Orphans - Kevin Killiany [2]
“Ho!” The shout brought him up short at the threshold.
“Uncle!”
“No rush, son.” The older man slapped his rounded shoulder, propelling him the rest of the way into the hall. “She’s not with me this night.”
Naiar lidded his eyes for a moment, embarrassed he’d been so transparent. Uncle Tolan laughed as he shed his heavy coat.
“No coat, boy?” he asked as a servant took his.
“You’ll catch your death yet.”
Naiar shrugged; the remark was not worth comment. Everyone knew the young, those who survived their birth and avoided the withering, did not feel the cold the older generations complained so much about. Still, he never met a relative who did not comment on his light jerkin and vest within a minute of their greeting. He hoped he’d be less predictable in his old age.
Torches lit the hall, though the source was not yet gone. The traditional quiet evening with close family before the quest was being replaced with a hasty feast in honor of his uncle’s visit. Naiar minded not in the least; he greatly preferred hearing news of other households to the lecture on his House’s history and their expectations of him as heir that he’d been dreading.
Miura across the table, her down golden in the torchlight, would have made the evening perfect.
At the moment the feast table was still being assembled, trestles and planks added to the everyday sideboard. Naiar suspected the kitchen was frantically adding fruit dishes and quickbreads to the modest feast prepared for the family of the House. Uncle Tolan would not care, knowing how close to dinner he’d arrived, but Cook would never let it get back to Tolan House that Nazent House had not excelled at a moment’s notice.
Two servants entered from the family door, bearing a padded chair between them.
“Nodoc!” Uncle Tolan cried out with the same joy he’d had at the sight of Naiar. He towered over the tiny gray form of Naiar’s older brother nestled in the chair, but seemed unaware that anything was amiss.
The servants lowered the chair, and Uncle Tolan dropped casually to one knee to be eye to eye with his cousin’s oldest son.
“You’ve tales to tell, I’ll wager,” he said. “Consorting with gnomes, from what I hear.”
“We all consorted,” Nodoc countered cheerfully.
“Many spent as much time with them as I.”
“But none have your keen eye and wit. I’ll have the whole story from you before the evening’s out. And a tale of my own to trade,” Tolan added, glancing up at Naiar to include him in this last.
“What sort of tale?” Nodoc asked. “We’ve time before dinner.”
Tolan cast his eye about the hall, gauging the state of readiness, and nodded. Naiar hooked a basket with his foot, overturning it to make a stool. The stream of servants flowed around their island without comment.
“A beast, a magical beast, by all accounts,” Tolan said, “has been seen in the foothills of the Dawns.”
“Near the Fallen Hollow?” Naiar guessed.
“At first,” their uncle said, “though it’s been seen elsewhere since, following the path of the source.”
“How is it magical?” Nodoc demanded.
“It is very like an insect, but blue as an ice flower, with only eight legs.”
“A blue insect is new, not magical,” Nodoc said.
Naiar nodded, content to leave the conversation in the hands of his learned brother. The insect, hardly a beast, did not sound too remarkable to him.
“Even an insect that cries out in a voice like ringing bells?” Tolan asked.
“That we’ve never seen an insect with a voice does not mean all insects are silent,” Nodoc answered.
“And missing a four of legs could merely mean an injury.”
“Did I mention,” Tolan asked innocently, “that the beast is the size of a packbeast colt?”
“You did not!” accused Naiar.
“When you say it cried out,” Nodoc asked, his mind leaping to another trail, “did it merely give voice or did it attempt to speak?”
“On that our witnesses are divided,” Tolan admitted.