Banners in the Wind Page 0,97

staggered. That was a mistake. After the disorientating magic, even the lingering trace of Welgren's potion on his fingers nearly made him empty his stomach entirely.

'Tathrin?' A hand grabbed his forearm.

With a monumental effort, he regained his balance. A deep breath of cold air, faintly perfumed, went some way to restoring him.

'Branca.' He forced his eyes open.

They stood beside a fountain, now dry for the winter. Coloured glass lamps threw soothing light across this peaceful courtyard. The windows surrounding them were snugly curtained, outlined here and there by firelight within. He heard distant music and the memory of a fine dinner lingered on the air.

'Well done, long lad.' Gren sounded honestly impressed. 'Twice in one night and you didn't throw up once.'

Tathrin utterly failed to find a witty riposte. At least going without food or drink since noon had been worth it.

'Is that them?' Branca was looking wide-eyed at the lumpy sack.

Gren cut the cord with a slash of a dagger and handed it to her. 'I have the honour to present Duke Orlin of Parnilesse and his duchess, the honoured Sherista, along with several of their children.'

Now Tathrin wondered if Branca was about to be sick.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Branca

The Three Fountains Inn,

Solland, in the Tormalin Empire,

10th of Aft-Winter

She held the sack with its disgusting contents well away from her dress. 'That door, if you please? Up the stairs.'

As Tathrin obliged, she was thankful so few guests remained at the inn. Every room had been taken for the festival but now war with Lescar was all but confirmed, nobles who might have lingered through Aft-Winter had returned to more safely distant residences. They reached Charoleia's sitting room unseen.

''Grad, Gren.' From her daybed she extended a welcoming hand.

Branca debated where to put her repellent burden. She didn't want to leave any lingering, stinking stain.

Sorgrad kissed Charoleia's hand before contemplating her critically. 'You look better than you did.'

Gren simply stooped to hug her, saying something in the Mountain tongue. Charoleia returned his embrace, replying in the same language.

Momentarily surprised by this display of emotion, Branca chided herself. Charoleia and the enigmatic brothers had been comrades and co-conspirators for more than two decades, travelling back and forth between the ocean coast of Tormalin and the westernmost reaches of Ensaimin and beyond. How else could Sorgrad use his magic to come here, if he hadn't already visited the inn like any other traveller?

'Let's keep that by the window.' Tathrin removed the cushions so she could rest the bulging sack on the broad wooden sill. 'How are you, Branca?'

'I'm well, thank you.' Branca quickly turned to address Charoleia. 'Shall I send word to Esquire Den Dalderin?'

She had thought it would be easier to meet Tathrin in person, without the need to hide her thoughts from him. But as his eyes searched her face, she saw he wanted to raise matters she had no wish to discuss. But how could she avoid that, lacking the unquestioned control she had when they were linked through Artifice?

'No need. I sent a note after dinner.' Charoleia extricated herself from Gren's embrace.

'You were so confident we'd succeed?' Tathrin tried to make a joke of it but Branca saw his surprise equalled her own.

Charoleia smoothed lace ruffled by Gren's affection. 'If you'd arrived empty-handed or not at all, I would still have tried to persuade young Yadres that it's in Emperor Tadriol's best interests to limit the Tormalin legions' advance.'

Sorgrad was at the mantelshelf, finding a long wax taper. 'Do you have something I can use to bespeak Jilseth?'

'Here.' Branca had laid out everything Charoleia had requested on the table. Her hand shook as she tipped wafer cakes onto a plate and passed their silver salver to Sorgrad.

The last time she had seen wizardry, Charoleia and Trissa were imprisoned by that depraved mage Minelas. She had barely managed to hide herself away in Adel Castle, her Artifice strained to breaking point, terrified, cold and bruised after that villain Karn's assault when he had captured them. Jilseth, the Archmage's cold-eyed adviser, had threatened Sorgrad with unspecified retribution if he ever used his mastery over the elements to influence the course of the Lescari wars.

'Don't fret, pet,' Sorgrad said softly. 'There's no law against magic in Tormalin.'

Branca did her best to smile but catching a glimpse of Gren's scowling face only reminded her more vividly of that gruesome night. Usually so genial, the younger Mountain Man looked as brutal as when he'd gutted Minelas like a fish.

Sorgrad glanced at the taper and it kindled with