Page 172 of Dragon Avenger (Age of Fire 2)

“What is a circus?” Wistala asked.

“Entertainments, diversions, and wonders,” Rainfall said.

An elf on a snow-white horse in a colorful striped coat turned into the gates of Mossbell. “Come, if you please, Mistress Wistala, I think you’ll like Ragwrist and he’ll like you. At least I hope so.”

Wistala couldn’t imagine why it would matter if a traveling elf liked her or not, but she pulled her sii down her griff and smoothed her fringe. Mistress Wistala must look her part for greeting guests on her lands.

Rainfall had been calling Wistala by that title whenever in the presence of any of the estate’s people, to impress upon them the change in ownership, though Wistala left all decisions in the care of her—what was the position again? Oh yes, steward.

Ragwrist dismounted. He did have a colorful twist of twine about his wrist, but it was the coat that really caught her imagination. It was red and yellow and green and brown and several other colors, pleasantly arranged in panels and pleats, making him look like an aggregation of colorful bird feathers. His riding boots were of the deepest black and matched his hair, which reminded her of tree roots.

“Our homeleaf is graced,” Rainfall called in Elvish.

“This traveler is comforted,” Ragwrist answered. His voice had a heartiness to it and came from deep within his frame, and though he spoke normally his words carried from the road wall to the stable.

The elves embraced.

“Is that char-oil I smell in your hair?” Rainfall said. “Honorable frost is nothing to make one shamed.”

“I’m not here the time it takes a drop to fall from a low cloud, and already I’m undone and reproached,” Ragwrist said, though he kept glancing at Wistala.

“Neither,” Rainfall said. “How were the barbarian lands?”

Rainfall straightened his coat’s lapels and collars. “Tiresome. In some villages they hid their children from us, and without their glad cries, a circus is a joyless place. We’ve come away with only enough to sustain us, and the wagons need new axles. There are improvements around here I see, and new faces.”>“I can find food in the kitchen myself,” Wistala said. She didn’t like people waiting on her; not hunting for her meals seemed dissolute enough.

Lada appeared at the door, a housecoat over her nightdress, though she had on day-slippers and footwrap. Her nose was as red as the spots on the thane’s cheeks. The part of her hair not bound up fell in loose curls that reminded Wistala of flowering vines, though unlike her grandfather’s locks, her hair took after that of men or dwarves.

“Grandfather, I didn’t dress but came at once.”

Wistala made for the kitchen, but Rainfall halted her with a word. “Tala, I want you here so you may bear witness to the truth of what I say.

“Lada, I hope you know you have my love, as does the child you are carrying.”

Wistala’s chin dropped at this.

Rainfall continued: “You must listen to me now. You’ll come to the truth of this fixation now or later, and you can spare yourself much pain by accepting it now: Thane Hammar does not love you, does not care for you, and has no intention of taking you into Galahall as his wife or anything else.”

“Elves lie so—”

“Let’s have none of that,” Rainfall thundered. “You’re a fair token of elvish blood—”

He spoke no further, for Lada shrieked and threw herself against the bookcase with a wail. She began to cry, and push whole rows of books onto the floor.

Rainfall sighed.

Wistala stood frozen, paralyzed at the emotional display.

“Lada, stop that,” Rainfall said.

She threw another set of books on the floor.

Widow Lessup appeared at the library door. “Sir, may I—!” Her mouth clamped shut when she saw Lada knock down a map hung between bookshelves and a scroll-case, and her lips pursed so tightly Wistala would have sworn she was about to spit foua.

“Sir,” Widow Lessup said. “May I take her in hand?”

“Perhaps you can bring her to her room. An infusion might do her good.”

“As you wish,” Widow Lessup said. She marched over to the sobbing girl and grabbed her by the ear, twisting it the way she did her daughter’s.

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