The Eighth Key by Laura Weyr

The Eighth Key by Laura Weyr

Author:Laura Weyr [Weyr, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-951320-07-2
Publisher: Journey Press
Published: 2021-03-15T00:00:00+00:00


Chapter 9

Lucian slept heavily that night, awakening late in the morning. He’d barely noticed his room the night before, his belly full of dinner and his mind overwhelmed by all the people he’d met. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep their names straight, and he fervently hoped they wouldn’t be offended if he had to ask them to reintroduce themselves. All of Corwin’s teachers had eventually joined them for the late dinner, but Lucian’s memories were fuzzy. He’d been so exhausted that he couldn’t even remember what they’d eaten, let alone all the people he’d met.

There was a large window on one wall of his room with smooth, mage-made glass. That was to be expected, he supposed. The walls, too, were smooth stone. The guild seemed to be a combination of school and fortress. Of course, with mages to do the labor, it made sense that the building would be made of stone and glass, two materials the mages had ready access to and could work with easily. Even the bed he’d slept on sat on a finely-made stone frame, rather than the more usual wood.

Other than the luxury of the window, which looked out on the courtyard they’d passed through last night, the room was small and bare. The bed, which was barely more than a cot, sat in one corner. A small table—which was made out of wood, he noted with interest—sat next to it. Besides that, there was nothing but the whitewashed walls. His pack sat on the floor next to the foot of the cot. He discovered with relief that his change of clothes had been cleaned.

To his surprise, his flute was still tucked into the bottom of his pack. It wasn’t that he’d expected Corwin to take it, but Lucian could see the Shadow mage borrowing it to show it to his teachers.

Lifting the flute to his lips, he blew a quiet, experimental trill. His fingers were a little stiff, but they limbered up as he played. There was a bit of an ache and pull in his shoulder, but not enough to make him stop.

Waking up his hosts would be poor repayment of their hospitality, so he kept his breath light and his playing soft. Fragments of familiar melodies spun out into the golden morning light, echoing slightly in the small room.

When he’d finished a phrase and drawn a breath, a knock came at his door. Lowering his flute, he called, “Come in!”

Corwin stepped into the room, dressed in finer clothing than Lucian had seen him yet wear. His cream-colored shirt looked to be soft, closely woven fabric, and his trousers were dark and sleek in a way that would have been impractical for traveling but which suited his narrow frame. Most importantly, he was smiling, his eyes bright. “You’re playing again.”

“Yes.” Lucian looked down at his flute and back at Corwin, feeling an answering smile lighting his face. “Perhaps I can play for everyone tonight.”

“I think they would like that very much,” Corwin said.



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