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The Magehound :: Каннингем Элейн
Страница: 37 из 216There will be much merriment in the town, and the taverns will vie witheach other to draw in the sailors. Ale and wine will not reach prices so low for many moons to come. Since thrift is a jordainish virtue, I urge you all to partake," he said with forced lightness.
No one spoke or moved. With a deep sigh, the wizard abandoned his attempt. "Horses and coin will be available to all who wish them," he said in a softer and infinitely sadder tone. "Go, with Mystra's blessing and mine. Purchase a few hours of forgetfulness."
Several of the students slipped away, but none so quickly as Themo. Matteo noted the glitter of tears in the big man's eyes and the grim set of his square jaw. The combination did not bode well.
Vishna seemed to be thinking along the same lines. The old battle wizard came over to the place where Matteo stood alone, still reeling from the result of his unwilling betrayal. "Go with Themo, lad. Keep him safe."
Matteo's lips thinned in an ironic smile. "And how will I accomplish that? With the sharp sword of truth?"
The bitterness and anguish in his voice made Vishna wince in sympathy. The wizard sighed and placed a hand on the young man's shoulders. "Yours was not the hand that slew Andris. That thought is untruth, and arrogance beside."
"Arrogance? How so?" demanded Matteo in despairing tones. "How could I possibly boast of my part in the death of my friend?"
"You need not take pleasure in a thing to display pride.
"Taking responsibility where none exists is arrogance. A child thinks that all things revolve around him and that his will and his words bring forth wishes upon the first star. You are no child. See that you remember that."
The wizard's tone was bracingly sharp. Matteo nodded, seeing both the purpose and the truth of the words. "Thank you, master," he said, speaking automatically the words he had been trained to use at the end of every lesson.
Vishna sighed. "The lesson is over. Go."
Matteo went, but reluctantly. The prospect of an evening in the boisterous port town held little appeal under the best of circumstances. But he quickly bathed and dressed in the traditional garb, a loose sleeveless tunic fashioned from white linen worn over matching leggings. Around his neck he hung the token of his class, a round silver medallion enameled with the jordaini emblem: the left half of the field green, the right yellow, and the two separated by a jagged bolt of cobalt blue lightning. He belted on the strap that held his daggers, then pulled back his dark hair and fastened it with a thin leather thong.
No one spoke or moved. With a deep sigh, the wizard abandoned his attempt. "Horses and coin will be available to all who wish them," he said in a softer and infinitely sadder tone. "Go, with Mystra's blessing and mine. Purchase a few hours of forgetfulness."
Several of the students slipped away, but none so quickly as Themo. Matteo noted the glitter of tears in the big man's eyes and the grim set of his square jaw. The combination did not bode well.
Vishna seemed to be thinking along the same lines. The old battle wizard came over to the place where Matteo stood alone, still reeling from the result of his unwilling betrayal. "Go with Themo, lad. Keep him safe."
Matteo's lips thinned in an ironic smile. "And how will I accomplish that? With the sharp sword of truth?"
The bitterness and anguish in his voice made Vishna wince in sympathy. The wizard sighed and placed a hand on the young man's shoulders. "Yours was not the hand that slew Andris. That thought is untruth, and arrogance beside."
"Arrogance? How so?" demanded Matteo in despairing tones. "How could I possibly boast of my part in the death of my friend?"
"You need not take pleasure in a thing to display pride.
"Taking responsibility where none exists is arrogance. A child thinks that all things revolve around him and that his will and his words bring forth wishes upon the first star. You are no child. See that you remember that."
The wizard's tone was bracingly sharp. Matteo nodded, seeing both the purpose and the truth of the words. "Thank you, master," he said, speaking automatically the words he had been trained to use at the end of every lesson.
Vishna sighed. "The lesson is over. Go."
Matteo went, but reluctantly. The prospect of an evening in the boisterous port town held little appeal under the best of circumstances. But he quickly bathed and dressed in the traditional garb, a loose sleeveless tunic fashioned from white linen worn over matching leggings. Around his neck he hung the token of his class, a round silver medallion enameled with the jordaini emblem: the left half of the field green, the right yellow, and the two separated by a jagged bolt of cobalt blue lightning. He belted on the strap that held his daggers, then pulled back his dark hair and fastened it with a thin leather thong.