ZYGRADON Read Free

view of the World. He and Ceera had spent the morning in their
sheltered corner of Le'esha's office. Though the sky was black and churned with clouds
and lightning and the sea heaved like a mad beast, sunshine and sweet air reigned
indoors. It was washing day, and those children who didn't work were expected to stay
out of trouble and amuse themselves quietly.
    The two children retreated to their corner of Le'esha's office with scrolls for him
to read, beads and a tiny loom for her to play with, and enough provisions to last them
through the day. Biscuits and jam, dried apple slices and a pitcher of cider. Le'esha had
shared their cider late in the morning and then had left them alone while she tended to
an emergency in the public healing rooms. The children fell asleep, lulled by warmth and
quiet and full bellies.
    Mrillis woke to the sound of unfamiliar voices. He got up on his knees and
peered out between the sealed jars and boxes of powders, salves and dried herbs sitting
on the shelves.
    Three men stood by the open door of Le'esha's office. She was nowhere in
sight. The strangers were Noveni, with their tangled, golden-brown curls and brown
eyes. They didn't wear cloaks, so someone at the gates had taken their wet clothes. No
one could enter the Stronghold without passing the gatekeeper's tests, so Mrillis wasn't
worried. Someone had brought the three men to Le'esha's office, rather than making
them wait in the welcoming hall. Either that, or the three had chosen to be rude and
wander around, going where they hadn't been invited. Mrillis didn't like the way the
men scowled and looked around the room.
    The one with the crest of a leaping, blue battlecat on his overtunic gestured at
the shelving. "She has enough medicine in this room alone to tend half the villages on
Moerta for a year. It just isn't right."
    "What isn't right?" The man who had stood with his back to Mrillis, studying a
tapestry on the far wall, turned around.
    He wore a closely trimmed beard in dark gold and his skin was the color of
freshly forged bronze. He wore the wings-spread crest of the Warhawk across the chest
of his overtunic. He couldn't be the Warhawk, high king of the Noveni; Mrillis knew
Afron Warhawk was a man in his late thirties, and this man was perhaps in his early
twenties.
    "The Queen of Snows willingly shares all the Rey'kil healing powers and
knowledge with our people. All we have to do is ask. How many healers has she sent to
the sufferers on Moerta this year alone?" he continued. He walked across the room and
settled down in one of the low-backed chairs hung with thick woolen blankets, which sat
in front of Le'esha's worktable.
    "We shouldn't have to ask," the first growled. "The Rey'kil owe the
Noveni. We shed our blood daily to fight off the warriors of the Nameless One--a rebel Rey'kil . He's their problem, not ours. Why should we fight for Lygroes?"
    "Perhaps because the Noveni are refugees in Lygroes, and defending Rey'kil land
keeps us safe as well?" the third man asked in a lazy drawl. He sat down and put his
still-wet boots up on the edge of Le'esha's table.
    Mrillis nearly darted out from behind the shelves, to knock the intruder's feet
back to the floor. The prickle of discomfort up his spine, which warned him when
Le'esha's visitors were dangerous, warned him now to keep silent. He glanced at Ceera,
asleep with her thumb in her mouth. He knew his first duty was to protect the little
girl.
    Eavesdropping wasn't nice, and Le'esha frowned on it, but he sensed it would
be worse to step out now and face these intruders. If they were angry enough, they
might thrash him. What would they do to Ceera if she woke up and started crying or
attacked them for hitting him?
    How much longer would Le'esha be gone from her office? When would she
come back, stop their rude talk, and send the strangers on their way again?
    "And just why are the Noveni refugees? Because our land is poisoned, a little
more every year. What poisons us?" the