Renhalt keeps a formidable deadpan during this volley of talk and glances, though it certainly engages all his interest. "We must consult with our uncle, Dommra," he says quietly. "We have serious business of our own to attend to, and it sounds as if the venture has the potential to be…less than straightforward."
"Of course, Freiherr," the anchoress murmurs. She looks relieved and delighted as Altan volunteers the service of the Isfahani. (Rojan, for his part, looks poised between alarm, resignation, and curiosity at hearing himself and his compatriots volunteered so freely.) "Thank you, freiherr," she says. "Justly are the Isfahani known for their boldness."
At Lena's dashing cold water in the soup, Tara tenses and glances at Marcel before responding. "That is indeed the Castle Tristenoira in question, Baroness," she says. "You see now why I prayed so earnestly for assistance. If your duty calls you another way..." An eloquent shrug.
To Vasili, she says, "The people who know are a handful of my flock and those in this room. I have no reason to believe an ambush can have been planned, but we should go soon--as soon as possible--for that and other reasons. The goblyns of the Forfarian Marches gather at the solstice for the rituals of their gods, and follow their rites with a week of drinking and fighting among themselves. The sooner we go, the fewer of them we will find on the path. The castle is supposed to lie about ten miles down the Musardin. Ezra favoring us, we might set out before dawn and return as soon as tomorrow evening, though of course I can make no promise we will be so fortunate."
"Almost due northwest," Renhalt murmurs to Vasili, glancing at Lena. "We're certainly the closest of the Great Houses of Hazlan, although technically I think the Isfahani would have the best legal claim to that territory. Of Hazlani houses."
