Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [107]
A faint smile touched Fyodor's face. Few men dressed in clothing that so clearly proclaimed their nature as did Treviel. The man was as cheery as his garb, and Fyodor had long considered him a valued friend. Yet the young warrior stood where he was, deeply reluctant to begin this interview. Fyrra had been his father's title and these his rooms. Treviel was a good man, but it pained Fyodor to see another in Mahryon's place.
Certain proprieties must be observed. Fyodor cleared his throat and delivered the expected insult. "How can a warrior be a leader of men when he cannot persuade his own toes to agree upon a color? Is Sashyar angry with you, or did you knit those yourself?"
The graybeard looked up from polishing his boots. Pleasure lit his eyes, swiftly followed by caution.
Fyodor understood the man's concern. His last memory of the new fyrra was colored by the haze of uncontrolled battle frenzy. He was not certain, and no one would tell him yes or no, but he suspected that he might be responsible for the deep, puckered puncture scar on the old man's brawny forearm.
"Sashyar is always angry with me," Treviel said complacently, "and that is a good thing for a warrior. You could do with such a wife. Too many hours spent dallying with sweet-tempered maids softens a man's spirit and leaves him unprepared for battle."
An image of Liriel in full dark-elf fury came vividly to mind. Fyodor chuckled. "I have become guardian to a wychlaran outlander who possesses the temper of a drow and the sweet reason of a pack mule. Will that suffice?"
"A guardian, eh?" For a moment the fyrra looked sincerely impressed, then he shrugged. "This woman might be all you say and more, but she's still a pale shadow of my Sashyar," he said proudly. "Even so, I will allow myself to hope that she may yet make a fighting man of you."
"As to that, I am not such a fool to challenge a yeti to snow racing or think I might wrestle the wood man into submission," Fyodor said dryly.
"Then I am hopeful indeed, for I could say as much about Sashyar," Treviel confided in a droll whisper.
The men shared a chuckle. Treviel beckoned Fyodor into the room and pointed to the chair opposite him. His keen-eyed gaze noted the dark sword at Fyodor's side, and his face grew serious.
"It is said that Zofia Othlor sent you after a great magical treasure. You found this?"
"That and more," Fyodor said.
The man's face brightened with the expectation of grand tales to come. One shadow remained, however, and they both knew it well. "You are whole, my son?" ventured Treviel.
"I am."
"Then all is right with Rashemen," the older man said briskly. He nodded to the porcelain samovar on the nearby table. As befitted its owner, the tall, lidded pot was brightly painted: Red and yellow unicorns cavorted on meadows of emerald green. Lid, rim, and base were ringed by entwining runic designs rendered in unsubtle shades of blue and purple.
"The tea is hot and nearly strong enough to strip the hide from a bear. You will drink?"
There were things that must be spoken, and Treviel's choice of words provided as good an opening as Fyodor expected to get. "Perhaps I should save some of your tea in a flask. If the change is slow to pass, it would peel off the bearskin swifter than a hunter's knife."
Treviel gaped, then his smile stretched his thick gray mustache nearly from ear to ear. "Is it so? You have become chesnitznia?"
This was an accomplishment sought by all of Rashemen's berserkers and achieved by few. Although the title "berserker" came from an ancient word for "bearskin," the literal transformation of human warrior to bear was in these days more a legend than a reality.
"They call it hamfarrig on the island of Ruathym. Shapestrong."
The village lord grunted with satisfaction. He was something of a scholar as warriors went, and Fyodor could see him tucking these new words away to savor at a later