“Grandfather believes they were sent by Durmad,” Dylon said,
when Arden and Glynna met privately with him that evening, before the
festivities started. They had seen him walking through the gardens and hurried
from Arden’s room to intercept him. “There was warning. An old seer Grandfather
visited several times a year warned him that black clouds were following him,
and he should take a different route home. We tried, but then a boy came from
the next village, begging us to come, there had been a dreadful accident at the
mill. The brigands attacked us in a valley just outside the village, rolling
huge boulders down on us, separating us. Grandfather broke a leg and several
ribs, and he was bleeding badly enough, he lost consciousness. When help came
…” He shuddered and his eyes were shadowed while his face went pale.
“You’ve never seen the vengeance meted out on those who violate
the laws of magic and charity, have you?” Glynna asked. She rested a hand on
his shoulder, lightly enough it didn’t go through him.
“Grandfather told me such things have happened.” Dylon shook his
head and his throat worked, as if he fought sickness. “Birds dove down from the
sky and from the trees, and the trees themselves twisted and lashed out at the
men, and I thought for a moment they would uproot themselves and come running.
And there was a bear—” He caught his breath. “Those men didn’t seem to notice
as the bear ripped into them and the animals overpowered them and they were
beaten unconscious. And they died. They shouldn’t have died. There was more
magic at work, killing them, to keep them from betraying who sent them. And
when we asked at the village, no one sent for us. The boy wasn’t one of theirs.”
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