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Authors: Troy Denning
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politely turned away, fixing his gaze on the map that Earl Cuthbert had left lying on the desk in the corner.
4 The Granite Door
Tavis sat against the tunnel door, whetting his sword and listening to the heavy steps outside. Every muffled boom caused the candle to hiss and sputter ominously, but the scout did not bother to rise and see how much stub remained. He had perched the taper on the edge of the door’s counterweight, and the long curtain of wax running down the side told him all he needed to know.
The giants had been out there all night, building war machines or dancing or rutting or whatever. It made little difference to the scout. He did not dare open the door while they were so close. The instant he pulled the counterweight down, the rusty chains would squeal like a raging boar. All he could do was wait-wait and hope the brutes would move off before sunrise.
Dawn could not be far away, for the journey through the secret tunnel had been long and difficult. The passage was so low and cramped that the firbolg had been forced to creep through it nearly doubled over, at times twisting sideways so he could squeeze his broad shoulders through. To make matters worse, a steady trickle of water had seeped down from the lake above, submerging much of the floor beneath an icy black puddle. Nevertheless, the scout had ignored his cold-numbed feet and pressed on steadily over the slick footing, only to hear the giants outside when he finally reached the door. With three-quarters of his candle remaining, he had taken out his whetstone and sat down to hone his weapons.
Now, his dagger and his arrow tips were all freshly sharpened, he was putting the finishing touches on his sword, and the stomping outside continued unabated. From the way his candle spat and hissed, the wick was all but gone and the flame was sinking into the wax. Tavis tried not to think about how long it took a candle to burn and concentrated on whetting his sword.
The blade was already as sharp as an owl’s talon, but the scout found himself scraping the stone along as though honing an unedged sword-and not because he was upset about his foes outside. Tavis knew from long experience it was best to remain patient and calm around giants, and he always did. But he had an aching knot where his heart should have been, and that kind of distress could have only one cause: the queen.
The whetstone shot from beneath his thumb. The scout’s hand slid across his sword’s sharp edge, opening a deep cut across his palm. Tavis cursed and opened his satchel to retrieve a bandage, grumbling at Brianna for causing him to be so inattentive. Though the firbolg had been raised among humans, he still could not comprehend the way their convoluted minds worked.
Brianna loved Tavis. That was what she claimed, and most of the time she acted like it. Yet she refused to wed him, claiming their union would weaken the kingdom. Then, in the next breath, she expressed her willingness to carry on secretly as though they were husband and wife! The firbolg, of course, had no choice but to refuse. It would be impossible for him to keep such a secret. Besides, if the earls objected to their marriage, he could only imagine how they would react to such a deception. The queen claimed the nobles would accept the arrangement, but the scout could not believe that. Even if he could live a lie, he failed to see how Hartsvale would benefit by asking everyone in the country to do the same.
Now Brianna wanted to marry a man she hardly knew, a foreign prince, and treat Tavis as her husband! The firbolg could not help questioning her judgment. His understanding of human behavior was limited, but to him such a proposal sounded like a formula for war. Although Arlien had reacted graciously enough when he had stumbled upon them embracing, the prince seemed a man of honor. He would certainly expect his wife to abide by the sacred vows of marriage.
The vows were another matter. Tavis had heard them
4 The Granite Door
Tavis sat against the tunnel door, whetting his sword and listening to the heavy steps outside. Every muffled boom caused the candle to hiss and sputter ominously, but the scout did not bother to rise and see how much stub remained. He had perched the taper on the edge of the door’s counterweight, and the long curtain of wax running down the side told him all he needed to know.
The giants had been out there all night, building war machines or dancing or rutting or whatever. It made little difference to the scout. He did not dare open the door while they were so close. The instant he pulled the counterweight down, the rusty chains would squeal like a raging boar. All he could do was wait-wait and hope the brutes would move off before sunrise.
Dawn could not be far away, for the journey through the secret tunnel had been long and difficult. The passage was so low and cramped that the firbolg had been forced to creep through it nearly doubled over, at times twisting sideways so he could squeeze his broad shoulders through. To make matters worse, a steady trickle of water had seeped down from the lake above, submerging much of the floor beneath an icy black puddle. Nevertheless, the scout had ignored his cold-numbed feet and pressed on steadily over the slick footing, only to hear the giants outside when he finally reached the door. With three-quarters of his candle remaining, he had taken out his whetstone and sat down to hone his weapons.
Now, his dagger and his arrow tips were all freshly sharpened, he was putting the finishing touches on his sword, and the stomping outside continued unabated. From the way his candle spat and hissed, the wick was all but gone and the flame was sinking into the wax. Tavis tried not to think about how long it took a candle to burn and concentrated on whetting his sword.
The blade was already as sharp as an owl’s talon, but the scout found himself scraping the stone along as though honing an unedged sword-and not because he was upset about his foes outside. Tavis knew from long experience it was best to remain patient and calm around giants, and he always did. But he had an aching knot where his heart should have been, and that kind of distress could have only one cause: the queen.
The whetstone shot from beneath his thumb. The scout’s hand slid across his sword’s sharp edge, opening a deep cut across his palm. Tavis cursed and opened his satchel to retrieve a bandage, grumbling at Brianna for causing him to be so inattentive. Though the firbolg had been raised among humans, he still could not comprehend the way their convoluted minds worked.
Brianna loved Tavis. That was what she claimed, and most of the time she acted like it. Yet she refused to wed him, claiming their union would weaken the kingdom. Then, in the next breath, she expressed her willingness to carry on secretly as though they were husband and wife! The firbolg, of course, had no choice but to refuse. It would be impossible for him to keep such a secret. Besides, if the earls objected to their marriage, he could only imagine how they would react to such a deception. The queen claimed the nobles would accept the arrangement, but the scout could not believe that. Even if he could live a lie, he failed to see how Hartsvale would benefit by asking everyone in the country to do the same.
Now Brianna wanted to marry a man she hardly knew, a foreign prince, and treat Tavis as her husband! The firbolg could not help questioning her judgment. His understanding of human behavior was limited, but to him such a proposal sounded like a formula for war. Although Arlien had reacted graciously enough when he had stumbled upon them embracing, the prince seemed a man of honor. He would certainly expect his wife to abide by the sacred vows of marriage.
The vows were another matter. Tavis had heard them
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