The Enemy Within (Ravenloft The Covenant Book 8) by Christie Golden

Author:Christie Golden [Golden, Christie]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786961818
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2011-12-13T00:00:00+00:00

Tristan manifested in the middle of the encampment and was not alarmed nor surprised when he found himself quickly surrounded by hostile Vistani. “Trespassing giorgio!” hissed Orlan. “Can we never succeed in keeping our encampment free from your presence?”

Tristan bowed respectfully. “I apologize for violating the barriers of your encampment, but I had need of haste, and magic is not always precise. I wish to see Madame Terza. I have important information for her, and a few questions if she will answer them.”

Orlan frowned, his dark eyes flashing. He took his dagger from his belt, dug a furrow into the earth, and embedded its blade beside it. Pointing to the shadow cast by the dagger, he stated, “You have until the shadow comes to that mark, giorgio, then the dagger and I come in for you myself. You are like the Black Hounds of Kulaach in our folktales, Tristan Hiregaard. Your presence never seems to bode well for my kind.” He led Tristan to Madame Terza’s vardo, a large, ornately carved creation of wood and paint. “She is in back,” Orlan said. He glared at Tristan once more, spat at his feet, and stalked off.

Quietly, Tristan walked around to the back of the caravan, following the smoky scent of a small cookfire. Terza was seated on a small hassock, her back to him and her white braid falling down her back. Without turning around, Terza said softly, “You’ve much on your mind, Sir Tristan. Come, sit, have a cup of tea.”

It was a friendlier greeting than Tristan had any right to expect, and he did as bid. A kettle steamed on the fire, emanating strange but enticing fragrances. Terza wrapped a bit of cloth about her hand to keep from burning herself, withdrew the kettle from the coals, and poured a large mug of steaming tea for her guest. Tristan accepted, thanking her in her own language.

He was about to take a sip when Terza clucked reprovingly, “Let it cool; you’ll scald yourself. Be not so hasty to be polite that you become merely foolish.” Her one eye twinkled brightly with mirth that was not malicious. Tristan smiled despite his burdens.

“You are wise, Grandmama,” he said, using the Vistana term of respect for an older woman.

Terza’s smile faded. “Sometimes, one can be too wise,” she said softly. “But,” she added, collecting herself, “your coming was not unexpected. You have information for me?”

Tristan lowered his eyes to the coals for a moment, then raised them to Terza again. “I have learned the identity of Amasa’s killer. It was the spirit of my dead wife.” The words came hard for him. Even now, part of his mind rejected the evidence of his own eyes.

Madame Terza merely nodded. “An alamisha,” she said. “Such things are not unheard of.”

“She … is not happy to be trapped here, I think.”

“That is why they are called the restless dead.” Tristan shot Terza a hurt, angry glance, but her ironic amusement did not fade. “I cannot tell you how to solve that, Sir Tristan.

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