The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) Read Online Free PDF Page B

hurts. I don’ need to know the secrets of the universe. I’m not altogether sure you aren’t talking out o’ your smoky wee arse.”
    Father Arnaud got to his feet. He’d never agreed with Tom before, but it seemed a good place to start. “I’m not sure that they can handle any more, Master Smythe. The reality men build is more fragile than they know.”
    “You are wise,” Master Smythe said. “Would you like to have back your power to heal?”
    Father Arnaud reacted as if he had been struck.
    Ser Gabriel rose and stood by him. “That was cruel,” Gabriel said.
    Master Smythe looked puzzled. “In truth, I mean no cruelty. The good father—a worthy man, I suspect—has lost his powers due to the workings of a tiny creature… bah, it’s almost impossible to explain. But he thinks it is mysterious, perhaps mystically tied to his sin.” Master Smythe shrugged.“I understand feeling of sin. I believe in the pursuit of excellence, and I have failed myself. Too often.” He smiled like a man who grins through pain. “Perhaps this is why I fancy humans so much. Here.” He slapped Father Arnaud on the back and turned, just as the young woman with the broad shoulders entered with two foaming pitchers of ale.
    She curtsied without spilling a drop.
    “Do you like trout fishing?” Master Smythe asked.
    The young woman lit up like a newly lit lantern. “I love the little ones in the high mountain streams, my lord,” she said.
    “Yes,” he said. “They’re beautiful when they are young.” He placed the tray on the table and turned back to the room full of knights. “Good evening, allies. Or friends—I’d rather have some friends. The worst is coming. But as I said before: what we do is worth the doing. That’s all the reward we get.” He raised a mug.
    All of the people in the room raised theirs. “To victory,” he said.
    “To victory,” they all repeated. Master Smythe bowed. Then he took the young woman’s hand. “And the avoidance of negative outcomes.”
    “Sir?” she asked.
    “We’re going fishing,” Master Smythe said.
    The door closed behind them.
    Mag shrugged. “The girl wasn’t protesting,” she said.
    “Oh, my God,” Father Arnaud said aloud.
    Gabriel released a long breath, as if he’d been holding his for a long time. “Just so,” he said.
    Morning came—earlier for some and later for others, and for a few, lucky or terribly unlucky as the case might be, there had been no sleep and now there was work.
    For Nell, there were six horses to prepare. There was the captain’s magnificent eighteen-hand stallion, Ataelus, a new acquisition from Count Zac, a black demon with a changeable temper and a vicious bite. But on this crisp early day in Marius, Ataelus behaved himself with decorum. His only sign of equine restlessness was engendered by a mare—every few minutes, he’d raise his great head and pull his lips back over his teeth. But he was too well-bred to give voice to his thoughts.
    Nell liked him. She put a lot of effort into his glossy black hide. He had four white stockings, which was judged unlucky by Albans and lucky by the steppe nomads of the east. Nell worked her way through her wallet of curry combs, coarse to fine, working at the horse with careful sweeps, wary of the places where his coat changed directions. She hummed as she worked.
    She had every reason to be happy. Yesterday, the captain had praised her—by name—for her work. The wound on her face was healing nicely, with a little help from Mag, and would not leave a scar. Best of all, the newarcher with all the muscles had made his views clear last night by running his tongue over her cheek.
    Eventually she’d had to put a thumb in his side to curb his enthusiasm a little. What he had in mind led to babies, and she had other plans, but it had been delightful nonetheless.
    She hummed Sauce’s song. No young cuckoos for her.
    When she had three horses done, she went and woke him up. Once she’d made her