Magic's Promise

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The blue leather saddlebags and a canvas pack, all a-bulging with filthy clothing and miscellaneous gear, landed in the corner of Vanyel's room with three dull thuds. The lute, still in its padded leather case, slithered over the back of one of the two overstuffed chairs and landed with a softer pumph, to rest in the cradle of the worn red seat cushion. Once safely there it sagged, leaning over sideways like a fat, drunken child. The dark leather lute case glowed dully in the mid-morning sun still coming in the single eastward-facing window. Two years of mistreatment had not marred the finish too much, although the case was scuffed here and there, and had been torn and remended with tiny, careful stitches along the belly.

Vanyel grimaced at the all-too-visible tear. Torn? No, no tear would be that even. Say cut, or slashed and it would be nearer the truth. Pray nobody else notices that.

Better the lute case than me ... that came closer than I really want to think about. I hope Savil never gets a good look at it. She'd know what that meant, and she'd have a cat.

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