The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology Read Online Free Page B

if—” she began, her voice rising . . . so Tyndal kissed her.
    He had no idea what possessed him to do so.  Her lips were just so close to his in the tight quarters of the shrine, and his anxiety that they would be discovered made him want to keep their voices low, so . . . it seemed the quickest way to shut her up.  And it seemed to be what she wanted.   The way she kissed him back, he soon had no doubt.  After that things started to go blurry.
    He didn’t know how long they kissed in the shrine, and he found her hands wandering all over his arms and back as they did, and he wondered if he was too slobbery and whether or not she could taste the beer he’d had earlier and then his hands began to wander and most of his coherent thought stopped about then.  His mind went into a dumb state, preoccupied only with the moment, only on Ansily.  He even felt the brush of someone attempting to speak mind-to-mind with him, but they stopped before he could give it his full attention.
    When the last candle lit by Ishi’s faithful sputtered out, Ansily finally broke their embrace.   She looked at him, her eyes magnificently large in the gloom, her face solemn but excited.
    “And that’s where we should stop,” she announced, placing a hand on his chest.  “It is late, Tyndal of . . . Somewhere.  And while it’s true many a maid has sought Ishi’s counsel in prayer until deep in the evening, my father isn’t that stupid.  Besides . . .” she added, biting her lip.
    “Besides . . . ?” Tyndal asked, confused, deprived of oxygen, his blood pounding in his ears so hard he could barely hear her words.
    “Besides . . . while I’m not adverse to allowing a customer to sample a barrel before he buys it . . . one must be certain he has the coin to pay, and we have but short acquaintance.”  She said it as if he would naturally understand, which he naturally did not.  Then he thought he did, and almost said something, but then he didn’t and wisely shut up.  If Ansily wanted to end their courting for the evening, Tyndal was satisfied . . . if also painfully frustrated.
    “Then . . . may I escort you back to your inn?” he asked.  He doubted she needed an escort – Talry was hardly awash in footpads.  But he also didn’t want to leave her sweet-smelling company. 
    “That would be lovely,” she agreed.  “Would you like to share my cloak?  The mist is quite chilly.”
     

 
    The next morning found the lad short of sleep, but strangely contented.   Only Hirth, the senior apprentice he shared a room with, noticed anything amiss.
    “So, you were prayin’ at Ishi’s shrine?” he muttered, quietly, as the family began to wake and prepare the day’s chores.  “Who was she?”
    “What?  What do you mean?”
    “Well, unless Ishi smells of lilacs and seaflowers instead of horseshit, and uses rouge that stays on your face, I’d say that you slipped and fell into something delicious along the way.”
    “I did not,” Tyndal protested, madly dabbing at his face.  The apprentice sighed and helped him out.
    “Sure, Shitfoot, but don’t let Frentine see,” he muttered.  “She’s got an eye for you.”
    “Wha—?”
    Tyndal tried to forget the conversation as he mucked out the stalls at the stable for the day, but his lethargy was apparent.  Master Gonus found him listlessly heaving hay into mangers with the pitchfork and stopped him.
    “Take a break, lad, it looks like your arms are made of cotton today.  Besides, I need you to take the wheelbarrow down to the dock.  Barge in this morning, already heard the bell.  Upriver.  Got a load of iron on it th at needs fetching.  The farrier is due on market day, and he charges double if he supplies the iron.”
    Tyndal groaned at the prospect of heavy lifting but dutifully hung the pitchfork up and took up the battered old wheelbarrow.  The docks were only a quarter mile away, and downhill at that . . . but that easy decline would turn into a