Read Online (Shadowmarch #2) Shadowplay by Tad Williams - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tad Williams
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in it. Never fear, Olin’s heir will someday sit proudly on Olin’s throne!”
Now a few cheers broke out from the heartened crowd, although in the windswept square it did not make a very heroic sound. Still, even Matt Tinwright found himself reassured.
I may not like the man overmuch, but imagine the trouble we would have been in if Hendon Tolly and his soldiers had not been here! There would have been riots and all manner of madness. Still, he had not slept well ever since hearing about the supernatural creatures on their doorstep, and he noticed that Tolly, for all his confidence, had said nothing about rooting the shadow folk out of the abandoned city.
Hierarch Sisel now came forth to bless the crowd on behalf of the Trigonate gods. As the hierarch intoned the ritual of Perin’s Forgiveness, Lord Tolly—the castle’s new protector—fell into deep conversation with Tirnan Havemore, the new castellan. The king’s old counselor Nynor had retired from his position, and Havemore, who had been Avin Brone’s factor, had been the surprising choice to replace him. Tinwright could not resist looking at the man with envy. To rise so quickly, and to such importance! Brone must have been very pleased with him to give him such honor. But as Avin Brone now watched Tolly and Havemore, Tinwright could not help thinking he did not look either pleased or proud. Tinwright shrugged. There were always intrigues at court. It was the way of the world.
And perhaps there is a place for me there, too, he thought hopefully, even without my beloved patroness. Perhaps if I make myself noticed, I too will be lifted up.
Turning, the blessing forgotten, Matty Tinwright began to work his way out through the crowd, thinking of ways his own splendid light might be revealed to those in the new Southmarch who would recognize its gleam.
To her credit, Opal handled the discovery of a bleeding, burned man twice her size sprawling on her floor with no little grace.
“Oh!” she said, peering out from the sleeping room, “What’s this? I’m not dressed. Are you well, Chert?”
“I am well, but this friend is not. He has wounds that need tending…”
“Don’t touch him! I’ll be out in a moment.”
At first Chert thought she feared for her dear husband, that he might take some contagion from their wounded visitor, or that the injured man, in pain and delirium, might lash out like a dying animal. After some consideration, though, he realized that Opal didn’t trust him not to make things worse.
“The boy’s still asleep,” she said as she emerged, still pulling her wrap around herself. “He had another poor night. What’s this, then? Who is this big fellow and why is he here at this hour?”
“It is Chaven, the royal physician. I’ve told you about him. As to why…”
“Crawled.” Chaven’s laugh was dry and painful to hear. “Crawled across the castle in darkness…to here. I need help with my…my wounds. But I cannot stay. You are in danger if I do.”
“Nobody’s in anywhere near as much danger as you, looking at those burns,” Opal said, scowling at the physician’s pitiful, crusted hands. “Hurry, bring me some water and my herb-basket, old man, and be quiet about it. We don’t need the boy underfoot as well.”
Chert did as he was told.
By the time Opal had finished cleaning Chaven’s burns with weak brine, covered them with poultices of moss paste, and begun to bind them with clean cloth, the wounded physician was asleep, his chin bumping against his chest every time she pulled a bandage snug.
Opal stood and looked down at her handiwork. “Is he trustworthy?” she asked quietly.
“He is the best of the big folk I know.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, you old fool.”
Chert couldn’t help smiling. “I’m glad to see the difficulties we’ve been through lately haven’t cost you your talent for endearments, my sweet. Who can say? The whole world up there is topsy-turvy. Up there? We
Now a few cheers broke out from the heartened crowd, although in the windswept square it did not make a very heroic sound. Still, even Matt Tinwright found himself reassured.
I may not like the man overmuch, but imagine the trouble we would have been in if Hendon Tolly and his soldiers had not been here! There would have been riots and all manner of madness. Still, he had not slept well ever since hearing about the supernatural creatures on their doorstep, and he noticed that Tolly, for all his confidence, had said nothing about rooting the shadow folk out of the abandoned city.
Hierarch Sisel now came forth to bless the crowd on behalf of the Trigonate gods. As the hierarch intoned the ritual of Perin’s Forgiveness, Lord Tolly—the castle’s new protector—fell into deep conversation with Tirnan Havemore, the new castellan. The king’s old counselor Nynor had retired from his position, and Havemore, who had been Avin Brone’s factor, had been the surprising choice to replace him. Tinwright could not resist looking at the man with envy. To rise so quickly, and to such importance! Brone must have been very pleased with him to give him such honor. But as Avin Brone now watched Tolly and Havemore, Tinwright could not help thinking he did not look either pleased or proud. Tinwright shrugged. There were always intrigues at court. It was the way of the world.
And perhaps there is a place for me there, too, he thought hopefully, even without my beloved patroness. Perhaps if I make myself noticed, I too will be lifted up.
Turning, the blessing forgotten, Matty Tinwright began to work his way out through the crowd, thinking of ways his own splendid light might be revealed to those in the new Southmarch who would recognize its gleam.
To her credit, Opal handled the discovery of a bleeding, burned man twice her size sprawling on her floor with no little grace.
“Oh!” she said, peering out from the sleeping room, “What’s this? I’m not dressed. Are you well, Chert?”
“I am well, but this friend is not. He has wounds that need tending…”
“Don’t touch him! I’ll be out in a moment.”
At first Chert thought she feared for her dear husband, that he might take some contagion from their wounded visitor, or that the injured man, in pain and delirium, might lash out like a dying animal. After some consideration, though, he realized that Opal didn’t trust him not to make things worse.
“The boy’s still asleep,” she said as she emerged, still pulling her wrap around herself. “He had another poor night. What’s this, then? Who is this big fellow and why is he here at this hour?”
“It is Chaven, the royal physician. I’ve told you about him. As to why…”
“Crawled.” Chaven’s laugh was dry and painful to hear. “Crawled across the castle in darkness…to here. I need help with my…my wounds. But I cannot stay. You are in danger if I do.”
“Nobody’s in anywhere near as much danger as you, looking at those burns,” Opal said, scowling at the physician’s pitiful, crusted hands. “Hurry, bring me some water and my herb-basket, old man, and be quiet about it. We don’t need the boy underfoot as well.”
Chert did as he was told.
By the time Opal had finished cleaning Chaven’s burns with weak brine, covered them with poultices of moss paste, and begun to bind them with clean cloth, the wounded physician was asleep, his chin bumping against his chest every time she pulled a bandage snug.
Opal stood and looked down at her handiwork. “Is he trustworthy?” she asked quietly.
“He is the best of the big folk I know.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, you old fool.”
Chert couldn’t help smiling. “I’m glad to see the difficulties we’ve been through lately haven’t cost you your talent for endearments, my sweet. Who can say? The whole world up there is topsy-turvy. Up there? We
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