The Sage
“He pulled it ashore, water streaming off its leather sides. “Quickly! Is it damaged?” he cried, tearing the flap open.
“Peace, warrior,” Yocote said. “Water cannot harm gold, neither salt nor fresh. If the chest is not broken, the metal is safe.”
Culaehra's panic ebbed; he threw back the flap and opened the lid of the chest without wrenching it. Sure enough, the golden coins gleamed in the candlelight, unspilled and unspoiled. He sagged with relief. “I have not yet failed in my promise.”
“You have not,” Illbane agreed. “However, we must still bring the chest to the Wondersmith.”
Culaehra sighed, closed the chest, latched it, pulled the leather up about it, and buckled the flap, then stood, heaving the burden up to his back again. “Well, it will be a long climb, but I am pleased to have this load on my back nonetheless. Lead on, gnome-folk.”
Yocote turned away, but Illbane stayed him with a touch of his staff. “Not that way—not upward.”
The gnome turned back to him, frowning.
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