Drinker of Souls

A Last Note-The End Being Also A Beginning

THE JADE KING drew the sword from its sheath, smiled at the new bloodmarks on the blade. “Curse still healthy?”

“Very.”

“Good.” He beckoned to his Vizier. “Pay her.”

And that was the end of that. She went out wondering who he was going to give that sword to and why he had to be so devious. Another mystery to add to those things she’d probably never know.

BRANN WENT WANDERING through the Jade-Halimm Market. It was famous through half the world, as much for the look of the place as for the rarities sold there, a spacious sunny place with ancient vines coiling over equally ancient lattices, living walls for the market stalls that were handed down from father to son, mother to daughter. They kept herds of small green lizards to eat the ivy clean of insects and sponged dust off the leaves every morning so these shone like the jade that gave the city its name. She saw a potter’s stall and stopped to look over the wares, picked up a simple unglazed cup, ran her fingers over it, made of a clay strange to her, a pleasant red-brown, thin, tough, with a satisfying solidity. She held it and felt a shock of recognition, a rightness so strong it burned like fire through her. The stall-keeper, a handsome young woman, was busy with another customer; Brann fidgeted impatiently, caressing the cup as she waited, liking it more the longer she held it, When the woman came to her, she held it up. “Who made this?”

“My grandfather, Kuralyn. Dayan Acsic.”

“Does he take pupils?” She set the cup down with great care, so tense she was afraid of breaking it.

“Yes. You would like to meet him?”

“Yes.” She sighed, then smiled. “Yes, very much indeed.”