The Dark Ferryman by Rhodes Jenna

Author:Rhodes, Jenna [Rhodes, Jenna]
Language: eng, eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 0000
Publisher: PENGUIN group

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"THE COLUMNS ARE MARCHING,” Tiforan said solemnly, as he gave a kneeling bow before Abayan Diort. Diort looked on him coolly. Tiforan was not his choice as a second-in-command, but as third or fourth, he might do. Thus, he would be left behind as Diort moved on to Ashenbrook. His tattoos, deeply etched into his cheekbones, twitched as if he sensed the small disapproval Diort felt when looking upon him. Weathered by the badland sun, his golden-bronze skin had darkened to a warm brown, and the corners of his eyes were etched near as deep as the knife-carved tattoos, though those markings were not the august ones worn by Diort.

“Good. Tell Hefort I want the sands cast.”

“Today, Warlord? After the men have already marched?”

“It’s not for my army, Tif. Their fate is already set. The Warrior Queen of the Vaelinars wants a quick battle, I wager, a handful of days at the most, to achieve her point. I read the sands for another answer. Now go.” Diort watched the man get to his feet and leave in haste, and thought again that this was someone he would not willingly leave in charge, for he did not wish to be questioned over something so trivial as an oracle. Now, if he were to argue battle tactics instead of minor occurrences, that might give Abayan hope. He sat down and pondered his chain of command, trying to decide if he wished to make changes.

The oracle came soon enough, crawling on her knees. She had claimed, when the mantle of prophecy had been passed to her, that the weight of the world was too great for her to bear standing, and so regressed to creeping about on hands and knees. It was an affectation that gave her credence among shallow Galdarkans and kept her from being hauled about here and there by minor lords who wished to use her gifts, but despite her show, she actually held a gift that Diort could perceive and admire. So he tolerated her histrionics much as he tolerated Tiforan’s minor rebellions. Hefort, however, had proved far more valuable to him.

She looked up at him, yellow-green eyes shrewd, her young face lined about her mouth as though she held bad opinions in her teeth and chewed on them all the long days. As well she might, knowing what she did. “You sent for me.”

“I did, Hefort. I would like the sands cast, if you are able.”

She snorted. “I’m able. It is yourself that must be ready and willing to accept my read.”

Diort shifted in his chair to lean down toward her. “I do not ask for that which I do not want.”

“Good that it is you know that. Very well, then.” She reached inside her cloak lined with pockets, each filled with a small glass vial of brightly colored sand. The vials alone were worth a small fortune, each shaped and cut brilliantly, small decanters of the sand of prophecy, their mouths gilt in gold and their handles set with gems.

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