my ways with the Blade?” Frost asked.
“What I have seen makes little sense. My eyes have faded these past few weeks, as have the flames I would conjure. I've lost the talent since last you were here. I cannot help you.”
“Then tell me who was named Ramins' successor by the last council.”
“There are few who know. Ramins knew, of course, as it was told to him. I know of no one else, though I'm sure they exist. The council members had protegés, and some had descendants, of course, who may have been told. But Ramins himself learned that he had been chosen only when an ailing Wentesh sought him out and gave it to him.”
“Of course,” Frost replied. “I will find no comfort, I'm afraid. From the omens, I should have known.”
For a time he simply sat, arms across the table, still touching the aged sorcerer. Then he turned to Rosivok and motioned toward the door. “Check outside,” he said. “I think we will go.”
Rosivok opened the door to find a group of local soldiers, perhaps a dozen or more, running by in the little street with their swords drawn and their voices raised in shouts of panic. They continued down the way, never pausing, never looking back. Madia stood with the others as they gathered at the door.
“They act like frightened game,” Rosivok remarked.
Madia leaned out, looking about. “What would frighten such men?”
Frost rose to join them. “Quiet, and listen,” he said. In the distance now they could hear the sounds of many more men shouting, a ragged chorus that rose over the clatter of steel against steel. The sounds of battle.
* * *
“We l
“What I have seen makes little sense. My eyes have faded these past few weeks, as have the flames I would conjure. I've lost the talent since last you were here. I cannot help you.”
“Then tell me who was named Ramins' successor by the last council.”
“There are few who know. Ramins knew, of course, as it was told to him. I know of no one else, though I'm sure they exist. The council members had protegés, and some had descendants, of course, who may have been told. But Ramins himself learned that he had been chosen only when an ailing Wentesh sought him out and gave it to him.”
“Of course,” Frost replied. “I will find no comfort, I'm afraid. From the omens, I should have known.”
For a time he simply sat, arms across the table, still touching the aged sorcerer. Then he turned to Rosivok and motioned toward the door. “Check outside,” he said. “I think we will go.”
Rosivok opened the door to find a group of local soldiers, perhaps a dozen or more, running by in the little street with their swords drawn and their voices raised in shouts of panic. They continued down the way, never pausing, never looking back. Madia stood with the others as they gathered at the door.
“They act like frightened game,” Rosivok remarked.
Madia leaned out, looking about. “What would frighten such men?”
Frost rose to join them. “Quiet, and listen,” he said. In the distance now they could hear the sounds of many more men shouting, a ragged chorus that rose over the clatter of steel against steel. The sounds of battle.
* * *
“We l