The Druid Queen - Douglas Niles [16]
"I'll do it," Hyath agreed suddenly. "Give me until tomorrow morning to make my arrangements. Then we can depart. We'll travel together, I hope."
"Certainly," Keane agreed smoothly, not at all sure how the cleric intended to make the journey.
"If you will accept the accommodations of my humble abode for the night, we can be off at first light. Will you be my guest?"
"I'll have to get my bags, but it'll be a pleasure."
"We'll send a man for them. Come, allow Bishou Harmanius to show you the gardens while I attend to my business. The roses are in full bloom, and I've been told that our hedges are the finest along the Sword Coast."
The cleric was already in motion as Keane rose to follow him from the parlor. As if he had known his patriarch's intentions, the bishou awaited them in the central hall, beside a circular marble fountain. The inquisitor instructed him as to his plans, then turned back to Keane.
"Please, treat this home as your own. I'll see you again at dinner-and then, as I told you, we'll depart for Corwell at first light."
* * * * *
The fire burned high, consuming many oak trunks with insatiable tongues and greedy fingers of flame. A keg of firbolg rotgut, horrific of stench and searing of taste, made the rounds of the throng, passed from giant-kin to troll and back again. Thurgol sat near the fire, enjoying the warmth of the gathering and the exalted status that gave him his prime seat. Even the presence of the great troll Baatlrap, squatting across the blaze from him, did nothing to detract from his pleasure.
The eyes of a wolfdog flashed golden in the firelight. The creature raised its shaggy head and blinked at the approach of a stooped firbolg clad in a billowing dress. The giant-kin hag regarded the great canine for a second, and then the beast swiftly rose and slinked away from the fire, yielding its place to the giant female.
Garisa reached the fireside and turned to glare at her comrades. Shaman of the village for many decades, she used the authority of her office to silence the throng merely by the persuasive power of her gaze. Even the trolls ceased their bickering yaps, regarding the female firbolg with expressions of fear, awe, and suspicion.
Thurgol was pleased. If the night was to culminate in success, then it was important that all of them give careful attention to Garisa's words, her story and her prophecy. Though the shaman and the chieftain had discussed in minimal detail what was to occur this night, Thurgol wasn't sure how the old female intended to go about it.
Their task was aided by the fact that Garisa held a unique and honored status in Blackleaf. The old crone of a firbolg was more skilled at healing and medicinal applications than any other resident of that community. In addition, however, she had discovered at an early age that she possessed a modicum of magical ability.
Charming a young warrior into a marriage that had elevated her to most envied female in the tribe, Garisa had worked to develop other talents, such as the healing incantation that worked so well for the broken bones and deep gouges that were the lot of the firbolg warrior's life. Thus her exalted status had remained even after her mate had fallen in the tragic conflict the humans had called the Darkwalker War.
Garisa had also learned to weave simple illusions. She never altered anything very much, but she could create the appearance of a mist in the air, and shape it to match the image she desired. This particular attribute had proven very useful throughout her century-plus of life. And during that entire time, she had kept her slight mastery of illusion a secret from every single one of her fellow villagers.
All the firbolgs of Blackleaf, of course, knew of her skill with herbs. Too, she had a reputation for making accurate predictions based on the reflections created by a few copper coins cast into a bowl of water. Hadn't she correctly guessed the outcome of that wild young Bree filly's mating? She had predicted that within five years