Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [86]
Laurana went white to the lips. She swayed, clutching the table for support. Gilthanas rose swiftly, coming to her side, but she pushed him away. “Father,” she said in a voice she did not recognize as her own, “what were you about to say?”
“Come away, Laurana,” Gilthanas begged. “He didn’t mean it. We’ll talk in the morning.”
The Speaker said nothing, his face, gray and cold.
“You were about to say ‘human whore!’ ” Laurana said softly, her words falling like pins on nerves stretched taut.
“Go to your lodgings, Laurana,” the Speaker ordered in a tight voice.
“So that is what you think of me,” Laurana whispered, her throat constricting. “That is why everyone stares and stops talking when I come near them. Human whore.”
“Sister, do as your father commands,” Porthios said. “As for what we think of you—remember, you brought this on yourself. What do you expect? Look at you, Laurana! You are dressed like a man. You proudly wear a sword stained with blood. You talk glibly of your ‘adventures!’ Traveling with men such as these, humans and dwarves! Spending the nights with them. Spending the nights with your half–breed lover. Where is he? Did he tire of you and—”
The firelight flared before Laurana’s eyes. Its heat swept over her body, to be replaced by a terrible cold. She could see nothing and remembered only a horrifying sensation of falling without being able to catch herself. Voices came at her from a great distance, distorted faces bent over her.
“Laurana, my daughter …”
Then nothing.
“Mistress …”
“What? Where am I? Who are you? I—I can’t see! Help me!”
“There, mistress. Take my hand. Shhhh. I am here. I am Silvara. Remember?”
Laurana felt gentle hands take her own as she sat up.
“Can you drink this, mistress?”
A cup was placed to her lips. Laurana sipped at it, tasting clear, cold water. She grasped it and drank eagerly, feeling it cool her fevered blood. Strength returned, she found she could see again. A small candle burned beside her bed. She was in her room, in her father’s house. Her clothes lay on a crude wooden bench, her swordbelt and scabbard stood near, her pack was on the floor. At a table, across from her bed, sat a nursemaid, her head cradled in her arms, fast asleep.
Laurana turned to Silvara, who, seeing the question in her eyes, put her finger to her lips.
“Speak softly,” the Wilder elf replied. “Oh, not for that one”—Silvara glanced at the nurse—“she will sleep peacefully for many, many hours before the potion wears off. But there are others in the house who may be wakeful. Do you feel better?”
“Yes,” Laurana answered, confused. “I don’t remember …”
“You fainted,” Silvara answered. “I heard them talking about it when they carried you back here. Your father is truly grieved. He never meant to say those things. It is just that you hurt him so terribly—”
“How did you hear?”
“I was hiding, in the shadows in the corner there. An easy thing for my people to do. The old nurse said you were fine, you just needed rest, and they left. When she went to fetch a blanket, I put the sleep juice in her tea.”
“Why?” Laurana asked. Looking at the girl closely, Laurana saw that the Wilder elf must be a beautiful woman—or would be if the layers of grime and filth were washed from her.
Silvara, aware of Laurana’s scrutiny, flushed in embarrassment. “I—I ran away from the Silvanesti, mistress, when they brought you across the river.”
“Laurana. Please, child, call me Laurana.”
“Laurana,” Silvara corrected, blushing. “I—I came to ask you to take you with me when you leave.”
“Leave?” Laurana said. “I’m not goi—” She stopped.
“Aren’t you?” Silvara asked gently.
“I … I don’t know,” Laurana said in confusion.
“I can help,” Silvara