The Eye of the Chained God (Abyssal Plague) by Don Bassingthwaite

Author:Don Bassingthwaite [Bassingthwaite, Don]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786959983
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2012-04-03T00:00:00+00:00

They lingered over the food—now cold—for a little longer while a hide tent was erected for them. If the meal had begun with uncertain silence, it ended in uncomfortable quiet. With the exception of Belen and Turbull, conversing in broken fragments to satisfy the demands of etiquette, neither party was in the mood to talk. All Albanon wanted to do was go somewhere private so he could discuss their situation with the others.

Finally one of the Tigerclaw children appeared to whisper a message to Turbull. The clan leader rose, bidding Albanon and the others an effusive farewell until evening, then directed Cariss to lead them away. She obeyed with a swiftness that felt less like obedience and more like a desire to have them away from her. Their passage back through the camp drew no less attention than before but was a good deal quicker.

The tent that had been prepared for them was close to the edge of the camp and somewhat smaller than the others belonging to the Tigerclaw. The bent wood poles were new, but the hides covering them were old and stale with years of smoke; a hole at the peak let in fresh air and light. Cariss saw them through the flap of the door, then left.

Tempest spoke before the door flap had even stopped swaying. “They know something. I don’t—”

“Shh,” hissed Belen. She twitched back the door just a bit and looked outside. Albanon could see over her shoulder as she peered around. Cariss and her warriors might want nothing to do with them, but many ordinary Tigerclaws lingered with curiosity. Belen let the door flap drop back into place. “This is a tent, not a cottage,” she whispered harshly. “Sounds will go right through the walls.”

“I thought the Tigerclaws valued hospitality,” said Uldane.

“Value, yes. Are stupid about it, no. Keep your voices down.”

“Just how do you know so much about the Tigerclaws, Belen?” asked Albanon. “I’ve lived in Fallcrest for seven years and I don’t remember Scargash sending emissaries.”

“You weren’t there all the time, were you? Moorin sent you off on errands.”

Albanon narrowed his eyes. “Even if the Tigerclaws did send emissaries, why would the Lord Warden have assigned one guard to escort them?”

Belen’s face tightened and she blew out her breath slowly. “Fine,” she said at last. She stepped to the center of the tent, farthest from the thin hide walls. “My mother was a Tigerclaw.”

“You have shifter blood?” Uldane said.

“No,” Belen told him. “My mother was one of the human class that the Tigerclaws call the Tamed. She met my father, a hunter, near Nenlast and fell in love. Her clan wouldn’t accept him, so they ran away. She was the one who taught me the ways of the tribe.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?” asked the halfling. “Cariss and Hurn might have treated us better from the beginning!”

“The Tigerclaws don’t look kindly on anyone who leaves the clan. They call them Riven and shun them—and that extends to their descendants.” Belen looked around at them.

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