The Blood Mage Texts by Sherwood Smith

Author:Sherwood Smith [Smith, Sherwood]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: epic fantasy, quests, ancient texts, found families
ISBN: 9781611389944
Publisher: Book View Cafe
Published: 2021-12-09T00:00:00+00:00

3

Erdrael Danara

Nobody was thinking about loyalty, ethics, or betrayal in the newly reunited Erdrael Danara, at least not Terry and Curtas whooping and shouting echoes up the rocky hillsides as their canoe shot down the white-water. Their paddles smacked water up in splashes, whirling with speed instead of grace.

Thump! The canoe hit a rock and shot up into the air.

“Hooo-ooo!”

The yell came from both boys, a whoop of joy and anticipation and maybe just a little dread, though the canoe, and their hearts, racketed along far too fast for dread to last longer than a pang.

Another rock!

Curtas’s paddle whipped round and he shoved the handle with both hands, pivoting them around the rock. The canoe slid by, dropping into a hollow of rushing, whirling white water. Terry gazed in admiration at the swift expertise of Curtas’s move.

Terry’s face filled with water; he gasped for air.

They were out.

“Bail!” Curtas shouted.

They bailed as fast as they could as the canoe lugged. Terry—Tereneth Larensar, the new young king of Erdrael Danara—already knew this route, though no one had let their crippled king try it himself, until he met this new friend who’d said, “I’ll take you.”

The rough stuff was over. They bumped and splashed downstream until the water widened and the canoe slowed as spring-forested hills slid by. At last the river broadened into sedate respectability and the boys sat up, the paddles easy in their dip and pull.

The canoe glided into the mountain lake, meek and silent among the little sailboats and canoes skimming round and round the breeze-ruffled waters. The little palace built in the middle of the lake had been put there as an escape by a wealthy aristocrat centuries back. More wildflowers grew there than along any of the many lakes in this corner of what had been once, and was now again, Erdrael Danara.

As the canoe eased up alongside the dock below the palace terrace, conversation broke off among the adults on the decorated barge nearby.

“He’s back! He’s safe!” an old princess—who had survived the civil war, and astutely accepted being demoted to a duchas—trilled.

A clamor of voices rose, some exclaiming, some relieved, some hiding disappointment. These latter were observed by a languid young man strumming a lute. His eyes met those of a quiet young woman aft, dressed in the plain livery of the mountain guard, her capable hands on the barge’s tiller.

They both watched the big, thick-shouldered count in the fine green robe, who frowned. “Your majesty. You must promise us never, ever to attempt such a foolish thing again! I cannot believe, after all our careful warnings, in spite of your affliction, you risked your life, and for what?”

Those who were more observant noticed the subtle tightening of Terry’s pleasant features at the word affliction. It was too subtle to be called a flinch, though the sun-brown flesh ruddied around the long scar marring his face, and Terry held one arm close to his middle in a habitual protective gesture, as if the missing fingers on that hand still ached.

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