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As Bardamen had observed, Meravelle was a creature of habit. Each evening at dusk, she trekked down to the river for water, and tonight he happened to be strolling down the hill as she returned.
“Do you desire help with your load?” asked Bardamen, magnanimously reaching to retrieve the pole Mera balanced on her shoulders, a pail of water swinging on each end, heavy enough to bend the pole.
“Stop,” she snapped. “You’ll make the water spill, and I haven’t the time to fetch another round.”
Turning back up the hill, he fell in step beside her, admiring her muscular arms. “I must admit, I’m surprised to find one gifted in wisdom who also possesses non-gifted strength. I assumed scholars would be too busy with their studies to develop any physical prowess.”
“Hmphh.” Her lip twitched.
Is she smiling at my compliment?
“Likewise,” she replied, “I assumed anyone lacking scholarly gifting could not demonstrate intelligence.”
“And I’ve disproved your theory?”
Her nostrils flared as she rolled both lips between her teeth. “Not at all. But Raelene did.”
“Ha!” Bardamen laughed, wondering why he found her insults amusing rather than irritating. Perhaps because he’d met no other so talented at verbal sparring.
He opened his mouth to return her jab, when something pricked his mind... a tiny niggling sensation. Light and remote, like the scratch of a quill, yet firm enough to know the danger was real.
Knocking the carrier from her shoulders and spilling the water, he ignored her loud protest.
“Leave the pails! Grab my belt, and don’t let go!” He mumbled a few words and lifted his hands, forming a ward to cover them in a protective dome, before clambering back up the path.
She let go.
Of course, she refuses to obey. Typical.
Rotating, he found her standing on the path with her arms crossed, tapping one small sandaled foot.
“Please, hurry!” he called. “It’s a shaman. We’re under attack. Glaenshire is under attack.”
Her face turned ashen. “Why didn’t you explain this before?”
She scrambled after him, happy this time to grasp his belt.
Reaching out with his mind, Bardamen felt for the enemy shaman.
Did I imagine it? No, there it is. Probing for defenses. Of course there are no shields here. Had there been a shield in place, the shaman’s search would have been deflected. And I wouldn’t have detected the probing. Can I effect a protection in time?
“Why would anyone attack us?” Mera panted as she kept pace. “We give freely to all who come. Food. Clothing. Knowledge. Even gold, if needed, though we have little. There is no prize to be gained in battle with Glaenshire, for our treasure has no cost.”
As the tickling sensation grew to a vibration in his forehead, Bardamen quickened his pace. “I fear, Meravelle, for all your wisdom, you’re still naive. Knowledge is power, and men will kill for that power.”
“Killing is unnecessary, for we don’t require payment. We give knowledge to any citizen of Tenavae.”
“Then perhaps someone would like to control that knowledge and keep it for themselves. Someone like Vindrake.”
“I believe you, though it seems senseless to me,” she huffed, struggling to keep up on her short legs. “However, the Craedenza isn’t entirely defenseless.”
“You have warriors? Guards?”
“No guards or warriors, but our archivists will give their lives to protect the Craedenza. We may be guileless, but we are not naive.”
Bardamen pictured a group of elderly archivists brandishing scrolls against enemy swords and shook his head.
Reaching a broad spot in the path, Meravelle darted past, leaving the protection of his ward.
