The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) by Juliet E. McKenna Read Free Book Online Page A

was tired of hearing Kel Ar’Ayen always discussed in terms of its utility to other people.
    “The colony’s rediscovery must have tongues wagging from the Astmarsh to the Cape of Winds,” ventured Allin.
    “Hundreds of people hidden in a cavern over countless generations, bodies uncorrupted by time or decay while the very essence of their being was locked in some inanimate artefact.” There was unmistakable challenge in Velindre’s tone. “I still find it incredible.”
    That was quite enough. Temar opened the door. “Incredible or not, I am living proof that it is so.” There are scant people you owe a bent knee to, he reminded himself, summoning all the poise he’d learned as a nobleman in the final days of the Old Empire.
    “Temar, may I make known Velindre Ychane, mage of Hadrumal, and Allin Mere, also a wizard.” Ryshad fetched an extra chair from the side of the room without comment. “Ladies, I have the honour to present Temar, Esquire D’Alsennin.”
    “The honour is all mine.” Temar made a low bow.
    “Wine?” offered Ryshad. “We have a white from the western slopes of Kalavere, which should be good, or a Sitalcan red, which I’m afraid I don’t know.”
    “White, thank you.”
    Ryshad saluted Temar with the goblet as he passed it over and then rang a small silver bell. Temar took his seat.
    “So what was it like?” Velindre fixed Temar with an intent look. She wore a plain, round-necked gown of fine indigo wool, her face free of any cosmetic and her only jewellery a chain of silver around her neck carrying no pendant or jewel. Long blonde hair was braided in a plait with tidily trimmed ends sun-bleached nearly to white. Temar guessed her a handful or more years Ryshad’s senior.
    “Like sleeping, mostly, with some dreams like those of a fever,” Temar replied with bland composure. He wasn’t about to elaborate on his turbulent visions of those who’d unwittingly borne the sword holding his consciousness locked deep within it.
    Velindre was about to pursue this but a maid entered with a tray. Ryshad alerted her to lay an extra place in front of Temar with a quick gesture and everyone sat in silence, watching the lass set down a sauceboat alongside a dish of pork braised in wine and green oil.
    “Superstition or not, you can trust those serving Ostrin to keep their vow of discretion,” Ryshad said with some force as the girl departed with an uncertain backward glance.
    “You were caught up in this enchantment, weren’t you?” Velindre challenged him.
    “Thanks to the contrivance of Archmage Planir.” Ryshad leaned back in his chair, rolling rich red wine round in the engraved glass he had cupped in one hand. “He ensured I was given Temar’s sword. I dreamed of Temar and the colony as it had been so long ago. That gave the final clues to finding the cavern.”
    Temar managed to meet the older man’s half-smile with a nod of his own. The terrors of madness both had suffered, the struggle for identity and mastery over Ryshad’s body as Temar, all unwitting, had struggled to break free of the enchantment: that was no one’s business but their own.
    Velindre was patently not satisfied and turned back to Temar. “I hear you have an Adept of Artifice with you?”
    “Avila Tor Arrial,” replied Temar, striving for Ryshad’s self-possession. “The Demoiselle wishes to learn what has become of her House in the generations since we slept. She also wants to see if anything remains of the lore this very shrine was founded to husband.” Temar doubted that, now he’d seen the place so altered.
    Velindre frowned. “I thought Guinalle Tor Priminal was the foremost practitioner of this Artifice?”
    “She is,” agreed Temar. “Which is why her first obligation remains to the colony she originally crossed the ocean to succour and support.” The endless frozen years hadn’t changed that; whatever love he might one day win from Guinalle would never outweigh her sense of duty.
    “We