The two wove their way through the laughing, singing, dancing throngs, down five streets and through another fountain square, until they came out into a quieter portion of Port’ham. A young man with gingery curls and a faint dusting of beard, wearing the simple clothes of a traveler, sat on a bench in front of a closed shop, and watched them come down the street. The swirls of magic faded as they spun down around him. When Ambrose got close enough, he saw the young man’s eyes: fern green. A faint glow like a candle flame flickered behind them, just for a moment before the last of the magic faded entirely.
He stopped a dozen paces away from the young man, who had a
simple traveler’s pack tucked under the bench by his feet. A sturdy walking
stick leaned against the bench. Ambrose bowed head and shoulders in silent
tribute.
“Healer.” The young man smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“You honor me, Steward.” Ambrose’s lips twitched in a brief
smile when Dylon caught his breath at the title.
“We are all servants on level ground at Yeshen’s feet.” The young man got to his feet. “I’m grateful we had a chance to meet. I feel I was guided here to warn you, as well as Auntie Glynna.”
“Me?” He held perfectly still, thinking of Glynna, newly Gifted to the baby princess, and the damage that could be done to Westerland, to all the kingdoms touching the farming kingdom, if that magic Gift was lost. Other times when a Gift had been passed on, Durmad had struck, through physical attack or through subtlety, killing the new Gifted or taking them prisoner, or warping them to employ that magic in his service. Had enemy spies followed Glynna here, sensing she was about to Gift herself?
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