Read Online Guardians of The Flame: To Home And Ehvenor (The Guardians of the Flame #06-07) by Joel Rosenberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joel Rosenberg
Tags: Fantasy
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the piece. Demosthenes, eat your heart out.
"Very clever, Watson."
I raised an eyebrow, as though to say, And this is going to cure the hiccups?
She nodded. "Ninety percent. Hiccups are caused by an electrolyte imbalance in the blood; sends the diaphragm into spasms. Usually acidosis. Sugar or salt will push things the other way; if this doesn't work, it means you're alkalotic, and a bit of lemon will do. Hang on a moment."
I was going to argue with her, but the hiccups went away, probably of their own volition. "Where did you hear about this? From the Hand?"
"No. It's an Other Side thing. Friend of mine named Diane. Don't know if you ever met her."
"Mmmm . . . maybe. I don't know."
"Nah; you never met her." She smiled. "You'd remember.—How are the mugs?"
"Hang on a sec." The mugs were warm enough: just this side of too hot to hold, the ideal temperature for drinking Holtish brandy. I uncorked the bottle and poured each of us a healthy slug. I was going to get up and give hers to her, but she rose instead and settled herself down on the arm of my chair, her arm around my shoulders. She smelled of soap and flowers.
"L'chaim," I said, almost gargling on the Hebrew ch- sound.
That earned a smile. "L'chaim," she repeated, then drank. I did, too. The brandy burned my throat and warmed my belly. Not a bad trade.
"Something bothering you?" she asked.
"Just the usual," I said, keeping my voice light. "You're not the only one who worries, you know."
She chuckled. "What are you worrying about now? Your chances with the upstairs maid?" Her fingers played gently with my hair.
I faked a shudder. "Have you seen the upstairs maid?"
"Seriously."
I shrugged, gently enough not to dislodge her. "I shouldn't complain. Things are going well. Andy's looking a lot better, and the dwarf is pretty much healed up. Jason's a good kid. Greener than the Hulk, but—"
She silenced me with a finger to my lips. "We are going to get to Kirah, aren't we?"
I didn't answer.
Doria waited. She was better at waiting than I was.
"Not her fault," I said, finally. "What would you call it, post-traumatic stress disorder?"
She shrugged. "Two years of psychology classes, and you'd have me be the local psychiatrist?"
"I won't tell the AMA." I raised my little finger. "Pinky swear."
"Well, there is that." She considered the problem as she sipped, then dismissed it with a shrug. "It doesn't matter, Walter. Slapping a label on it doesn't mean you understand it, or know how to fix it. She's in bad shape . . . or at least your relationship is." Doria sipped, then sighed.
I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know that it showed. You've still got enough power to detect it?"
"No." She shook her head. Had the Matriarch stripped her of all of her power, or were there a few spells left in the back of her soul, awaiting need? Doria wouldn't say. "But I always thought of spells as a way of augmenting other sensitivities, not as a substitute. How long has it been for the two of you?"
"Since what?"
One side of her mouth twisted into a wry frown. "Guess."
"Hey, I don't tell. Remember?"
"Yes." She smiled. "Usually."
I thought of the last time, and tried to forget it, remembering instead one wild, warm night at Home, years ago, shortly after Karl and I had gotten back from a raid. I think it was the second night—the first was Karl's Day Off, so it must have been. We'd left Janie, then just a baby, with Karl and Andy, and taken blankets away from the settlement, through the woods, and up the side of a hill. We had gotten incredibly drunk on a small bottle of wild huckleberry wine, and made love under the stars all night long.
I mean, really, no shit, my hand to God: all night long.
If I close my eyes, I can still see her, her hair floating in the breeze above me, framed in starlight. . . .
But that was a long time ago, in another country, and the wench would rather be dead than warm in my arms again.
I changed the subject. "Andy's looking a lot
"Very clever, Watson."
I raised an eyebrow, as though to say, And this is going to cure the hiccups?
She nodded. "Ninety percent. Hiccups are caused by an electrolyte imbalance in the blood; sends the diaphragm into spasms. Usually acidosis. Sugar or salt will push things the other way; if this doesn't work, it means you're alkalotic, and a bit of lemon will do. Hang on a moment."
I was going to argue with her, but the hiccups went away, probably of their own volition. "Where did you hear about this? From the Hand?"
"No. It's an Other Side thing. Friend of mine named Diane. Don't know if you ever met her."
"Mmmm . . . maybe. I don't know."
"Nah; you never met her." She smiled. "You'd remember.—How are the mugs?"
"Hang on a sec." The mugs were warm enough: just this side of too hot to hold, the ideal temperature for drinking Holtish brandy. I uncorked the bottle and poured each of us a healthy slug. I was going to get up and give hers to her, but she rose instead and settled herself down on the arm of my chair, her arm around my shoulders. She smelled of soap and flowers.
"L'chaim," I said, almost gargling on the Hebrew ch- sound.
That earned a smile. "L'chaim," she repeated, then drank. I did, too. The brandy burned my throat and warmed my belly. Not a bad trade.
"Something bothering you?" she asked.
"Just the usual," I said, keeping my voice light. "You're not the only one who worries, you know."
She chuckled. "What are you worrying about now? Your chances with the upstairs maid?" Her fingers played gently with my hair.
I faked a shudder. "Have you seen the upstairs maid?"
"Seriously."
I shrugged, gently enough not to dislodge her. "I shouldn't complain. Things are going well. Andy's looking a lot better, and the dwarf is pretty much healed up. Jason's a good kid. Greener than the Hulk, but—"
She silenced me with a finger to my lips. "We are going to get to Kirah, aren't we?"
I didn't answer.
Doria waited. She was better at waiting than I was.
"Not her fault," I said, finally. "What would you call it, post-traumatic stress disorder?"
She shrugged. "Two years of psychology classes, and you'd have me be the local psychiatrist?"
"I won't tell the AMA." I raised my little finger. "Pinky swear."
"Well, there is that." She considered the problem as she sipped, then dismissed it with a shrug. "It doesn't matter, Walter. Slapping a label on it doesn't mean you understand it, or know how to fix it. She's in bad shape . . . or at least your relationship is." Doria sipped, then sighed.
I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know that it showed. You've still got enough power to detect it?"
"No." She shook her head. Had the Matriarch stripped her of all of her power, or were there a few spells left in the back of her soul, awaiting need? Doria wouldn't say. "But I always thought of spells as a way of augmenting other sensitivities, not as a substitute. How long has it been for the two of you?"
"Since what?"
One side of her mouth twisted into a wry frown. "Guess."
"Hey, I don't tell. Remember?"
"Yes." She smiled. "Usually."
I thought of the last time, and tried to forget it, remembering instead one wild, warm night at Home, years ago, shortly after Karl and I had gotten back from a raid. I think it was the second night—the first was Karl's Day Off, so it must have been. We'd left Janie, then just a baby, with Karl and Andy, and taken blankets away from the settlement, through the woods, and up the side of a hill. We had gotten incredibly drunk on a small bottle of wild huckleberry wine, and made love under the stars all night long.
I mean, really, no shit, my hand to God: all night long.
If I close my eyes, I can still see her, her hair floating in the breeze above me, framed in starlight. . . .
But that was a long time ago, in another country, and the wench would rather be dead than warm in my arms again.
I changed the subject. "Andy's looking a lot
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