Read Online The D'Karon Apprentice by Joseph R. Lallo - Free Book Online Page B

her cloak and
tucked it under one of the straps of Myn’s harness. “I must be a
mess.”
    She smoothed down her blouse and leggings,
both a great deal more formal than she was accustomed to. By
rights, on an occasion such as this she should have been wearing a
gown, but such clothes were not designed with travel by dragon in
mind. Instead she selected the finest alternative she could, each a
shade of Alliance or Kenvard blue. After half a lifetime of
wandering from town to town struggling to survive, the concept of
dressing for grace and elegance rather than practicality was one
she was slow to warm to, and the idea that someone might require
her hair or face to look a certain way tended to slip her mind.
    “You look lovely as ever,” Deacon said.
“Though I suppose a bit windswept.”
    Myranda pulled a blue ribbon from one of her
bags and conjured a simple whisper of magic to smooth the tangles
from her hair before she tied it back. When Deacon had stowed his
cloak, she helped him put himself in order as well.
    “I’m not entirely certain I’m suited for this
aspect of diplomacy,” she said. “It’s never been something I’ve had
to concern myself with.”
    “If appearance has any more than a cursory
impact on matters of state, then I would suggest the entire process
is badly in need of reassessment,” Deacon said.
    Thus prepared, they continued on their way,
though with each step, Myn seemed more distracted. She sniffed the
air, her eyes wide with interest and curiosity. Ahead, the Alliance
Army soldiers on the north side of the border were assembling
themselves for the approach of three ambassadors, and a small group
stepped out of the Tresson guard post. Unlike Myranda, they had
arrived by carriage and therefore were outfitted in the full
regalia of their position. Each of the three emissaries wore
flowing, airy robes made from fine, thin cloth the same
yellow-orange of ripe peaches. The trim of each was a shade of red,
though Tressor was a single kingdom rather than an alliance of
them, so the shade here indicated rank. The deepest red was worn by
a tall, portly man with short salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard
that was more silver than black. He wore a tall, round hat made
from some sort of stiff cloth. His face was stern—not cruel or
angry, but serious and steadfast—and his skin the dark color of a
native Tresson. A step behind him on each side stood similarly
dressed men, also with short dark hair, but lacking the hat and
bearing trim closer to yellow than red. There was something about
them that Myranda couldn’t quite identify. Their presence was…
significant in some way.
    As the Tresson diplomats approached, their
soldiers lifted aside the Tresson gate. The Alliance soldier did
the same. Myranda stepped forward to greet her equal. He lifted his
right hand, she did the same, and they clasped one another’s left
shoulder. With the gesture complete, Myranda held her right hand
out and he did the same, clasping it in a firm shake across the
border.
    Myranda cleared her throat and, in her best
Tresson, stated, “It is my honor and privilege to meet you as a
representative of my people, and it is my profound hope that this
is merely the first step toward a lasting peace between our
lands.”
    “May our children know only peace, but may
they never forget this war,” he said in response, in excellent
Varden. “I am Ambassador Valaamus. And you are the mythic Duchess
Myranda Celeste. It is truly humbling to know that the lives of
countless thousands of soldiers on my side and yours could have
been plucked from the jaws of endless war by someone so young, and
so lovely.”
    He had an avuncular disposition that seemed
at odds with his serious expression, but nonetheless his words
seemed as sincere as they were impeccably pronounced. If his
pleasant and welcoming demeanor was an affectation, it was a
masterful one.
    “You flatter me, Ambassador. I was but one of
those responsible. As much thanks