[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
truly talented counselor was in high demand among Halruaa's wizard lords and
ladies, and such a man could expect to choose his own path and take whatever
employment suited his ambitions.
But at this moment Matteo saw how incredibly hollow was this promise of a
glowing future. All that it took was a word from a magehound, and the best of the
jordaini was cast aside with no more hesitation or regret than Vishna might spare
his ruined shoe.
There was little time to ponder the matter. Matteo had lost one friend today
and was determined not to lose another. Themo was probably well on his way,
and Matteo dared not leave the grieving man to his own devices for long.
The ride to Khaerbaal, the nearest city, took two to three hours, for the
House Jordain was an isolated place. Set in the midst of a peninsula that jutted
out into the Bay of Taertal, it was a vast complex of buildings and fields and
training courses. The students spent some time each year in carefully supervised
travel, for this was deemed an important part of their studies, but anything that
Matteo had ever needed could be found in the complex. All the learning, arts, and
sciences of this most civilized of lands was at his disposal. This created a sense
of security and privilege that had defined Matteo's life. His studies were all
focused on creating a counselor versed in many fields of knowledge, an entity in
himself, loyal to the wizards he served but forbidden to develop personal ties with
any magic-wielder.
Perhaps, he mused, this life had ill prepared him to deal with friendship,
much less the loss of a friend. He was not even certain how to grieve. Though his
mind and body were finely honed as a blade singer's sword, his own heart was a
mystery to him.
He hurried to the stable and was relieved to find his favorite steed as yet
unclaimed. No horse in House Jordain s extensive stables better suited his dark
mood. A fine black stallion, the beast was at least a hand taller than any other
horse Matteo had seen. His sire was reputed to have come from distant Amn, a
land famous for its steeds. Although the stallion was the finest horse in the stable,
Matteo was not surprised to find him still in his stall. Some blasphemous groom
had dubbed the horse "Cyric," and the name had stuck. The stallion was as
volatile and possibly as crazed as the evil god whose name he bore.
Matteo ordered a reluctant groom to prepare the horse, and then he sent
another servant after a package of travel food. Khaerbaal was at least two hours'
ride away, and if he left now he would miss the afternoon meal. He did not want
the food and strongly suspected that his stomach would rebel, but he had been
too well schooled in such matters to neglect his care. Jordaini were chosen for
the unusual strength of their minds and bodies, as well as their nearly total
resistance to magic. Harsh penalties ensured that the young men followed the
rules that honed all their gifts. Though taverns were not strictly forbidden, an
unsupervised trip to temptation-laden Khaerbaal was a rare event.
As soon as the marble gate of the jordaini complex was behind them, Matteo
let Cyric have his head. The stallion seemed happy to run, setting an insane
breakneck pace that suited Matteo's mood to perfection. He smelled the tang of
the Bay of Taertal while the sun was edging toward its zenith, and he entered the
north gate of Khaerbaal just as the temple bells were ringing the highsun
warning. Native Halruaans knew to take refuge from the direct sun, but
Khaerbaal was a busy port filled with strangers, many of whom were
unaccustomed to the southern sun. Most quickly got the idea, and the crowds
were thinning quickly as Matteo rode through the streets toward the dockside
taverns.
Finding Themo was an easy task. Matteo merely fell in behind the group of
local militia who trotted purposefully toward the Falling Star Tavern.
The din of battle reached him before the tavern itself came into sight the thud
of fists upon flesh, the splinter and crash of doomed furniture, and the shouted
oaths that were more pungent than the dockside fishery nearby.
Matteo swung down from Cyric's back and tied the horse to a wooden post.
He had no illusions that this precaution might actually contain the stallion. If Cyric
tired of waiting, he would shatter the hitching rail and then attempt to do likewise
to the skull of anyone foolish enough to stop him. The horse cocked his ears at
the sounds of nearby battle and bade his rider farewell with an envious little
whinny. Matteo dryly considered the possibility of teaching battle tactics to the
stallion. Cyric would be a foe more formidable than many of the wizards Matteo
had faced in his training.
The melee was in full foment when Matteo pushed through the door. He
ducked as a familiar massive fist flashed toward his face, then reached up and
caught Themo's wrist with both hands. As he rose, he twisted the arm, bringing it
up behind the big jordain's back as he shoved him facedown on the nearest
table.
