Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [26]
Still in his early twenties-about Larajin's age-Dray was blessed with perfectly straight teeth and dark hair that hung in tight spirals to his shoulders. His beard was trimmed to a thin line that exactly traced the bottom of his jaw, in the prevailing fashion, and a heavy gold hoop
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hung from one ear. He wore the family blue and purple, and a silver ring on the little finger of his left hand that bore the Foxmantle crest: three diamond-pupiled eyes, set in a diagonal line.
Dray had been flirting with Larajin ever since the caravan departed from Ordulin eight days ago, telling her how pretty she was-ignoring the fact that the long, hot journey had left her dusty and sweaty. Truth be told, she didn't mind the flattery, though she wondered if much of it wasn't business, rather than pleasure. Dray kept hinting, with every second breath, about a possible merger of the Foxmantle and Uskevren vineyards.
Still, she enjoyed his company. He was playful and fun and was blessed with a beautiful singing voice, as she'd found out one night around the campfire when he broke out his mandolin and sang a ballad for her. He would have made an ideal candidate for Sune's priesthood. He even reminded her, a little, of Diurgo.
Now, however, he seemed oblivious to the possible danger of the wizard's magical conjuring. Larajin peered nervously at the thick mist that swirled above the road a short distance ahead, hoping Klarsh knew what he was doing. The caravan had stopped-for the third time this day-so the wizard could clear away some choke creeper that had grown across the road. Even though Klarsh was well ahead of their wagon, Larajin felt nervous. The trees on either side of Rauthauvyr's Road were enormous, forming what felt like a steep-walled canyon to either side, and the underbrush on the forest floor was thick- too thick to pass through at anything but a struggling walk. If the poisonous mist spread beyond the wizard's control, the caravan drivers, soldiers-and Larajin- would all be killed.
Behind them, five other wagons had also pulled to a halt. The horses hitched to them snorted and pawed at the road, nostrils flaring and ears flicking nervously in response to the acrid smell of the magical mist. The drivers called out to soothe them, occasionally tugging on the
reins to restrain a team as it tried to jerk a wagon forward, causing its cargo of wine bottles to rattle and clink inside their wooden cases.
The two dozen sellswords hired to protect the caravan lounged on either side of the road, glancing at the forest only every now and then. Like Enik, they were a scruffy-looking lot-tough enough and well armed, but not nearly as disciplined as Larajin would have liked. She supposed that, with nearly all of the able-bodied fighters in Orduhn being conscripted into the militia, these were the only men Dray could find.
They were nominally under the leadership of Paltar, a capable-looking man in his late fifties with iron-gray hair and eyes to match. Walking with a slight limp that he'd gained earlier in his career as a soldier, he glared at the sellswords, tersely ordering them to keep an eye on the forest, but was answered only by grunts and shrugs. Paltar kept glancing back at Dray, as if waiting for a supporting word, but none was forthcoming.
Enik-whom the men did listen to, when they were of a mind to-strode toward where Larajin and Dray sat, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead. Sunlight glinted off a gold ring on his little finger, which seemed to be a new addition to his otherwise scruffy wardrobe since their departure from Orduhn. As he stared up at Dray, she noted that he had none of the traditional deference that a hireling normally displayed in the presence of a noble. Instead he met Dray's eye directly, cheek puckering as he sucked his tooth.
"Sun's hot, and it's been a thirsty march," Enik said. "How about we open a couple of bottles from the cargo and slake our thirst?"
Dray opened his mouth as if about to protest, but then his eyes got a dreamy,