Crimson Shadow, The - R. A. Salvatore Page 0,71

the gold in Eriador.”

“Slave?” Luthien remarked, turning his confused stare upon Oliver as if the concept was foreign to him.

Oliver nodded. “Forget her now,” the halfling explained.

Luthien looked back to find that the woman and her procession had disappeared from sight into the crowd.

“Forget her,” Oliver said again, but Luthien doubted that to be an option.

The companions went back to their little apartment and dropped off their goods, then, at Oliver’s insistence, went to the Dwelf. Luthien’s thoughts lingered on the woman, and the implications of his strong feelings, as they sat by the bar in the familiar place.

He thought of Katerin, as well, the love of his youth. “Of my youth,” he mumbled under his breath, considering how curious that thought sounded. He had been with Katerin O’Hale just weeks before, but that life, that innocent existence on Bedwydrin, seemed so far removed to him now, seemed another life in another world, a sweet dream lost in the face of harsh reality.

And what of Katerin? he wondered. Surely he had cared for her, perhaps had even loved her. But that love had not fired him, had not set his heart to pounding, as had the mere glimpse of the beautiful slave girl. He couldn’t know, of course, whether that fact should be attributed to honest feelings for the slave, or to the general changes that had occurred in Luthien’s life, or to the simple fact that he was now living on the edge of catastrophe. Had all of his emotions been so amplified? And if Katerin walked into the Dwelf at that moment, how would Luthien have felt?

He did not know and could no longer follow his own reasoning. All that Luthien understood was the lifting of his heart at the sight of the fair slave, and that was all he truly wanted to understand. He focused his thoughts on that look again, on the bright and huge green eyes peeking out at him from under those luxurious wheat-colored tresses.

Gradually the image faded, and Luthien again considered his present surroundings.

“Many of the Fairborn are held as slaves,” Oliver was saying to him. “Especially the half-breeds.”

Luthien turned a fierce look upon the halfling, as though Oliver had just insulted his love.

“Half-breeds,” the halfling said firmly. “Half elf and half human. They are not so rare.”

“And they are held as slaves?” Luthien spat.

Oliver shrugged. “The pure Fairborn do not think highly of them, nor do the humans. But if you wish to cry tears for any race, my naive young friend, then cry for the dwarves. They, not the elves or the half-elves, are the lowest of Avon’s hierarchy.”

“And where do halflings fit in?” Luthien asked, somewhat nastily.

Oliver ran his hands behind his head, through his long and curly brown hair. “Wherever we choose to fit in, of course,” he said, and he snapped his fingers in Luthien’s face, then called for Tasman to refill his empty flagon.

Luthien let the discussion go at that and turned his private thoughts back to the woman and to the issue of slavery in general. There were no slaves on Bedwydrin—at least, none that Luthien knew of. All the races were welcomed there, in peace and fairness, except for the cyclopians. And now, with the edicts coming from Carlisle, even the one-eyes could not be turned away from the island’s borders. Cyclopians on Bedwydrin would not find themselves welcomed at every door—even keepers of public inns had been known to tell them lies about no open rooms.

But slavery? Luthien found the whole issue thoroughly distasteful, and the thought that the woman he had spied, the beautiful and innocent creature who had so stolen his heart with just a glance, was a slave to a merchant filled his throat with a bitterness that no amount of ale could wash down.

Several drinks later, Luthien was still sitting at the bar grumbling openly to himself about injustice and, to Oliver’s disdain, vengeance.

Oliver elbowed Luthien hard, spilling the meager remaining contents of the young man’s flagon down the front of Luthien’s tunic. Fuming, Luthien turned a sharp gaze on his friend, but before he could speak out, Oliver was motioning for him to remain silent, and nodding for him to train his eyes and ears to a discussion going on between two roguish-looking men a few stools down.

“It’s the Crimson Shadow, I tell ye!” one of them proclaimed. “’E’s back, and Duke Morkney and his thievin’ merchants’ll get it good, don’t ye doubt!”

“How can ye make the claim?” the