Thrall - Christie Golden [50]
Krasus was instantly alert. Devi had good instincts about people. The apprentice approached and dropped something small and brown and completely ordinary-looking into his outstretched palm. A simple acorn.
Krasus inhaled swiftly.
Knowledge—so much knowledge! Aeons of knowing, of witnessing, contained in this tiny, deceptively unimportant thing. It tingled against his palm, and he closed his hand about it for a moment, not wanting to release it.
Devi watched him intently. Of course, she was still an apprentice. She wouldn’t be able yet to recognize what Krasus had—that this was the acorn of an ancient. It was like a whisper that only trained, sharp, and listening ears could hear.
“Thank you for your observations, Devi. Show her in,” Krasus said, revealing nothing.
“You should be aware that she insists on bringing her orc,” Devi said.
“Why do you think she wishes to do so?”
Devi tilted her head, analyzing. “Honestly, sir, I cannot think why. He seems completely cowed, and the woman says it is very important. I do not think they are planning to harm you in any way, but I cannot even hazard any other guess. It is puzzling.” A frown marred the beauty of her dark-skinned face. Devi did not like puzzles.
“Then show the orc in too. I think I might just be a match for a girl and a broken-spirited orc.” Their eyes met and she grinned. Others might deem the sharp-tongued elf impertinent, but Krasus liked that she did not seem intimidated by him.
“Right away, sir,” she said.
The acorn of an ancient. Krasus unfolded his long fingers and regarded it again. A rare thing, a beautiful and powerful thing. Who was this girl, to have come by it?
The door opened again, and Devi brought in his guest, bowing and closing the door as she left. Krasus rose and looked at the young, fair-haired girl searchingly.
She was slender, and would have been pretty had she not borne the unmistakable signs of having lived a very hard life. The dress she wore—a simple frock and cloak—was clean, but had obviously been mended more than once. She was well groomed, but her hands had calluses and broken nails. She stood straight but was clearly very nervous. She dropped a deep curtsy.
“Lord Krasus,” she said, “my name is Taretha Foxton. I thank you for seeing us.”
The name meant nothing, but what an interesting choice of words. …
“‘Us’?” Krasus said mildly, walking over to them, hands clasped behind his back. In truth, the orc was more impressive than the human. Larger than most, he was powerfully muscled, yet wore a simple brown robe. His hands, too, looked callused—but from grasping weapons, not from working in fields. There was a difference in how one gripped a weapon versus a tool, and Krasus had seen enough human warriors to recognize the signs of one when he saw him. Too, the orc was not as stooped as most of his kind were, and he met Krasus’s gaze evenly.
With blue eyes.
“Remarkable,” Krasus murmured. “And who might you be?”
“My name,” the orc said, “is Thrall.”
“An apt name for a slave, but frankly, I deem you none such,” Krasus said. He held out his hand, which still contained the acorn. “Very clever, to use this to gain admittance to me. You knew I would be able to sense the knowledge contained within. How did you come by such a precious thing?”
He was not surprised when Taretha looked to Thrall for a reply.
“I have … a tale to tell you, mage,” Thrall said. “Or perhaps I should call you … my lord dragon?”
Krasus kept his face calm, but shock shuddered through him. Very few knew of his true identity as Korialstrasz, consort to Alexstrasza. And until this second he had been certain that he knew every one of those individuals.
“This day,” Krasus said with forced mildness, “is getting more and more interesting. Come sit, and I will have something to eat brought in. I suspect this tale you speak of will be long in the telling.”
He was right. Taretha and Thrall sat—the latter rather gingerly, in one of the larger chairs—and began to speak. There was a pause for food—simple tea and cakes, which the poor girl fell upon like a starved