Read Online Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) by Jordan MacLean - Free Book Online Page B

celebration this year,
not now.
    She looked at the priest carefully, watching the cold
efficiency of his step, the absolute focus in his gaze.  She was always taken
with how young he looked for an abbot, having only a wisp or two of gray mingled
with the rest of his long, dark brown hair, and a few faint lines around his
dark eyes that betrayed his tendency to smile.  But that he was a Bremondine,
she might have thought him closer to her age than her father’s.  As it was, he
might have as much as a century on them both.  She squinted slightly to see his
aura, which was a perfectly brilliant cascade of ice blue tight about his
features that not the slightest bit of his god’s energy might be wasted.  No
sign of corruption.  It was another good sign, but still, she would be
cautious.  She bowed slightly.  “Abbot Laniel, on behalf of my father and
myself, I thank you for taking us in.”
    “My Lord Sheriff, Lady Renda,” he smiled in return and
offered his hand to her, which was surprisingly warm in the cool air of the
abbey.  He looked them both over as he spoke.  “We hope you have found
challenge in your path this morning.”
    “Challenge, indeed, my Lord Abbot…”  She almost choked on
the ritual words, remembering the events in the glade, “for which we are most
grateful.”
    “Then it is already a good day,” he replied with a smile. 
“As to taking you in,” he added, “We of Bilkar owe too much to the House of
Brannagh ever to repay, yet by your grace, this debt is not made
uncomfortable.  Rest assured, we of Bilkar would never turn away those of
Brannagh.”
    “For which we are twice grateful.”
    Even as she spoke to him, she watched his attention focus in
that curious Bilkarian way on Daerwin’s injury as if the rest of the world,
including her, had vanished from his thoughts.
    After a moment, his steady focused gaze rose from the
sheriff’s arm.  “This injury is not what it seems.”  He bowed.  “You bring us
challenge and we thank you.  Come.”
    He led them further into the abbey, past a large hall which,
had she not looked, she would never have known was their training area, so
silent were the monks in their sparring.  So different, she mused, from the way
her knights trained.  The practice chamber at Brannagh was almost always
brightly aclang with the clatter of swords, discussions and even banter between
those sparring.  Her knights…  She shut out the memory.
    Beyond the practice area was a room with a few simple but
well constructed beds and chairs.  Along the sides were cabinets with bottles,
bandages and instruments neatly organized and labeled.  Daylight streamed in
through the almost transparent hide-covered windows above, chasing every shadow
from the room.
    “Our surgery,” said the abbot.  “He should be comfortable
here.”
    Renda settled her father on one of the high beds.  “My Lord
Abbot, would it help you to know how this happened?”
    “Yes,” he replied, gathering supplies from the shelves to
bring to the sheriff’s bedside. 
    She nodded and drew up a chair beside her father’s bed. 
“Well,” she began, then stopped, scratching her head.  Where to begin?  The
plague?  Pegrine’s death?  Cilder?  Or just the morning’s strange battle in the
glade?
    “Do not trouble yourself, Lady Renda,” he said softly.  He
took a vial from the crate next to him and waved it under the sheriff’s nose. 
Instantly, the sheriff fell asleep. “We will look into the wound itself to see
what happened and, more importantly, what continues to happen.”
    “Oh, yes, of course.”
    He touched the sheriff’s arm and looked intently at the
wound.
    After a moment, the Bilkarian wiped the sweat from his brow,
rubbing absently at his own arm, as if he had taken Daerwin’s pain to himself. 
“We had no idea…  But you saw victory in the glade, and for that we are
grateful.”
    “Only a small victory, I’m afraid.  At great cost.”