Read Online The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) by Annmarie Banks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Annmarie Banks
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followed behind him. It was too steep to ride. She kept her eyes on the backs of the men in front of her. What kind of book could make men suffer so? What could a man read that was worth this kind of loss? None of these men can read. She stopped. The band of men and horses limped slowly away from her. They chase what they cannot use, she thought, and they seek something they cannot find. What have I agreed to?
Exhausted and half-starved, they emerged from the woods and a few hours later picked up the road again. Not far away lay a good-sized town surrounded by cultivated fields. Nadira had no idea what town it was, but it looked like they would get there by dark. Her mind chanted a litany: rest, warmth, food. She kept the image of an inn in her head as she trudged along the sodden road. It had been raining in the valley overnight. The horses slid in the mud and she was covered with the stuff by the time they reached the gates. Montrose stopped the horses and went forward alone to meet the gatekeepers.
After a short wait the gates were opened and they passed through. Nadira looked behind her as the gates closed again. Bandits must ravage farther than just the pass through the mountains, for armed guards patrolled the crenellated walls and the soldiers watched them carefully as they marched by. Passers by paused to stare as well. Nadira was too tired to care about how they must look, covered as they were head to foot in blood and mud. People pressed past her through the winding streets pushing carts filled with everything from fresh baked loaves to dung mucked from a stable.
A peddler came up behind them with a cacophony of live chickens, nearly running her down. Feathers drifted over her as he sped by. She heard the boys coughing behind her. She trudged behind Montrose keeping her head down concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, avoiding dung piles and deep puddles. She did not bother to look up again until they stopped before huge wooden double doors on immense metal hinges.
“I’m famished,” Alisdair breathed as he and the others gently lowered Marcus to the paved entryway. “Warm bed and hot food, God help us, Robin.”
“Soon.” Montrose mumbled. He banged on the door with the back of his fist.
Nadira looked up. It was a very fine house, among many of the same size built close together along the road. The second floor hung out over the street and provided a narrow shelter for the entry where Montrose stood now, leaning heavily against the lintel. To the left and right were long walls that she assumed contained a courtyard like Sofir’s house in Barcelona. They waited in the street for only a short time before the small peep opened then closed. Then one of the doors scraped open several inches. An old man stepped out. His white hair and his beard were long, but carefully combed. He was dressed in a gray tunic and breeches and wore good shoes.
“Oh, my lord Montrose!” he cried. “Come in! Come in! …Pierre!” he shouted, “Pierre come here and get these horses!” A half grown boy appeared behind the old man. He slipped shyly between the old man and Montrose and took the horses’ reins in his small hand. Evan and Hagen followed him wearily along the road toward the stables. The old man pushed the door open wider and beckoned them to enter.
Montrose reached behind him to pull Nadira through the door first and then pushed her to the side to give the men room to bring Marcus through. She pressed herself against the wall as the men wrestled the blanket across the threshold with grunts and scuffling. The door closed behind them, shutting out the light. Montrose took a moment to adjust his clothing. Exhausted, Nadira watched him. There was so little humor in the sight of a man, who looked like he had been sleeping in a slaughterhouse for days, straightening his collar and pulling on the cuffs of his tunic. She couldn’t even summon the energy to smile some encouragement for him. He brushed
Exhausted and half-starved, they emerged from the woods and a few hours later picked up the road again. Not far away lay a good-sized town surrounded by cultivated fields. Nadira had no idea what town it was, but it looked like they would get there by dark. Her mind chanted a litany: rest, warmth, food. She kept the image of an inn in her head as she trudged along the sodden road. It had been raining in the valley overnight. The horses slid in the mud and she was covered with the stuff by the time they reached the gates. Montrose stopped the horses and went forward alone to meet the gatekeepers.
After a short wait the gates were opened and they passed through. Nadira looked behind her as the gates closed again. Bandits must ravage farther than just the pass through the mountains, for armed guards patrolled the crenellated walls and the soldiers watched them carefully as they marched by. Passers by paused to stare as well. Nadira was too tired to care about how they must look, covered as they were head to foot in blood and mud. People pressed past her through the winding streets pushing carts filled with everything from fresh baked loaves to dung mucked from a stable.
A peddler came up behind them with a cacophony of live chickens, nearly running her down. Feathers drifted over her as he sped by. She heard the boys coughing behind her. She trudged behind Montrose keeping her head down concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, avoiding dung piles and deep puddles. She did not bother to look up again until they stopped before huge wooden double doors on immense metal hinges.
“I’m famished,” Alisdair breathed as he and the others gently lowered Marcus to the paved entryway. “Warm bed and hot food, God help us, Robin.”
“Soon.” Montrose mumbled. He banged on the door with the back of his fist.
Nadira looked up. It was a very fine house, among many of the same size built close together along the road. The second floor hung out over the street and provided a narrow shelter for the entry where Montrose stood now, leaning heavily against the lintel. To the left and right were long walls that she assumed contained a courtyard like Sofir’s house in Barcelona. They waited in the street for only a short time before the small peep opened then closed. Then one of the doors scraped open several inches. An old man stepped out. His white hair and his beard were long, but carefully combed. He was dressed in a gray tunic and breeches and wore good shoes.
“Oh, my lord Montrose!” he cried. “Come in! Come in! …Pierre!” he shouted, “Pierre come here and get these horses!” A half grown boy appeared behind the old man. He slipped shyly between the old man and Montrose and took the horses’ reins in his small hand. Evan and Hagen followed him wearily along the road toward the stables. The old man pushed the door open wider and beckoned them to enter.
Montrose reached behind him to pull Nadira through the door first and then pushed her to the side to give the men room to bring Marcus through. She pressed herself against the wall as the men wrestled the blanket across the threshold with grunts and scuffling. The door closed behind them, shutting out the light. Montrose took a moment to adjust his clothing. Exhausted, Nadira watched him. There was so little humor in the sight of a man, who looked like he had been sleeping in a slaughterhouse for days, straightening his collar and pulling on the cuffs of his tunic. She couldn’t even summon the energy to smile some encouragement for him. He brushed
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