Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,35
been carried out.
Yet he was by no means a coward. His courage and fierceness had earned him his position as chief.
But when it came to magic . . .
'Saaskir . . .' he ventured in a hoarse voice.
Saaskir. A drakish word meaning both priest and sorcerer, two notions that were blurred together in the dracs' tribal culture.
'Yes, Kh'Shak?' answered the old drac. 'What is it?'
The black drac cleared his throat. Still unmoving, his eyes still closed, the other had his back towards him.
'Have you found her, saaskir?'
'No, my son,' said the sorcerer in the calm, patient tone that one usually employed with small children. 'I haven't found her yet. La Donna has concealed herself behind seven veils. I rip one away each night, and soon, she will be revealed in full nudity beneath the Eye of the Night Dragon. Then I shall see and, after me, you will be the first to know . . .'
'Thank you, saaskir.'
Kh'Shak was about to turn away, still troubled, when the old drac called out to him:
'You're worried, aren't you?'
The great black drac wondered how he should reply. He opted for the truth.
'Yes, saaskir.'
'That's good. You are a chief. It is your role to worry about things others do not care about, to think of things which others forget, to see what others ignore . . . But as the days pass, your warriors are growing restless, and you're afraid you won't be able to restrain them for much longer.'
Was the saaskir casting doubt on his authority? Kh'Shak's blood began to boil.
'My warriors fear me and respect me! They shall obey!' The old drac sorcerer gave a faint smile that the other could
not see.
'Of course, of course . . . So, all is well?'
'Yes,' Kh'Shak was obliged to concur. 'All is well.'
A silence ensued, during which the black drac did not know what to do. Finally, the old sorcerer's sugary voice came again: 'Now, Kh'Shak, you must leave me.
I need to rest.'
La Donna was finishing her cup of chocolate while a servant cleared away the remains of her breakfast. Sitting in an armchair, she eyed Leprat who was looking out of a window. He was watching the track that emerged from the woods and then ran in a straight line, crossing the forecourt between the servant quarters to the bridge over the dry moat.
Antoine Leprat, chevalier d'Orgueil.
One of Captain La Fargue's Blades, therefore. And a former member of the King's Musketeers, it would seem. Calm, reserved, courteous, and watchful. Probably incorruptible. In a word: irreproachable. Tall, dark-haired and grim-eyed. Attractive, to those who liked mature men whose faces had been marked by the years, and by their ordeals. He had a brutal side to him. This Leprat knew how to fight and had no fear of violence. His muscular body was doubtless covered with scars
. . .
Alessandra di Santi's glance must have been too intense in the silence, because Leprat felt it and turned to her. She did not make the mistake of suddenly averting her eyes, which would have been a tacit admission of a guilty sentiment.
Instead, cleverly, she chose to conceal the motive of her interest.
'Where did you acquire that strange sword, chevalier?'
As always, Leprat had his white rapier at his side, a single piece of ivory carved, from tip to pommel, out of an Ancestral
Dragon's tooth. It was an extraordinary, formidable weapon, lighter and yet more resilient than even the best Toledo blade.
'It was entrusted to me.'
'By whom? Under what circumstances?'
The former musketeer smiled and turned his head back to the window without answering. His eyes drifted towards the tree line.
'Come now, monsieur,' the beautiful spy insisted. 'We've shared this roof and most of our waking hours for several days and I still know almost nothing about you.'
'Just as I know almost nothing about you. No doubt it's best that way.'
Alessandra rose and walked slowly up to Leprat, approaching him from behind as he continued to gaze outside.
'But I only desire that you know me better, monsieur le chevalier. Ask me questions, and I'll answer them . . .'
'I leave the task of questioning you to monsieur de Laffemas.'
'Would a little chocolate soften you? There's some left.'
Turning from the window, Leprat suddenly found himself in close proximity to La Donna. She had drawn so near they were almost touching. Shorter than him, she looked up at him over the rim of the cup, which she held against her moist half-opened lips.