “May I ask you a personal question?”
    Sylvalora sat down before him, patting the ground in a gesture for him to join her. “Come sit and we will talk.”
    He sat on the ground next to her.
    “Are you Arillian?”
    Sylvalora smiled gently. “Not exactly, but that’s close enough.”
    “Have you lived as long as the elves then? I do not mean to offend,” he added, “but Trendan is half-elven and he is forty-two seasons old. By elven standards, he is still considered young.”
    “Does all that really matter to you, Dorenn?” Sylvalora asked, and Dorenn wondered if his question had gone too far.
    “No, I guess not. I was just curious.”
    Sylvalora’s tone softened even more as she spoke. “I am not older than the elves, although I am somewhat older than Lady Shey, if you must know. In fact, I watched her grow from a child. I stayed with her while she apprenticed to Morgoran, and I was there at her wedding.”
    Dorenn gasped. “Lady Shey is married? She was Morgoran Cleareyes’ apprentice!”
    Sylvalora laughed. “She was not born noble, child, she married into it, and yes, she apprenticed to Morgoran. It was a long time ago, before he became known as Cleareyes.”
    “Where is her husband?” Dorenn asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
    Sylvalora’s expression became somber. “He was not a wielder nor was he an elf, and he passed from this world long ago.”
    “How long do wielders live?”
    Sylvalora shrugged. “As long as they want to. They do age, of course, although very slowly. The essence that fuels all things is timeless.”
    “Lady Shey couldn’t teach her husband to wield so he could live as long as her?”
    “Not everyone can touch the essence residing in all things, and fewer still can draw upon it to wield.” She shook her head. “No, Lady Shey’s husband could not be taught to wield.” Sylvalora put her hand on Dorenn’s leg and smiled at him. “Enough questions.” She kissed Dorenn lightly on the cheek, and afterward, she rubbed it in with her hand. Gradually she pulled herself up and strolled off toward her lean-to, leaving Dorenn to contemplate her words.
    Dorenn sat beside the wagon for a moment before deciding he was not tired despite his long day. He had too much to think about and he wanted to