Alora: The Maladorn Scroll (Alora 3)

Why? Surely she knows we can’t comprehend the scrolls written in other languages. Our work would be much faster if she rendered her aid. Perhaps she’s pouting over my comment at last night’s dinner and intends to punish me for my honesty. Yet this behavior only lends credence to my declaration. Indeed, as I stated, women are often slow to reach emotional maturity and are more reliable under the guidance of a strong mate. I don’t understand why my words offended her so. Or why Raelene felt compelled to apologize for what was merely a statement of fact.

“Should we take a respite from our studies?” Bardamen asked Raelene. “After all, we only arrived at the Craedenza yesterday. It is not necessary to read every scroll in our language today. Have we not accomplished enough for one day?”

“We have accomplished exactly half of what I hoped we would accomplish.” Raelene never lifted her nose from her parchment. “Although I have accomplished the full portion I expected to accomplish.”

“Yes, I agree. Progress is slow when we have no archivist to render aid. Pity that Mera does not recognize the urgency of our work.”

Raelene sent an acidic glare, for no reason whatsoever. “Meravelle knows the urgency involved, but finds the current study conditions too loathsome to tolerate.”

“Ridiculous!” Bardamen pushed his chair away from the table, rising and stretching his stiff muscles. “I shall find Mera and convince her to tend to her obligations here at the Craedenza. Doubtless she’s engaged in some mindless and worthless distraction.”

“You are going to explain to Meravelle that she should drop the project in which she’s engaged and attend to our needs?” Raelene’s mouth fell open. “You truly believe that is a wise choice?”

“I believe I have no other. It seems no one else has the courage to speak plainly to her rather than pander to her every whim. Bastaeno has spoiled her, for certain. The man has no backbone, whatsoever, where his granddaughter is concerned.”

Closing her eyes, Raelene leaned back and massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Bardamen, would you not say that because of my age, I’ve reached a level of maturity? And gained a measure of wisdom?”

“Yes, I would venture to say you’re far more wise and mature than the younger women I’ve met.”

“Then allow me to offer some advice.”

“Very well.”

“Before you open your mouth to speak to Meravelle, stop and think carefully about what you want to say. And then, think of how your words will be received. And then... wait...”

“And how long should I wait?”

“Until you think of something uplifting to say in place of your intended words.”

“Bah! You are jesting, when I believed you had serious advice to render.” Bardamen stomped off, holding his tongue only out of respect for Raelene as Stone Clan’s former bearer.

Her chasing words barely registered.

“My advice is no jest, Bardamen.”

**************

Meravelle wasn’t easy to find. The small town square swarmed with a boisterous group of citizens bartering for goods in the local outdoor market, but Bardamen didn’t spot her amongst the others. With her distinctive hair—a mass of tight dark curls—she should’ve been easy to see in a crowd, despite her diminutive stature.

He decided to search for Meravelle at her home, which lay on the outskirts of Glaenshire, near the area where the bordering river divided to run on either side of the island village. On one side, the river was broad and deep, bordered by dry, rocky fie

lds. On the other side, the river was narrow but turbulent, bordered by a steep, sloping forest and spanned by two bridges. The main road crossed one bridge, leading straight into the heart of Glaenshire and the town square and continuing up toward the shining white rock where the Craedenza stood. From there, the road broadened and wound down to cross the other bridge, turning to follow the river south.

Trudging down the well-worn dirt path to the modest stone house where Meravelle lived with her grandfather, Bardamen noted how the thatch needed replacing in several areas.

Perhaps, if Raelene can spare me, I might be able to make the needed repairs while we’re here.

Sandwiched between a vegetable garden and a flower-cutting garden, the tidy dwelling had a welcoming front porch with two rocking chairs. An image passed through his mind—one of Mera relaxing beside him in a rocker—and an unbidden smile chased away his scowl.

Schooling his face with a stern expression, he clanged the heavy metal knocker on the door, fully prepared to scold Mera for neglecting her duties at the Craedenza. But no one answered.

Rounding to the rear, he followed a stony path winding through the trees and down along the river. The path led to a large flat rock, on which multiple freshly washed articles of clothing were stretched out to dry in the sun. But Mera wasn’t guarding her wash.

Farther down the twisting path he spied her. Well, in truth, he spied her legs, bare from the knees down, toes dangling in the water, swinging in time to a merrily hummed tune. The rest of her was obscured by the dense vegetation. Enchanted by her sweet voice, he stood still, listening to the tune and watching her feet and forgetting altogether the reason he’d come looking for her.

Then the song stopped. The legs disappeared. He heard a rustling of clothes behind the bushes. It occurred to him she might be removing her clothes to bathe. His heart began a relentless pounding in his chest, in worse fashion than he’d experienced in the midst of a battle up against multiple numbers of Vindrake’s shamans.

“Eh-hem!” He cleared his throat. “Meravelle?”