Suddenly he pressed the looking glass to his eye as a woman galloped a tall black horse into the open. 772A GROWN OF SWORDSBrand livid on his face, the fellow backed away, sometimes half-reaching as if to try grabbing past the medallion. She had never lost the ardor she felt the first time she touched the Source. The voice was crystal chimes.
The thing was, she knew he had resisted admitting his love for Ny-naeve. If she could only sleep, she could put away memories of the morning's horrible journeys by boat. He expected weaseling'over what they had or had not promised. He did not know where she was leading with this new tactic—not where an oaf might suppose, he was sure—but it would be amusing to find out.
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