get here. I received a letter yesterday from the commander of her escort saying that the journey would take a bit longer than expected. It seems the noble lady, ah, insisted on bringing along several wagonloads of art treasures. Twenty wagonloads, to be precise. Marble sculptures, mostly. And, ah—unusual, this—apparently quite a few wooden ones. Reedbottom carvings, as it happens. Seems that new cult of theirs—what's it called? the 'Young Word'?—is given to religious icons."
"Sculptures?" choked Helga. "Icons?" Her eyes widened. "We're in the middle of the worst civil war in history and some noblewoman is hauling useless crap through the countryside? To a wedding? What kind of lunatic—"
She broke off and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, the gods. Don't tell me. Twenty wagonloads? There's only one woman in the Confederacy rich enough for that. Not to mention crazy enough!"
Demansk
"Sculptures?" choked Helga. "Icons?" Her eyes widened. "We're in the middle of the worst civil war in history and some noblewoman is hauling useless crap through the countryside? To a wedding? What kind of lunatic—"
She broke off and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, the gods. Don't tell me. Twenty wagonloads? There's only one woman in the Confederacy rich enough for that. Not to mention crazy enough!"
Demansk