Free Forest For The Trees (Book 3) by Damien Lake Page B

Also present were two men of an age where gray had begun a
hostile war against their receding hairlines, neither in any sort of uniform
though carrying the same competent air about them as the knight-marshal.
    None introduced themselves.  For all they noticed
Marik, he might have been a speck of dust hovering in the air.
    The two men, Raymond and the lady ceased their quiet
conversation so the king could nod at his knight-marshal when he approached. 
Marik held back near the seats several feet away.  Raymond followed his nod by
simply stating, “Tybalt.”
    That must have been the knight-marshal’s name. 
Knight-Marshal Tybalt nodded back before entering into the murmured conference.
    Marik felt conspicuous with that group’s eyes
constantly flicking sideways at him.  He averted his own to meet Torrance’s. 
Coming face-to-face with his commander always made him nervous.  On multiple
occasions Torrance had yanked the carpet out from under his feet, forcing him
to make choices Marik would much rather have forgone.  Not every meeting had
ended on an unpleasant note, true enough, but experience denied him peace of
mind whilst in the man’s presence.
    At the moment, Torrance gazed unflinchingly at his
fellow band member.  Marik read only half of what that gaze contained, and what
he could interpret left him all the more uneasy.  Anger might not be there, yet
an emotion not far from it seethed in his eyes.  The resolute determination to
have things his way was there as well.
    As for the rest…
    Marik looked away, hating to be the first to break the
gaze even if to a man as worthy of respect as the commander.  His eye fell on
Celerity, standing beside Ulecia.  Unsurprising to find that stiletto
gaze on him.  She nodded slightly to words the queen whispered at her side, her
eyes locked on him tighter than prison shackles.
    In all of it, Marik had never felt so out of place. 
He had no idea why he was there, why he had been summoned or to what purpose
his being among such august leaders might serve.  Celerity he could
understand.  The knight-marshal’s interest as well, on one level.
    Raymond would have a keen interest in the threat
facing his kingdom…but would he be there to personally question a common
fighter despite the knowledge he might possess?  Would it not be likelier that
the king’s advisors or analysts would gather in the knowledge and prepare it
for the king after they had pieced together as much of the picture as they
could reconstruct?
    The whispers were growing thick in the air.  Only
Torrance kept his silence.  Repeated glances at him made Marik’s legs quiver
slightly.  He had long since learned that the unknown could prove to be the
fatal factor in any battle.  This conference room felt as dangerous as any
battlefield he had been on, and lacking complete knowledge was making his
instincts flair.  Worst of all, he felt a churning in his gut that usually
accompanied his sense that life had a nasty trick in store for him.
    Raymond’s group stopped their quiet talk.  Each man
and woman shifted to study the vagabond in their midst.  The knight-marshal
kept his distance, arms folded across his chest, countenance as stern as a
magistrate about to pronounce judgement over a heinous criminal.  His look was
only marginally short of hostile.
    King Raymond gave a slight nod to Celerity, who
returned the gesture.  A nod at Torrance only made the commander’s head lower
an inch, eyebrows beetling, the corner of his mouth twitching.  Nods were
selling cheap today.  They passed between everyone present save Marik.  When
all the head waggling was finished, Celerity, presumably the pre-selected
spokesperson, donned a slight smile Marik had seen once before.  He barely stifled
his natural reaction to drop into a crouch and send his hand flying to his
sword hilt.
    “No introductions are needed,” the woman said softly,
yet with strength in her words all the same.  “We all of us have come