Selwyn squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his arms against his body, trying to make himself small and invisible, but nothing helped: sleep was forcibly, painfully expelling him. Headfirst. Through a hole no bigger than his fist.
Of late Abbot Aelfden had developed an uncanny ability to guess the presence of men who stood just out of sight. At times he even possessed an additional sense warning him that it was a man he did not care to meet. Unfortunately the times always seemed to be those when a meeting was unavoidable.
Commander Hanaq-Shaba lay stretched out on his belly, waiting with grimacing impatience. The grit and splinters on the hard-packed floor scraped the bare skin of his forearms, and though his haunches were thickly protected with fur, the place seemed to be swarming with fleas.
Lasrua knew the sound of every pair of feet in the bustling house, and she had heard these two coming long before they had bounded up the stairs—even before they had passed through the front door. Nevertheless it was the way of men to cry out, “Who is it?”
Dantalion was taking his time, arranging his pillow just so. A pillow seemed a grateful thing after napping half the afternoon on a pile of straw.
Her Exalted Ladyship Sweetdew Honeynose the Grim—Eminent Companion of the Order of Bloodtooth, and Eighty-third Successor of the War Cloud Dynasty—trotted into the tiny pantry and yowled her outrage.
Lasrua kept a tight grip on the handle of the door, in case his insolence grew into audacity.
“What is it?” she asked coldly, though she felt as if she were baking.
“I don’t like Araphel/Bastien and I don’t like his green robe.”
Chapters
Latest Comment