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My plan was to loiter in Rockridge castle until midnight, when I would slip out the sally port and then make my way down the mountainside to the town of Krast, where the others would be waiting at the tavern. It was a logical place for a badly wounded emissary to spend the night, and the visit of a Silent Monk to a dying man should bring no suspicion. My plans, however, faced a sudden fault in the form of the Bard leaning against the doorsill.
Sharp was wrapped in his traveling cloak, with his lute strapped to his back. His arms were crossed – but at the sight of me his narrow chin jerked upwards. Monk, he mouthed, as he reached for his sword.
Damn it, he should have been in the Great Hall, playing for his supper and smiling for his bed, not preparing himself for a journey. Once again I had no sword to defend myself, for it was locked in my trunk. Along with Skyfire.
Sharp’s eyes narrowed as his hand closed on nothing. But he still had his hands, and the power to pull back my disguise. He moved toward me.
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