Chapter One – Part Three – Thryche
Rhayd woke to a stinging sensation on his left cheek. A burning light spilled over his face, and a thumping pain bounced back and forth in his skull that made him recall very uneasily the one time Porphigaul had managed to convince him and Kintere to eat some strange Namari fungus he had brought back from one of his trade excursions.
“Up, boy! Daylight wanes and we’ve work to do!”
The heavy crump of a cane against the weak boards of the Sword and Shield’s floor told Rhayd who had woken him just as surely as the spoken admonishment. With a start, the young man recalled he had been set for a revision with his tutor this morning – in fact a rather important step in his tutelage, an introduction to the Calling of the Mists which fuelled the works of the Weavers of Jag Har’Oah.
“I am sorry, lord Thryche, other obligations kept me longer than I should have allowed,” Rhayd apologized, straightening himself out with a swift rake of fingers through his hair and a tug on his tunic as he stood.
His tutor was not impressed. Then again, Curia Edvard Thryche was seldom impressed with anyone. Standing just shy of six spans tall and thin as a street waif, the elderly sage was not a figure to be trifled with by any means. Cane, bent back and ragged clothes to the contrary, few even of the ruling council of Ckuien Penance refused a request from the man, which made it all the more galling for Rhayd himself to have forgotten an appointment with the stooped teacher.
“Well,” Thryche grumbled, folding both hands over the diamond pommel of his cane. “I suppose it can’t be helped. Go and fetch your young friend, in any case. I’ve news that affects him as well.”
Confused, but willing for any possible example of competence, Rhayd swung his long cloak about his shoulders and trotted off up the stairs in search of the likely still comatose Kintere.
There were no surprises in the young clansman’s room. Somehow, the big man had migrated from a ball beside the bed, to a sprawling expanse of snoring muscle tucked up against the windowsill fully ten spans away. Rhayd was always a bit startled to find the sleeping giant had shifted location, but no longer surprised.
“Come on, Tere, time to wake,” he roared, kicking his friend’s side.
“No bacon, Rey. Just some eggs. That’s fine.”
Biting back a laugh at Kintere’s response, Rhayd nudged the man’s ribs once more.
“I said no bacon! Lords of the pit, woman,” the clansman continued, rolling to his back and blinking owlishly up at his friend. “You’re not her.”
“No, Kintere. I’m not.” And thank Rahrin for it, Rhayd added silently.
“I’m waiting on breakfast. Leave me be.”
“Afraid I can’t, Tere. Thryche is downstairs. Says he has something for both of us.”
“It can wait,” the big man belched, turning his back on his friend and closing his eyes once more.
“No it can’t, Kintere,” Mireya’s voice came from the doorway. The girl carried a heavy-laden plate full of toast, eggs and sausage into the room and set it down on the small writing table Kintere never used. “Sir Edvard is acting rather cross,” she continued, focusing most of her attention on the groaning form of Kintere, who was desperately trying to sit himself up in what must have been a losing battle against a thick hangover. “He’s sent me with word that he’ll only wait ten minutes before he leaves without either of you.”
“Good riddance,” Kintere grumbled, finally dragging himself up by the windowsill and beginning an agonizingly slow crawl along the base of the wall toward the table and its solitary chair. “I’ve no use for that man.”
“Well I’m afraid he’s got use for us,” Rhayd countered, lifting the chair out so Kintere might sit. “And whatever it is, I won’t just sit waiting for him to bring it me.”
“Nor I,” Mireya piped up, drawing looks from both young men. “Well,” she said with a shrug. “He told me to make sure neither of you would be late, and asked if I would tag along and make sure you don’t get into trouble wherever it is we’re going. So hurry up, and you won’t be in trouble.”
Leaving the pair of them limp-jawed, the girl disappeared out the door and down the hall to her own cubbyhole without another word.