Sword of Fire and Sea (The Chaos Knight Book One) by Erin Hoffman Page A

kind. Whispered explanations passed through the group for those who looked around, not understanding, and then they took up their own shouted farewells and cat–calls. By the time the small passenger boats touched water, Marielle was shouting commands, her tone daring any who might test her authority, and quick footfalls echoed down from the deck as those left aboard leapt to. And in spite of their downward passage throwing the ship's damage into sharp relief, her side listing in a way that made Vidarian's heart lurch, he smiled as they set off across the harbor.

 
    I

n Westhill, Vidarian made a great show of his dissatisfaction with the local hardwood, oscillating between the genteel apologies of a tradesman who dared not burn bridges in any port and the ravings of a foam-addled seafarer. In the end, he threw up his hands in mock surrender, by turns apologizing to the logging master and haranguing the quality of his product. When they left for the harbor's small livery stable to rent carts for the journey inland, despite the loss of business the loggers seemed relieved to see their backs.
     

    Two men sat in the back of the last cart armed with muskets; they would be marked, no doubt, by passersby, but no more (or so Vidarian hoped) than the average commodity-bearing caravan. To further mask their intentions, they had also taken on a quantity of extra fruit in the carts; true merchantmen, on such a “tedious” mission, would have made the most of it by carrying goods to their inland destination, and so they did.
     
    The priestess sat cloaked beside Vidarian as he drove the leading cart. Her color had improved somewhat, and her eyes looked less sore and watery. By midday, though she remained somewhat subdued, she carried her half of a conversation that helped pass the time (as only so much amusement could be derived from watching the back end of their grey mule).
    As the road continued to stretch long before them, the topics grew increasingly familiar. “Priestess,” Vidarian said at last, “I really must know. Your, er, display with the ice barrel…” Ariadel flushed, opening her mouth for an obvious refutation, and Vidarian reminded her, “You pledged your honesty, for my ears if no other's.”
    She was silent for a contemplative moment. “It was no esoteric ritual, if that's what you think, though the ‘how’ of it would likely surprise you.” At her abruptly solemn tone he almost regretted the question. Ariadel grew quiet for another uncomfortable stretch, then sighed. “I was trying to Quench myself.” She placed a peculiar emphasis on the word, but Vidarian had a shrewd—and stomach-sinking—idea of what she meant.
    “Is that even possible?” he asked, finally.
    “Supposedly. But I have no idea how to go about doing it. They do not teach us how.”
    “But why?”
    “To throw off the pursuit. It's trained to the signature of my ability— which now brings danger to us all.” She grew thoughtful again, and her grim contemplation put an end to conversation for the next several stretches of terrain. At last Vidarian called a halt, and they feasted, though with tense gaiety, on the provisions that comprised their “trade” shipment: foods that did not fare well in ship's storage but would be welcomed further inland. Marks waylaid two portions of the small crew into setting and tending cook-fires, and prepared their meal himself. In short order he had fresh fish crackling with butter and garlic on iron skillets and two rounds of creamy white cheese sliced onto soft bread. Fruit juice, nonintoxicating but a treat nonetheless, rounded out the meal.
    In due course they were back on the road and Vidarian reflected briefly that land travel would never cease to annoy him. The mule's stubbornly slow pace grew maddening at times, and the surrounding territory, while lush compared to most, seemed dull and lifeless against the endless flow and mysterious depth of the open sea. He spent some time mentally