"With respect, magister," she finished, returned her gaze to her feet, which I could see were wrapped noticeably in dark Vaeranshi leather. Omar was dressing his servants well.
I allowed her a few more moments of uncertainty before ending the game. Then I reached out and waved a hand to catch her lowered gaze. She looked up, offered uncertain glance of her pine green eyes. Those were definitely eyes that spoke of a strong Cathali lineage. Rare these days outside Borea tor Spass. Most folk of the Thirteen in this age bore the strong blood of descendents of The Flight from The Fires of Dawn.
"Well then," I changed my tone to an accepting one. "With a promise like that, how can I refuse?"
I held out a hand.
"Could you help me to my feet," I asked her. "The cushions in this chair are far too soft and this old body is loathe to give them up. By my forearm, please, my fingers are still sore due to my truculent steed's lack of obedience."
The grip of her small but warm hands were stronger than I'd expected. I looked her over again from a standing vantage point. The Donland fashion she wore displayed her age as youthful, blossoming into womanhood, perhaps older than I'd originally suspected.
"Thank you," I told the girl, then nodded to my bonewood staff which was where I'd left it, leaning against the stone wall behind the chair. "Could you get that old thing?"
"You…" she started, surprised, shocked, as I'd expected. "You would allow me to carry your staff?"
I smiled.
"I cannot do that," she insisted, meeting my gaze, her eyes now wide. "The staff of a wizard, especially one such as you… Such a thing is not allowed… Is it not?"
I leaned closer to her, so my words could not be overheard by the now curious onlookers that surrounded us.
"I can assure you that overgrown stick – and it is little more than that I assure you – is not going to walk along with us, regardless of what you may have been told. I would almost say it would rather you carry it than I."
After all our years together, it was an honest remark. The girl offered an audible intake of breath. I straightened to my full height, looked down at her.
"By the way," I added. "You know my name, but I do not know yours."
The courtiere lowered her eyes again.
"Caithness, Caithness of Denningtor, of the County Glavine." She told me. Glavine, I remembered, was a land of evergreen forests on the east coast of the White Sea. She had been indeed carried far from her home. Her accent, color, demeanor fell into place.
"Well, Caithness of County Glavine, pick up my staff and show me the way," I ordered. "And remember, it requires a firm grip. It always has."
Oh, by the suns, I had hated the thing from the very moment Arcory had made the bond and bargain between me and its inhabitant. True, the anger I felt every time I held it in my hands had diminished over the decades, but I could still feel it often enough. One would have thought all these decades would breed acceptance, certainly that was what Arcory had promised. But then, I wasn't the prisoner in the arrangement, now was I?