He leaned in close to Themo's ear. "I'm going to let you up, then lightly hit
you on the back of the neck. Go down as if you're stunned and stay down until
the fighting is done, or I swear by Mystra's Truth that I'll drop you in earnest.
Agreed?"
Themo's response was a small, barely perceptible nod. Matteo released his
arm. As Themo rose, Matteo hit him hard, and the man dropped and sprawled as
instructed. But he sent Matteo a blurred, reproachful look. Matteo wasn't sure
whether his friend was upset about the more-than-necessary force of the blow or
the fact that his sport had been spoiled. Either way, Themo's glare was giving
away the game. Matteo nudged his friend's ribs with an ungentle foot, and
Themo grudgingly closed his eyes.
Only then did Matteo notice the small magical storm raging in the tavern. A
thick, smoky cloud filled the taproom. Sparks of light shot through it in bright
random patterns. Matteo recognized the enchantment as a brightness spell from
Obold's Spellbook, a rare book he had been required to learn last winter. The
sparks were actually small bolts of lightning, which struck at random and drew
yelps of surprise from the startled combatants. Themo, of course, possessed
complete resistance to such puny missiles, and his impressive bulk had shielded
a goodly number of the fighters. Once the big jordain was down, more of the
bolts began to find their marks. Some of the brawlers staggered out of the cloud
to escape the quelling magic.
It was an effective spell, and if Matteo let it rage on, it would settle the brawl
before much more time passed. But any damage done to the tavern and its
patrons would be blamed on Themo and would tarnish the reputation of House
Jordain. Matteo's duty was to end the fight as quickly as possible.
He took a small gray stone from his bag and tossed it into the thickest part of
the glowing cloud. There was no magic in the stone, but it was a lodestone mined
from a particularly strong vein. Wizards used them to attract lighting, which often
served to affix a spell into an enchanted item. There was a sharp sizzle as the
lodestone drew the sparks. Then the cloud, deprived of much of its energy,
began to dissipate.
The brawl settled down to a simmer of muttered insults and halfhearted [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl exclamation.htw.pl
truly talented counselor was in high demand among Halruaa's wizard lords and
ladies, and such a man could expect to choose his own path and take whatever
employment suited his ambitions.
But at this moment Matteo saw how incredibly hollow was this promise of a
glowing future. All that it took was a word from a magehound, and the best of the
jordaini was cast aside with no more hesitation or regret than Vishna might spare
his ruined shoe.
There was little time to ponder the matter. Matteo had lost one friend today
and was determined not to lose another. Themo was probably well on his way,
and Matteo dared not leave the grieving man to his own devices for long.
The ride to Khaerbaal, the nearest city, took two to three hours, for the
House Jordain was an isolated place. Set in the midst of a peninsula that jutted
out into the Bay of Taertal, it was a vast complex of buildings and fields and
training courses. The students spent some time each year in carefully supervised
travel, for this was deemed an important part of their studies, but anything that
Matteo had ever needed could be found in the complex. All the learning, arts, and
sciences of this most civilized of lands was at his disposal. This created a sense
of security and privilege that had defined Matteo's life. His studies were all
focused on creating a counselor versed in many fields of knowledge, an entity in
himself, loyal to the wizards he served but forbidden to develop personal ties with
any magic-wielder.
Perhaps, he mused, this life had ill prepared him to deal with friendship,
much less the loss of a friend. He was not even certain how to grieve. Though his
mind and body were finely honed as a blade singer's sword, his own heart was a
mystery to him.
He hurried to the stable and was relieved to find his favorite steed as yet
unclaimed. No horse in House Jordain s extensive stables better suited his dark
mood. A fine black stallion, the beast was at least a hand taller than any other
horse Matteo had seen. His sire was reputed to have come from distant Amn, a
land famous for its steeds. Although the stallion was the finest horse in the stable,
Matteo was not surprised to find him still in his stall. Some blasphemous groom
had dubbed the horse "Cyric," and the name had stuck. The stallion was as
volatile and possibly as crazed as the evil god whose name he bore.
