Sage of Sare by Julie Dean Smith

Author:Julie Dean Smith [Smith, Julie Dean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-625670-35-9
Publisher: Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
Published: 1992-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

“My Lord Marshall—er, I mean, Your Highness?”

“Either one is fine, Josef,” Nicolas replied offhandedly. “I answer to both.” He pushed himself away from his writing desk and smiled up at the gaunt wheatstalk of a man who had just stepped into the study—Josef, the island’s chancellor. “What is it?”

“Someone is here to see you,” he said, anxiously cracking his knuckles as if this was not at all good news. “A messenger.”

Nicolas blinked his surprise. He’d met only a handful of people since his arrival in Sare three days ago and received the impression that none of the uniformly taciturn folk was much interested in pursuing the acquaintance. “Who sent him?”

“He… did not say, m’lord,” Josef replied, despite a knowing cast to his eyes. “Shall I send him in?”

Nicolas sank back in his chair and put his feet up on the edge of a timeworn desk. “Certainly. I haven’t anything else to do—you’ve handled everything so well since DeBracy died that I have precious few problems to attend to.”

Nicolas sighed as his chancellor withdrew, wishing that Ranulf was at hand to ease the loneliness of his first uneasy days as lord marshall. But before the two of them began centering their efforts on learning what they could about the mysterious Sage, Ranulf had departed for a brief visit to his old village—he’d mumbled something about a woman he once knew, but refused to offer any further detail—and would not be back until the end of the week. And without the mercenary’s ribald good humor, it was proving difficult for Nicolas to keep his spirits up in the crumbling and dismal manor that was now his home; even Athaya’s derelict monastery was more welcoming! His bedchambers were shockingly small, less than half the size of his apartments at Delfar Castle, and the manor itself—Nicolas hesitated to call it a castle—was miserable and drafty and hopelessly dour, as if it still mourned the death of the last lord marshall.

Whenever he needed to cheer himself, however, he simply called to mind the look of astonishment that had graced Durek’s face when he had humbly requested the Sarian marshalcy. The king’s astonishment was quickly supplanted by suspicion, of course, but a few well-timed teardrops and sobs of agony had convinced him that Nicolas wanted nothing more than to leave Caithe behind him forever, wishing to be a good prince, but no longer able to cope with being caught between his older brother and his outlawed sister. Durek wrote the commission and sent him packing almost overnight, unable to disguise his relief at having one less problem to deal with.

As planned, Ranulf joined his entourage at the port of Eriston, much to the consternation of the prince’s honor guard, who felt that such a rough-spoken barbarian was a most unsuitable traveling companion. They crossed the narrow channel in late November, docking on the bleak expanse of Sare’s eastern shore—bare cliffs of black slate dotted by a few scraggly pines and bounded in the north by mist-shrouded highlands.

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