Page 11 of The Seeker
“I know the legends of Glast.” His expression had annoyance written all over it. “Are you saying youhaven’tfound evidence of the Wolf?”
Meera shrugged. “Can we define evidence? The hawthorn in the Glast legend, for instance—”
“Is a hawthorn tree,” Rhys interrupted. “Only a story. A library can’t be built from hawthorn wood.”
“Why not? Is it not suitable for building? I don’t know much about carpentry.”
“No, it’s a hardwood, but the trunk—” He shook his head. “Why are we talking about carpentry?”
“I don’t know anything about it, but you seem to. Is it something you learned from your father or mother? I was never taught to work with my hands, and I think I should have been. It was a failing of my training.” Meera ran a finger along the edge of her teacup. “I think some kind of art or craft should be part of a well-rounded education. I always had an interest in ceramic art, but I was never given instruction. I think that’s a shame, don’t you?”
Rhys blinked. “I… don’t have an opinion on that.”
“That surprises me. You strike me as the kind of person who has an opinion about everything.”
“And you strike me as the type of person who likes to avoid questions.” He swiped a hand over his forehead. “I was called here because there were reports that the Wolf had been found. If that’s not the case, why did you summon me?”
“Do you think I summoned you?” She cocked her head. “That’s interesting.”
Rhys said. “Who then?”
Meera sighed. “You’re very persistent, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
It hadn’t been Meera who’d told Sari of Vestfold to send a nosy scribe. Meera had listened to the stories and rumors and told her mother of her suspicions, her mother had told her old friend Orsala, and Orsala had passed the information on to Sari, the granddaughter mated to the praetor of Mikael’s line.
That tended to be the way information was passed between havens. The poor scribes just hadn’t gotten used to it yet.
“I didn’t summon you,” she said. “I can’t tell you who did.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t.”
Rhys sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, and Meera clinked a teaspoon against her delicate cup, hoping honey would magically appear before her tea went completely cold.
Alas, they had been forgotten. It might have been the stormy expression on Rhys’s face that kept the servers away.
“You didn’t summon me,” he muttered. “But someone passed a message along to Sari. Someone she trusted.”
“How much does Sari like you?” Meera picked up her teacup and sipped the cold, unsweetened tea. Then she set it down. Awful. “She might have simply enjoyed sending you on a chase.”
“No… Well yes, she would enjoy that. But my watcher wouldn’t be pleased to lose me for no good reason. So whoever told Sari must be someone connected to the havens.”
“Why do the scribes have any interest in these legends? Don’t you have enough killing magic of your own?”
“We don’t need the magic; the Irina do.”
“If you’re so convinced of that, why don’t you leave the gathering of that magic to singers?”
“Why shouldn’t we help? Strong singers mean strong scribes.”
“So thisisabout scribes.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Rhys had moved from irritation and was headed toward angry. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Didn’t you say you moved here to be close to your parents?”
She smiled calmly. “I didn’t say that. That might have been another one of your assumptions.”
