The Steward and the Sorcerer by James Peart (books suggested by elon musk .TXT) 📕

bothered him was the timing of such an action, how Poel’s sudden removal would look to the Council.  He sipped some of his wine and pondered this difficulty.  And if his Vice-Steward should pass away at the same time?  No one else in the Council knew of Manch’s conspiracy with Poel.  Could both their deaths be staged to look like an unfortunate event, and draw attention away from himself?  How would that be achieved?  If he were to kill only one of them, which one would that be, his secretly scheming Vice-Steward or his openly critical adviser?  And what of the rest of the conspirators?

He took another sip, savouring the liquid on his palate, coming to a decision.  It was time to contact Tan Wrock.

20.

The mood of the trio that set out from the relative safety of the Druid’s keep for the Northern Territories was as dark as the skies that overhung them.  The clouds seemed permanently to split, sending spitting rain onto their hoods and cloaks and- assisted by strong winds that swept in sudden gusts across the land through which they walked- onto their faces and inside their robing.  Thicker clouds drifted into view, foretelling an approaching storm that promised a continuous supply of rain by fall of evening.  The storm’s shadow tracked them like an uncompromising hunter, ridding the countryside of its green and brown hue, the waters they passed robbed of their silver-blue tint, the movement of insects and animals reduced to very little as they crept and huddled beneath shelters.  Smaller, winged insects flew past the travellers as they walked, some of them lighting on their faces, disturbing the Englishmen in particular.  Christopher and Simon angrily brushed them away but Daaynan did not appear bothered, his expression lost within the folds of his hood.  He walked a little ahead of the two, his tall frame stooped against the buffeting wind yet otherwise appearing immune to the elements, bent in private contemplation.

Tempers were short between the two friends.  Simon, unable to reach the Druid, vented his frustration on Christopher instead.  His conversation with the latter kept returning to the same topic.  With the horses gone, their journey would take them two weeks on foot.  The Raja had a four day start on them and it took merely three days to reach Brinemore on horseback.  Even allowing for what Daaynan had said about Iridis needing to walk the steeds part of the way and having to change horses halfway, he still held a major advantage over them.  Christopher began by agreeing with him, then shortly lost interest and snapped at the former, telling him that it was he who had suggested the Druid was their best chance of getting back home.  Was he about to change his mind after hitting some rough weather? That silenced him.  The knowledge that either one of them could have earlier taken advantage of the Druid’s weakened state to get him to take them home lay between them like an uneasy truce.  For his part, Christopher had, somewhat at least, regressed to the state of mind he had evidenced upon arriving in these lands.  If Simon hadn’t known better, if their situation hadn’t rendered the idea impossible, he would have said the other had taken up drinking once again.  He watched his friend roll and list into the wind, forgetting himself for a moment, grimly smiling at how the weather could make drunkards out of the best of us.

The day ground on toward evening and they set up camp beneath a short yet deep overhang of solid rock jutting from a cliff base.  When it came, the storm closed swiftly about them, tightening fast around the cliff, tearing loose earth, branches and stones, sending them spinning in the turning wind.  The travellers retreated further into the cave to a point which the rain and wind could not reach and fashioned a crude fire from sticks Daaynan urged them to gather, the flames themselves summoned from a simple gesture made by the Druid.  It seemed he had not lost all of his powers.  Daaynan motioned them to draw around the fire, speaking nearly for the first time since they had set out from Fein Mor earlier in the day.

“We shall stay here for the night.  Progress will be impossible under the full force of this weather.”  He stared at Simon from within the depths of his cowl, adding as if reading the latter’s mind: “The other will be forced to take similar precautions so we have lost no ground, Englishman.”  Simon opened his mouth to speak but the other made a thin yet unmistakeable warding gesture.  “I have a plan which will help us shorten the journey to reach Brinemore before Iridis does, but first we must renew our supplies.  To do this we...”

“Didn’t you bring food and drink from the castle?” Simon ventured, crestfallen.  “There was enough there to last six months, or a year!”

Daaynan glared at him.  “Listen to me Englishman, and don’t interrupt.  Our survival depends on our ability to plan forward.  That and more, if we are fortunate enough to live through the next few days.  It certainly does not revolve around indulging in regret or past actions we are unable to settle in our favour.”  Simon nodded reluctantly, falling silent.  The sorcerer’s gaze softened minutely.  “Iridis poisoned the store of food in the keep.  He took whatever he could bring that was ready to eat, which did not leave much, and placed an Asp in the storeroom.  This creature occurs naturally as a type of viper but it is possible the King made it over into something far more venomous and set it to work on our supplies.”  A look crossed the Druid’s face, gone in an instant.  It was a searching glance, as if he expected them to say something.  What that was, Simon had no idea, yet for a moment the other’s expression held something other than its previous grim forbidding.  Daaynan continued, “I