Wit'ch Storm (James Clemens) (1999) by James - Banned;Banished 02 Rollins

Author:James - Banned;Banished 02 Rollins [Rollins, James - Banned;Banished 02]
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-01-09T01:16:04.156000+00:00

Mycof followed behind his older brother. As they proceeded across their room, he studied the fall of the robe and cloak about Ryman's shoulders. His brother's white hair was striking against the dark green of the cloak, perfect in form and movement.

Ryman opened the room's door to find Rothskilder bowed before the threshold.

My lords, their manservant intoned, awaiting their order. Lead the way, Ryman instructed, his lips barely moving. Mycof knew his brother, like himself, found it distasteful to speak to another. Their voices were meant only for each other's ears. When they must speak, they whispered, sharing as little of their voices as possible with their servants.

Rothskilder knew their manners and engaged them in no conversation as he led the way toward the Musician's Hall. Still, nervousness kept their guide's tongue wagging. I have the guards posted, and the exits secured as you ordered.

As the twins walked shoulder to shoulder, Ryman glanced to his brother as if to say I told you so. Everything was in order.

In acknowledgment, Mycof bowed his chin ever so slightly. Still, Mycof asked their manservant, We will not be disturbed?

His whispered voice, unexpected, startled Rothskilder. The man almost glanced toward Mycof, then caught himself and continued down the hall. Just as you requested, this is a private audience, he said humbly. You will not be disturbed.

Behind Rothskilder, the twins glided like two silk ghosts, their slippered feet moving in step together, their green cloaks swishing in unison as they proceeded.

Neither twin spoke, but each knew the other's thoughts. Mycof's and Ryman's eyes met briefly as they turned the last corner. Both brothers already had their fingers touching the hilts of the poisoned daggers hidden in sheaths strapped to their wrists.

The House of Kura'dom knew how to protect what was theirs.

Lord Torwren crouched in the mud of the cellar. Near his toes, the ebon'stone talisman lay half sunk in the muck. Its polished surface no longer ran with flames. After the axman's blunt intrusion into the sphere's dreamscape, Torwren had been unable to maintain the concentration necessary to keep the fires lit. Who was this strange hulking man? The d'warf had recognized him as the elemental who had escaped last night's trap, but by the dancing gods, how had he entered the stone? The talisman was bound only to Torwren. No one but he should be able to enter it freely.

Nearby, the elv'in prisoner groaned in his shackles.

Yes, yes, he waved in distraction at the wracked man, I'll get back to you in a moment. He had only begun to forge the elv'in's spirit. There was still much left to do, but the oddity of the intruder kept Torwren distracted.

You' you will never have me, the prisoner gasped weakly.

Torwren glanced in his direction. A seed of an idea began to form. Meric, wasn't it? he said, stepping toward the prisoner.

The elv'in's face darkened. His eyes grew colder, and blood dripped from his cracked lips.

It seems that a friend of yours is prying where he shouldn't, he said.

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