Matteo ordered a reluctant groom to prepare the horse, and then he sent
another servant after a package of travel food. Khaerbaal was at least two hours'
ride away, and if he left now he would miss the afternoon meal. He did not want
the food and strongly suspected that his stomach would rebel, but he had been
too well schooled in such matters to neglect his care. Jordaini were chosen for
the unusual strength of their minds and bodies, as well as their nearly total
resistance to magic. Harsh penalties ensured that the young men followed the
rules that honed all their gifts. Though taverns were not strictly forbidden, an
unsupervised trip to temptation-laden Khaerbaal was a rare event.
As soon as the marble gate of the jordaini complex was behind them, Matteo
let Cyric have his head. The stallion seemed happy to run, setting an insane
breakneck pace that suited Matteo's mood to perfection. He smelled the tang of
the Bay of Taertal while the sun was edging toward its zenith, and he entered the
north gate of Khaerbaal just as the temple bells were ringing the highsun
warning. Native Halruaans knew to take refuge from the direct sun, but
Khaerbaal was a busy port filled with strangers, many of whom were
unaccustomed to the southern sun. Most quickly got the idea, and the crowds
were thinning quickly as Matteo rode through the streets toward the dockside
taverns.
Finding Themo was an easy task. Matteo merely fell in behind the group of
local militia who trotted purposefully toward the Falling Star Tavern.
The din of battle reached him before the tavern itself came into sight the thud
of fists upon flesh, the splinter and crash of doomed furniture, and the shouted
oaths that were more pungent than the dockside fishery nearby.
Matteo swung down from Cyric's back and tied the horse to a wooden post.
He had no illusions that this precaution might actually contain the stallion. If Cyric
tired of waiting, he would shatter the hitching rail and then attempt to do likewise
to the skull of anyone foolish enough to stop him. The horse cocked his ears at
the sounds of nearby battle and bade his rider farewell with an envious little
whinny. Matteo dryly considered the possibility of teaching battle tactics to the
stallion. Cyric would be a foe more formidable than many of the wizards Matteo
had faced in his training.
The melee was in full foment when Matteo pushed through the door. He
ducked as a familiar massive fist flashed toward his face, then reached up and
caught Themo's wrist with both hands. As he rose, he twisted the arm, bringing it
up behind the big jordain's back as he shoved him facedown on the nearest
table.
He leaned in close to Themo's ear. "I'm going to let you up, then lightly hit
you on the back of the neck. Go down as if you're stunned and stay down until
the fighting is done, or I swear by Mystra's Truth that I'll drop you in earnest.
Agreed?"
Themo's response was a small, barely perceptible nod. Matteo released his
arm. As Themo rose, Matteo hit him hard, and the man dropped and sprawled as
instructed. But he sent Matteo a blurred, reproachful look. Matteo wasn't sure
whether his friend was upset about the more-than-necessary force of the blow or
the fact that his sport had been spoiled. Either way, Themo's glare was giving
away the game. Matteo nudged his friend's ribs with an ungentle foot, and
Themo grudgingly closed his eyes.
Only then did Matteo notice the small magical storm raging in the tavern. A
thick, smoky cloud filled the taproom. Sparks of light shot through it in bright
random patterns. Matteo recognized the enchantment as a brightness spell from
Obold's Spellbook, a rare book he had been required to learn last winter. The
sparks were actually small bolts of lightning, which struck at random and drew
yelps of surprise from the startled combatants. Themo, of course, possessed
complete resistance to such puny missiles, and his impressive bulk had shielded
a goodly number of the fighters. Once the big jordain was down, more of the
bolts began to find their marks. Some of the brawlers staggered out of the cloud
to escape the quelling magic.
It was an effective spell, and if Matteo let it rage on, it would settle the brawl
before much more time passed. But any damage done to the tavern and its
patrons would be blamed on Themo and would tarnish the reputation of House
Jordain. Matteo's duty was to end the fight as quickly as possible.
He took a small gray stone from his bag and tossed it into the thickest part of
the glowing cloud. There was no magic in the stone, but it was a lodestone mined
from a particularly strong vein. Wizards used them to attract lighting, which often
served to affix a spell into an enchanted item. There was a sharp sizzle as the
lodestone drew the sparks. Then the cloud, deprived of much of its energy,
began to dissipate.
The brawl settled down to a simmer of muttered insults and halfhearted [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]