The sounds of stone masons and craftsmen could be heard: hammers, sawing, and toiling away. Around them were apprentices and surviving citizens who cleared the debris from the streets, making it easier for the carriages to pass through and deliver supplies. The trio meandered and asked around to see if anyone had heard of, seen, or knew where to find Oliphard the Wizardly. Finally, a pair of craftsmen pointed out the direction of the plaza where his estate could be found.
What had likely been a beautiful square planted with cultivated bushes, a tree or two, and aromatic flowers was a burnt patch of dry land before singed and ashen pillars of what should have been a grand mansion. The roof was gone, a corner of the upper level had been bashed in and burned out, and the massive, ornate doors of the main entrance remained unhinged. Still, Trystan felt it polite to knock on one of the doors before calling through the large archway, “Hello? Master Oliphard?” Startled pigeons flapped through the air as small footsteps echoed through the hall.
“He is not in at the moment,” a smooth, gentle-voiced response said. Emerging from the dark, empty hall was a woman clad in a white-and-red veil and matching robes embellished with black accents. From her belt hung a large grimoire on one side, and a sword on the other. Her fingers gracefully reached up to gently shift the billowing veil from her face, revealing a pale complexion and delicately painted eyelids and lashes that refused to open. Yet, she faced the wayfarer at the doorway as if she were staring directly at him. Her head then shifted, giving the impression that she was looking at his two companions just behind him. Her nostrils flared briefly before she stated, “Neither of you smell as though you’ve been in town for very long. What business do you have with my mentor?”
While Ysolt and Hector exchanged glances, Trystan kept his gaze focused on the young woman before him. He noticed that the few strands of hair peeking over her brow were a mix of flax and silver, which was an odd combination for one so young. Her skin had not been marred by the sun either, which meant she spent much of her time beneath that veil and likely indoors. The book hanging from her waist implied mage, but the sword offered an alternative means of protection if her spells failed her. “He commissioned us to find his magical chest. We have found, procured, and are now here to deliver it,” the freckled wayfarer responded directly, which made the mage before him smile sweetly. “That is wonderful news. I’m sorry he could not be here to greet you, but he is busy helping the city rebuild,” she said, bowing gracefully with a flourished curtsy that made her veil curl about. “Please, come in, and I will tend to your needs while we await his return,” she invited them in by stepping aside and gesturing for them to follow.
The hallway was free of debris, which meant someone had been around to help clean up the estate. None of the rooms smelled of smoke, meaning there had been enough time to remove the debris and air out the structure after the battle. As she led them toward the back and into a large kitchen, the mage introduced herself.
“My name is Lyonesse Dewin. I humbly request that you address me as Miss Dewin. For a time I was Master Oliphard’s apprentice,” she started before quickly correcting any misconceptions Trystan or Ysolt might have about what she meant. “Not the same fool who abandoned the master in his time of need,” Lyonesse said rather sternly as she moved fluidly around the kitchen and pulled out some dishes and utensils. Over the fire hung a large cauldron bubbling with the fragrant aroma of herbs and roots. She started to ladle out the stew for all three of the guests. “If Master Oliphard had thought me experienced enough to handle myself, he would have brought me along with him instead. No, he sent me away to Dweomar to better hone my studies and took that imbecilic boy with him instead.” Her tone implied that she had not been pleased with what had happened, yet she understood that it had been for her own benefit. Magically studying-wise. She probably would not have escaped the dragon’s wrath either, though how the other apprentice did remained a mystery to her.
While she served the others lunch, consisting not just of the stew, but of crusty artisan bread toasted and spread with brie, along with some honey mead that had been imported from the Golnir, Hector couldn’t help but stare in disbelief as she prattled on about how she returned just after the siege of Trefoille. She explained how she managed to reclaim the estate, offering food and shelter to those who would help to clean up the debris within and around it, and helping Oliphard get settled back in once he returned. Not once, while the rogue watched her, did she open her eyes or blink. Yet, she moved as freely and assuredly as anyone who was not blind. Trystan sniffed at the food that was presented to him; Ysolt ate without hesitation out of politeness, but Hector was too puzzled to notice that the mage had indeed served him something to eat.
With an expression of concern, which included the furrowing of her brow, Lyonesse inquired, “Does the food not appeal to you?” This took Hector by surprise, as she somehow sensed that he was not eating. “How do yo-?” He didn’t get the chance to complete the question. She already knew what he was going to ask and readily answered. “My sense of smell, touch, and hearing are heightened. This veil I’m wearing also assists in letting me determine what makes up the space around me,” she said as she went to top off Trystan’s cup of mead. “Please, don’t stare and treat me like I am incapable,” the mage then requested, doing her best not to sound annoyed by the rogue’s assumptions.
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