Free The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III by Don Bassingthwaite Page B

didn’t. The thought was more than tempting to Dandra. Suspicion rose in her. Nevchaned and the kalashtar elders were here,
and
they wanted to talk to her?
    She clenched her jaw and nodded. Moon looked disappointed by the answer but turned to push his way through the crowd to one of the hall’s side doors.
    On the other side of the door was a short flight of stairs; at the top of the stairs was a wide landing and another door. Moon knocked heavily once and opened the door without waiting for a response. “Tetkashtai,” he announced.
    Dandra caught a glimpse of a dozen or so kalashtar men and women looking up from their discussion. Nevchaned rose out of the crowd. “Thank you, Munchaned,” he said. “That will be all.”
    “Can I go now?” Moon asked.
    Nevchaned’s face darkened. “You have a duty tonight.”
    Moon’s face took on nearly the same color as his father’s. He stepped away from the door and squatted down on the landing outside. Dandra found herself liking the young man. She might not have been able to say anything about it to him, but she could sympathize with a feeling at being trapped within kalashtar customs and expectation. She turned to him and murmured, “Keep fighting, Moon.”
    He glanced up in surprise, but she kept going past him, stepping into the meeting room and closing the door behind her.
    The warm air smelled slightly of jasmine, as if a single blossom had been left in the room and then removed. The kalashtar elders sat in silence on low, wide Adaran-style benches of dark wood with curled arms and a scattering of thin cushions. The atmosphere should have been calm, conducive to debate and the making of important decisions. It wasn’t. The room felt close, the faint scent of jasmine annoying. The clean lines of the benches were simply stark and barren as trees in winter—and for all that the silent elders attempted inscrutability, their eyes were dark and haunted.
    It was probably the last emotion Dandra had expected to see from them.
    Nevchaned bent his head over hands spread wide in welcome.
“Kuchta
, Tetkashtai.”
    “Kuchtoa,”
Dandra said. She took control of the fear that gnawed at her and forced herself to look around the room, trying to see past the haunted eyes of the elders and guess at what was going on in their minds. It seemed as if more than a few of them were trying to guess the same thing about her. Several glanced away as Dandra’s gaze met theirs; others faced her boldly, maybe even accusingly. Dandra shivered and raised a barrier around her thoughts.
    Her reaction to the tension in the room must have been obvious. Nevchaned gestured swiftly to a chair that had been placed before the benches and to a low table bearing a white teapot and several glasses. “Please, sit,” he said. “You’ll take tea?”
    “Yes.” Dandra sat as Nevchaned poured tea so pale it was barely tinted with color. He passed her the cup and Dandra took a polite sip. The tea had even less taste than it did color, but she forced herself to nod in acknowledgment of Nevchaned’s hospitality. He wasn’t the most senior or significant elder present—Dandra recognized a wiry woman named Selkatari and a quiet scholar named Hanamelk, both leaders of the community—but it seemed as if he had been appointed as the voice of the elders in dealing with her.
    What would Tetkashtai do in this situation? Dandra lowered her cup. “You didn’t summon me here to drink tea.”
    Nevchaned showed no surprise at her bluntness. “We wanted to thank you for subduing Erimelk,” he said. “Your Aundairianfriend—he’s not badly injured?”
    “He’s fine.”
    “And your journey to Zarash’ak? It was good?”
    Dandra couldn’t quite bring herself to answer the question. Tetkashtai’s journey to Zarash’ak had been a disaster. She clenched her teeth and gave Nevchaned a direct look that was as much herself as it was Tetkashtai. “You’re dancing around something, Nevchaned. Are the elders really