Lady of Poison_ The Priests - Bruce R. Cordell [50]
Marrec accepted the gauntlets and bowed low. Mere handling of the gloves was enough for him to feel their vitality. He carefully stowed them at his belt.
Next was produced a leather scabbard on which many elegant designs were inlaid. A hilt of darkly oiled and gleaming wood was visible. The Nentyarch grasped the hilt and pulled forth a long blade. It was a blade unlike any Marrec had before seen; the hilt, crosspiece, and even blade itself were carved from one continuous block of wood. The grain ran with the length of the blade, and like the hilt, the entire weapon shone as if recently polished with wood oil. The Nentyarch took a few hearty swings. The air whistled as it parted before the sharpened edge.
The Nentyarch said, "This is Dymondheart, the blade I carried when I was much younger. You'll find its edge sharper than dead steel; it's hard to dull the edge of a living weapon. I'd like you to carry-it for me, Elowen. If Dymondheart ends its career buried in the flesh of Rotting Man, I will not be disappointed." He sheathed the wooden blade and presented it to Elowen.
The hunter stammered a thank you, overwhelmed with the magnificence of the gift. She said, "Then… count on me to arrange that ending, Nentyarch."
Other gifts were brought forward-three quivers of stiff black cloth inlaid with golden thread. Brighter than the thread were the f letched arrows contained in each-the feathers were mirror-bright gold, flashing and twinkling in the torchlight. The Nentyarch drew out one of the arrows. The shaft was dark, like a line of darkness, even its tip, which narrowed down to an invisible point.
"These arrows are fletched with feathers collected from the phoenix's nest on the highest spire of Yeshelmaar, collected only with her permission. The shafts are carved of lyrwood, harvested in the Shadow Wood of the mystic's dreams. Nothing can evade their flights. Conserve them. Once they are gone, no more can easily be made."
The Nentyarch presented a quiver each to Fallon, Anom, and Cirid. Each was accepted gracefully, though Marrec was sure he saw Fallon cast a quick, envious glance at the new sword gracing Elowen's hip.
From his lips, Fallon was all poise and polish, saying, "We thank you, Nentyarch, for our gifts. They will be a great help against the Talontyr's forces."
"Now, let me think. I did not have anything prepared for the southern wayfarer, Gunggari; our presentiments were not so accurate."
The Oslander shrugged. He said, "I need no gifts."
"Gifts are not for those who need, but those who appreciate," responded the Nentyarch. "Elowen has told me something of your abilities. I believe I have just the thing, a gift anyone might find useful."
A Dalesman brought forward an open chest. The Nentyarch pulled out a plain leather haversack. Opening it, he revealed several small vials, each filled with an iridescent liquid: purple, sky blue, forest green, and shimmering yellow. Each vial was held in place with a cunning leather strap so that all were side by side and easily accessible when the haversack flap was open.
"Each of these vials is filled with an elixir of potent magic. When you have need, unstop a vial and drink. The contents of each vial are displayed by each little figure stitched into the leather of the haversack. When you have used up all the vials, return the haversack to me, and I shall refill them."
Gunggari accepted the haversack of potions. He scanned the labels, reading aloud, "Heroic Surge, Bead of Flame, Strength of the Bull… truly you do me a great honor, Nentyarch. I will use these in thankfulness."
"And last, Ash."
All eyes turned to the girl. Ash stood, unconcerned and apparently uncaring of the heritage the Nentyarch claimed for her.
"What gifts will avail you, eh, little one?" asked the Nentyarch. "What about this, then?"
A final chest was brought forward. The Nentyarch produced a set of leather straps, chased with green thread, fitted with a bit and reins. It was a bridle, meant to be fitted to a horse's head.
"This is