Journey Of Thieves (Book 5) Read Online Free Page A

ran between each cluster of homes, joining them like a great hive.
    Inside, my host’s home was unlike anything I had ever encountered. Long and narrow, the rooms were like passages, each leading into the next with no central room or entryway to connect them. But that hardly mattered because there were few rooms anyway. She apparently had little need of space, which was as well, because the overall feeling of her house was of a cramped but cozy atmosphere.
    “Would you like a drink?” she asked. Without awaiting an answer, she went to the fireplace, a small niche carved out of the inner rock wall, and fetched a kettle from over the low flames.
    She moved with surprising ease for a woman of her years, and I mentally adjusted my first impression of her from elderly to a bit past middle-aged. Like myself and many of Swiftsfell’s inhabitants, she bore evidence of Skeltai ancestry, and the silverness of her hair combined with the heavy lines of her face made her age difficult to guess.
    I took a seat on a bench near the fire. On such a warm day, the proximity of the flames was mildly uncomfortable, but every other surface I might have sat on seemed occupied by baskets and blankets and various kinds of clutter I could not identify. My bench was rickety and roughly put together, like all the other furnishings in the room. The floor was scattered with rushes as a primitive replacement for rugs. The mud-dobbed outer walls were hung with big woven mats, presumably as an extra layer of insulation during the winter months.
    It took me a moment to take all this in as my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of the windowless space. The fireplace cast a little light around the room, but a cooler source of illumination was the series of lamps resting on tabletops and other surfaces. The bluish color from the lamps made me wonder if they were lit by some means less natural than ordinary flame. This was, after all, a place where magic could be used freely and openly.
    My thoughts returned to my host when she passed a warm cup into my hand. The scent of the steaming skeil was reassuring. The drink, at least, was familiar.
    “Now,” she said, seating herself on a nearby stool. “Let us introduce ourselves properly. My name is Myria. I did not catch yours.”
    It seemed strange to be introducing ourselves so formally, after our excited initial meeting. But perhaps neither of us knew quite how to act toward the other.
    “Ilan of Dimmingwood. That’s the forest that covers half the province of Ellesus.”
    “And what is it that brings you to Swiftsfell, Ilan of Dimmingwood?”
    “Nothing more than you already know,” I said, trying to contain my impatience. On the way to her home, I had tried to ask her what she knew about my mother, but this Myria seemed suddenly distracted. Still, I forced myself to be polite. Demanding answers would get me nowhere.
    So I explained, “As my friend Hadrian was telling the head of your village, he is compiling a book. It is a history of magic and a study of magically gifted races.”
    She appeared dissatisfied with my explanation. “I did not ask for your friends’ motives in coming here but yours. I believe your province is a fair distance from the mountains of Cros. Something must have compelled you to make the journey.”
    I hesitated, but there seemed no danger in speaking frankly to this stranger. We were not back home, where I had to cloak certain aspects of my past. “I had reasons for wanting to put my province behind me. I was recently pressed into the service of a man I count my enemy. I cannot escape my duties indefinitely for, when a year has passed, I’ve promised to return. But until then, I accompany the wandering priest on his travels. And where I go, Terrac goes.”
    “Because he is in love with you?”
    “Because the Praetor of our province does not trust me to keep my word. He sent Terrac to ensure that I do not forget my promises.”
    I didn’t tell her how that troubled me. I