Free The Pen and the Sword (Destiny's Crucible Book 2) by Olan Thorensen Page A

guests.
    Maera
played with her napkin, as the silence extended. Then . . . “As Sistian said,
Ser Kolsko, I would like to see your projects and have them explained.”
    “Anytime
you wish, Sen Keelan. I’m afraid I have meetings this afternoon, but we could
begin tomorrow morning, starting with the distillation facility, if you’d like
to accompany me.”
    The
plan settled, Yozef excused himself.
    Maera
returned to the abbey and her quarters to write her initial impressions. She
stared at the paper as she gathered her thoughts.
    Something
of a disappointment. With all the stories and reports I was expecting . . . what?
An impressive intelligence or a warrior figure with a dominant presence ? 
    She
tried to be wary of preconceptions, but his average size and mild manner didn’t
fit her expectations.
    Not
a handsome man or a masculine one, I guess would describe it.
    The
brown hair and beard were nondescript, except for odd highlights she first
thought reflections of light until she recognized a few lighter hair strands.
Not gray, which would be early for someone his age, but a lighter brown, beige
even. Then there were the eyes. Brown and green were the most common, and
occasionally blue, though a darker blue than Yozef’s.
    His
eyes are lightest blue I’ve ever seen. More like a light gray. They’re his most
distinguishing feature, and when they turned at me was the only time I sensed
there was something more than common there.
    She
returned again to the paper and willed herself to write her first impressions.
     
    The
sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds the next morning when Maera met Yozef
in front of the cathedral. She wore an ankle-length yellow dress of fine linen,
covered by a light green–colored smock. She’d replaced the slippers at the
Beynoms’ lunch with leather shoes, and her brown hair was nestled in a bun
behind a wide-brimmed straw hat. Yozef noticed that although the dress and the shoes
displayed workmanship beyond the means of most Keelanders, the smock was
utilitarian and showed unsuccessful attempts to remove ink spots.
    The
Beynoms had assigned their son Cadwulf as her local guide. He excused himself when
assured that Yozef would shepherd her.
    “Remember,”
Cadwulf murmured into Yozef’s ear, “she’s the hetman’s daughter. You can’t just
leave her on her own. If you and she finish touring the shops, bring her to the
bank, and I’ll look after her from there on.”
    How
they would travel between the abbey and the workshops never entered Yozef’s
mind. Cadwulf rescued him with a ready one-horse dray with two passenger seats
and a driver. Silence ruled the six-minute ride, while Maera sat primly,
looking around and occasionally nodding to citizens they passed. A few women curtsied,
and one man awkwardly bowed.
    Only
when they entered the distillation building did Maera first sense something
truly new was ongoing in Abersford. Five workers were diligently working on apparatuses
whose purposes she had no clue. What struck her immediately were the level of
activity and the mood of the workers. All were engaged in tasks she didn’t
recognize, and from their voices, there was a sense of “play,” instead of
“work.”
    Yozef
called out to a worker, who waved. “Hey, Yozef. About time you showed up for
work. Who’s the young woman? Have you been holding out on us?” The man said
something to the other workers and walked over to clasp forearms with Yozef.
    “Filtin,
this is Maera Keelan. She’s here visiting the Beynoms and is interested in
seeing what we’re doing.”
    Filtin
stiffened and made a short bow. An expression of respect and reservation
replaced his previous good humor. Maera wasn’t surprised. Being a member of the
hetman’s immediate family accustomed her to such responses.
    “Sen
Keelan, pardon my comment. An honor to meet you and show you our work.”
    Maera
accepted the distance her position placed between her and most clanspeople and
regretted it, when she