what seemed to be more than just an advisory role.
Pagonel caught it, too. "It would seem that your friend Aydrian has forged a strong alliance here, one that goes beyond lending aid to Yatol Wadon in his time of desperation."
Brynn didn't like the tone of Pagonel's voice, one full of concern, but she wasn't really a part of the general discussion about the table, nor did she seem welcome to be. At one point, she did inquire of the man seated on her other side, a lesser Yatol, of the arrival of Abbot Olin, but he only replied cryptically that the Jacintha garrison was stronger than ever before, and that all of Behren would soon enough be put back in order.
When at last the feasting subsided, and the music went quiet, Brynn and Pagonel rose to leave. The mystic motioned Pechter Dan Turk to them, and the emissary, one of the few men in the room who had not passed out on the floor beneath the table, escorted them away.
First they went over to say their farewells to Yatol Wadon, who was standing off to the side, conversing with the trio from Honce-the-Bear.
It was Abbot Olin, though, and not Wadon, who stepped forward to greet Brynn and the Jhesta Tu, and it was obvious that the old man had indulged himself quite heavily that night. "Your action this day was that of a friend, and it will not be forgotten," the abbot said to her, his voice slurred.
Brynn accepted his handshake, but looked past him to Wadon, who was smiling, surely, but in a manner that seemed somehow strained to her.
"I wish to meet with you again, good lady of To-gai," Abbot Olin said with great enthusiasm. "I wish to learn more of your people, and of that curious mount of yours! Such a wonderful beast would be of great help to us as we secure the kingdom, no doubt."
"No doubt," Brynn replied, and she gave a polite bow and went with Pagonel out of the room, passing through the two sentries - two Honce-the- Bear sentries - posted at the door.
"Great help to us?" Brynn whispered to the mystic. "As we secure the kingdom?"
"So Aydrian looks south," Pagonel quietly replied. "With more than a passing interest. We might do well to learn more of him."
Sometime later, as Brynn slept soundly by a fire on the darkened plain west of the city, Pagonel took Agradeleous on a ride back to the east.
The pair flew past Jacintha, hugging the north to keep the dragon's telltale silhouette hidden behind the line of dark mountains. They stayed near to the mountain range to its very end, settling at last upon a rocky embankment overlooking the Mirianic. Not far from the shore, a grouping of Honce-the-Bear warships was moored, and a line of smaller boats stretched out from them, gliding between them one at a time.
Every so often, a scream echoed over the dark waters of the Mirianic.
"The water about the boats is thrashing," Agradeleous remarked.
Pagonel squinted, but his eyesight was no match for that of the dragon.
He could barely distinguish the silhouettes of the great ships, let alone the water about them.
"It churns white," the dragon explained. His sentence was punctuated by another shriek from the distant ships.
Pagonel sat on the stone and crossed his legs tightly before him. The mystic placed his hands on his thighs, palms upraised, and fell back into himself. He became aware of his mind-body connection, and consciously severed it.
His spirit stepped forth, a separation of mind and body much as the Abellicans could do with the soul stone, though to a much lesser extent.
It was enough to get Pagonel's consciousness over to those distant vessels, though, just briefly.
But long enough for him to sort it out.
The Honce-the-Bear ships had captured the force of Behrenese traitors who had not landed at the docks of Jacintha. Now the Bearmen were sorting their prisoners, likely interrogating them to find which had truly turned traitor to Yatol Wadon and Jacintha.
Many of them, their hands lashed behind their backs, were being thrown into the water between the boats.
There, the sharks feasted.
Chapter 18 A Desperate Call on a Cold Wind
Pony pulled the blanket more tightly about her to ward the cold wind. It was wet, though, and the wind was damp, gathering moisture from the many pools and bogs that marked the Moorlands. Mud caked Pony's shoulder- length blond hair, and it seemed as if it would never dry in the perpetual gloom