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he soldiers in the hallways spare no more than passing, inquisitive glances at Tonar and Caeric, especially when they notice Daverris is with them. They are led not to the mess hall--they pass it, in fact, and the huddled groups of soldiers--but to a finer section of the garrison. Here blossoms are strewn at the base of the walls, half-crushed and wilting but still fragrant. They arrive at a surprisingly plain room, undecorated save by candles in a rainbow of colors, and the plain but fine furniture. At the table across from them, still standing, is a small woman with fierce dark eyes and her hair done up in a net of pearls. Like the soldiers, she wears white, and her dress is cut at the side, perhaps for riding. Two servants stand at either side of her, dressed in drabber grey. Her eyes alight on Daverris, then Tonar's intimidating bulk, then Caeric and his harp. Her mouth curls in amusement. "Welcome, O travellers," she says. "I hight Magistra Liessira, as you no doubt are aware, and I hope you find something at this repast to your liking." The servants immediately rise and leave by a back door, returning with trays of dishes and crystal cups. She then looks at Daverris and she says, "You may remain with us, if you choose; you are probably more accustomed to our guests' ways than I am...you may even make them more comfortable." Discomfited, Daverris says, "As you wish, Magistra." The invitation was obviously a command. He seats himself, gesturing for the strangers to follow suit. The table is spread with water and wine (at least it smells like wine, even if it's pale green), rice and riverfish, finely chopped greens, barley cakes, sauces for the tasting. The Magistra tastes from all the dishes, a sardonic expression on her face. [GM's note: In Sorevv, as elsewhere, each diner has a dish half full with rice, and the rest are communal dishes.] Caeric follows suit, taking small amounts from assorted dishes, seeming to trust and follow Daverris' selections. Regardless, he eats slowly, setting a pleasant leisurely pace - good for the digestion no doubt. The food is odd to the tongue, and he detects the subterranean flavoring of rare spices...but considering the Magistra's apparent station, this comes as no surprise. She waits for them to taste something, however gingerly, and says, "I will be direct. It is not my nature to tiptoe with words--unless, O visitors, I offend by speaking of business during the meal. I have heard that such is the custom among certain lands to the west and south." For a bare moment Caeric's lips twitch, and though he remains silent, his utensil is stilled, resting against the bowl, still watching the Magistra. Her eyes mark the movement, but she does not pause. As Liessira is speaking, she becomes aware that the man of intimidating bulk appears to be studying her. He gives her a speculative look before apparently reaching a decision. She blinks, waiting for his words. Even as the larger man begins to speak, Caeric chuckles and takes up his utensil again, sampling the rice mixed with some of the greens this time. The greens are bitter, with a peculiarly minty aftertaste. Still, it doesn't *seem* like any poison he's encountered. She smiles, and while there is no pleasure in the smile, neither is there menace...that they can see. "What, pray, do you know of Qenar and Avrezin to the east?" "Forgive me," Tonar says haltingly, "chosing the right words is an enemy I never quite conquer. Please do not find offense in my efforts....The rulers I have...met have been bent by their lust for conquest and power. But, all that I see here say that you are otherwise...It is a relief...I know not of Qenar, but I live to see...justice visit the one-eyed bitch ruler of Avrezin." Tonar halts speaking altogether, and, if Liessira has intutition, she may sense he fears he has already drawn her offense. The fierce dark eyes are not angry, but considering. "Conquest is for fools," she says scornfully. "There is a pleasure in ruling what the Firebird has given you to hold, and ruling it well--though I know what I am called hereabouts, when they think I can't hear." "Never, Magistra," Daverris protests, but she laughs at him. He bears it in silence, no doubt accustomed to his lady's moods. Tonar laughs, both from relief and legitimate amusement. Here, he thinks, is a ruler not easily fooled by the pretenses of her servants. He selects from the various meat offerings and lays the morsels in his bowl of rice. Then, after a little observation of his fellow diners, Tonar picks up his utensils and begins to eat. He offers: "My people have a saying: 'Even leaders follow a path, and a path is not wide enough for all to be leaders.' " The meat, it turns out, has been cooked in a spectrum from almost rare to well-done: a courtesy to guests with unknown tastes, perhaps. Daverris eats the way military men sometimes do, rapidness born of hasty campsites checked by his awareness of Liessira's rank. The Magistra herself is no dainty eater, though she shows rather more refinement than Daverris. The comment brings a rueful headshake from Daverris, and a small laugh from Liessira. The words bring a faint smile to the lips of the bard, hidden quickly enough as he looks down and takes another bite - a sampling of the meat, a thin strip, rare. And lightly seasoned, as it turns out--but there are sauces aplenty to drown or complement the seasonings, as he chooses. "I have so many questions," he adds more seriously. "May I ask what a 'magistra' is?" "You may indeed," she says gravely, "and I hope this knowledge benefits you." Her gaze includes Caeric in that statement. "I safeguard this road and no small demesne in the name of Sorevv's lords; I safeguard the law of church and temple and the Firebird's glory." More wryly, she continues, "In practical terms, I rule the land, and your people, wherever you come from, might reckon me a priest of sorts." Caeric looks up from his food as the pause stretches. He nods, chews for a moment more, and swallows, before nodding again. He smiles wryly and shakes his head, "It is - curious," he begins, glancing from the Magistra to the large fellow, and then back, "what some would call business, as opposed to what others would simply call dinner conversation." He settles his utensil down again and leans back in his chair. "Qenar and Avrezin... A great deal more than since before this day I think, but e'en so, little enough really - my travels have brought me here from the west. Some tales, rumors. A song, if the sailor was telling the truth of its source. Certainly not so much as to seek... "Justice" or such, or indeed, much of anything else in either, save for a fair song and story." Liessira smiles cynically. "Or tales to frighten children with, I ken. Who knows how much of the tales are truth? Avrezin was once one of our staunchest allies, when the warlords ruled supreme from Rekke by the River. And Qenar--" Her voice becomes more quiet. "They consort with demons even as they hold the demons back past the Black Wall. So it is said. And now there are those who say these are lies, but I cannot think that our ancestors, who agreed to the Concordat, were demon-friends either, or fools." [GM's note: From their travels and the rumors they've heard, both Caeric and Tonar recall dimly that Avrezin was once a theocracy devoted to the Firebird's worship, as is Sorevv today. The Concordat is the agreement that no one shall attack Qenar, because of their duty in guarding the Black Wall.] He glances about the table- Daverris, Tonar, and finally to the Magistra - before speaking again, "... And there is, I think, a Story in all of this, no doubt. But please, if you would do us the honor - tell us, fair Magistra, why do you ask?" "There is a story in every happenstance," Daverris mutters.
Back: Caeric & Tonar's Prologue 5 Candle image provided by Clipart Castle.
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