Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [92]
“Thank you,” Bealomondore croaked.
The wizard patted him on the shoulder and mindspoke, “I couldn’t let my wife’s comment murder a man we shall desperately need in the days to come.”
The words sent a chill down his spine. These people expected great things of him. If they expected a masterpiece on canvas, the pressure would be minimal. Why couldn’t they understand he wasn’t suitable for heroic deeds? He put his hand on the hilt of his weapon and felt warmth radiating from the Sword of Valor.
He noticed that Paladin had taken his glass and raised it. Verrin Schope returned to his seat and lifted his own. Reluctantly, Bealomondore did the same, without a clue as to what they would be toasting.
“To Wulder,” said Paladin, “who gives us all we need even when we don’t know what that could be. May He lead us to defeat His foes.”
Glasses clinked. Bealomondore sipped, his mind on the unusual wording of the toast. Wulder’s foes? Odidoddex was the enemy of Chiril. Did that make him an enemy of Wulder?
He still had a lot to learn about being a follower of the God of the Universe. So far he’d found a whole lot of things to delight in and some very prickly issues that he’d rather leave to someone else. He appreciated with new vigor the beauty he saw around him. He appreciated being accepted without having to prove himself. He’d never found that anywhere else.
But now he was called to do things. He thought of his father. As a young man, Bealomondore had turned his back on the Bealomondore Mine and done what he wanted to do. Business didn’t interest him. Dirty, money-grubbing business filled him with disgust.
He’d shunned his family’s friends and moved himself up in society through his art. He loved his sisters and aunt. He ignored his brother and parents. Now he’d attached himself to Someone who wanted more of him. He’d gotten the message—Wulder expected him to shed his selfish ways. This truth was not as palatable as “Wulder loves lowly tumanhofers and provides good things.”
The group ate and talked of minor issues until the maids cleared the table and brought huge slices of razterberry pie and steaming mugs of amaloot. Then the conversation turned to the serious business of strategy.
Bealomondore listened to the talk of war and felt his soul cringing, pulling back as a turtle might withdraw into its shell. Lady Peg said nothing. The tumanhofer joined her silence. Her eyes grew wide, and she clutched her husband’s arm. Verrin Schope patted her hand. His touch smoothed some of the anxiety from her expression.
Bealomondore watched Tipper’s face when she offered an opinion in the conversation. He brought a pencil out of his pocket and reached into a hollow to retrieve a sketch pad. He sought first to capture impressions of Tipper’s mobile features. With a page full of her face from different angles and varying expressions, he moved on to a clean sheet and recorded the others at the table. His fear subsided as his hand worked. He took in the facts and ideas presented while he drew, but he did not engage his emotions, fearing they would overwhelm him.
Rayn reentered the room through the window and perched on Paladin’s shoulder. He chittered.
“Ah,” said Paladin.
The minor dragon trilled a note of pleasure, then hopped over to Tipper’s shoulder, where he cooed and rubbed his head against her jaw.
Bealomondore looked to where the dragonkeeper pointed. Four kimens entered the tavern and came straight to the table.
Paladin greeted them, then explained to his friends. “I sent for minor dragons from the valley.”
Bealomondore blinked, and in that short second, a dozen or so dragons leaped out of the folds of the kimens’ clothing and onto the table. They raced among the leftover dishes, gathering up crumbs. One of the other