>>6076006Ibardo Delebasse sat comfortably against a tree, the Kiengir poleaxe — the elder relic of a lost word — plunged into the earth, its blindglass shaft turned into a commodious satchel-holder. Sometimes he could not believe his own wit.
He relaxed, putting out the smooth length of a pipe and watching the firelights below, in the dale, where the town was celebrating Saint Kishirra. Of course, he was not there. Nothing would make him ruin Argia’s special day, there with her first friends.
“A fast learner, that one,” he chuckled setting the pipe alight and taking in a deep breath as white smoke played with the tuft of his short beard. And now they were getting ready for the bonfire and the molten spring.
Argia had failed her first attempt — something he did not really like to bring up, and especially not these days. He had finally seen her, and after such a dangerous mission.
One far above what they would have been supposed to face.
One of the Seven Sisters.
Starless Night! Only Saint Bragia herself had seen worse on her own first quest.
As Ansàrra would have it, the dale knew nothing of the sorrow that almost came to be. Of the hours he rode the horse almost to the poor beasts’ death, murmuring prayers for haste, passing through the forests and over the rivers like a comet, striking ever closer to the border of Madua, where his disciple was facing the hardest challenge she had ever met.
She had come out mostly unscathed. Ibardo looked down at his left palm. They were still a bit reddened by all the time he had spent on his knees, burning offers in thank to the Sun-Birther.
He breathed in once more, the embers of the pipe glowing a fiery red, just like embers below soon would. Argia would do a spectacular job, he was sure. He couldn’t wait for her to tell him all about it, excited and proud. Sometimes a dash of pride could do a heart good.
Then again — when you saw what it could do to someone like Astoria di Ottava Ora, pride sharply turned from a boon to the worst of poisons.
[cont.]
