The Mage in the Iron Mask - Brian Thomsen [16]
The Tharchioness decided that she needed more time and information before further dealing with the delicate matter at hand. The High Blade obviously knew something, but of what and how much, she was not certain. She decided to change the subject.
Delicately dipping her finger into her snifter of brandy, she held it out for her husband's consideration.
"Care for a taste?" she purred.
Gently taking the proffered hand with its anointed digit in his two hands, he slowly brought it to his lips, and bestowed a kiss.
"I thought you'd never offer," he replied breathlessly, then turned to the crowds that had followed them into the receiving room and instructed the retinues, "Leave us! Matters of state and diplomacy can wait until later. Much later."
In less than the time it took for their lips to meet, they were alone and on the receiving room settee.
No further words were exchanged, and delicate situations were temporarily postponed.
* * * * *
In the Dungeon of Southroad Keep:
Rassendyll's eyes had finally grown accustomed to the dim light of his cell, and the iron mask that enshrouded his head no longer shifted with every movement he made. It was as if the metal of the domed skullcap had taken root in the back of his head, allowing less movement in the face of the mask as well. The ringing had finally stopped in his ears from the ceaseless clanging that had ensued during his period of hysterics when he had beaten his head against the wall in despair. The strong iron metal of the mask had protected his head from any major damage or concussion, and all that remained of his temporary outbreak of insanity was a nagging headache.
The edges around his eyes chafed his sockets, while the slits that barely functioned as access points to his mouth and nose pressed back against his face providing the smallest windows of entry for air and other sustenance. He vaguely remembered the comment his twin had made about the lethality of his beard's growth, and resigned himself to the eventuality of his fast-approaching demise.
"Death," he called in a volume equal to his outbreak of the night before, and immediately regretted it as his own words seemed to echo within the skull that the combined mask and bone of his head had become. He stopped, pulled himself up short, and steeled himself for another round of beseeching the gods.
"Death," he called in comfortable, hushed tones, "please take me now, and spare me the suffering of waiting."
"I'm not death," a voice interrupted from behind, "but if you don't mind, I'd like to come in and set a spell. When you get to my age, tunnel crawling is hard work."
Rassendyll quickly turned around, and saw the source of the voice.
An old dwarf, whose pure white hair and beard were as long as his entire body, was halfway through a hole in the wall that had been formed from the removal of one of the massive stone bricks that made up the foundation.
The young mage was speechless, but this didn't stop the dwarf, who quickly regained his feet, strode over to the new prisoner, and introduced himself.
"Hi," he said jovially, in a tone that was quite out of place for the dark dungeon. "I'm Hoffman, from the Seventh Dwarven Abbey. I've been a prisoner down here for I don't know how long. What's your story?"
3
A Weakened Retreat
Along the Road from Mulmaster to the Retreat:
After the feasting at the Traveler's Cloak Inn was over, the festing began with a tour of some of the local hot spots such as the very popular Wave and Wink (nicknamed the W&W) and the Smashed Plate. Realizing that he had many days of work and research ahead of him, Volo took it fairly easy, managing to attract no attention to himself amidst the crowd of Mulmaster revellers. Passepout, on the other hand, gave free reign to all of his desires with all of the joie de vivre of the recently released prisoner that he was. His eyes and his appetites, however, were much larger and stronger than his strength and his stamina.