James Clemens - The Banned and the Banished 2

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Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: James Clemens

Name: Wit’ch Storm

Series: Banned and the Banished 2

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Wit’ch Storm

Book 2 of the Banned and the Banished

-James Clemens

FOREWORD TO WIT’CH STORM

by Sala’zar Mat, novelist and playwright

(NOTE: Here follow the exact words written on the eve of Sala’zar Mut’s execution for crimes

against the Commonwealth)

First and foremost, I am a writer.

As a writer, I have come to believe that words should always be written in one’s own blood. Then one

would be careful what he or she chooses to write. Who would dare waste their limited quantity of vital

fluid on mere flippancy and fictions? If words were pumped forth from one’s heart, would they not

always speak with the truth of that person’s soul?

So though I write this with a cheap ink that clots upon my paper like the spittle from a dying man’s throat,

let me imagine it to be my life’s blood that inks this parchment. And in some ways, it truly is— for from

my cell, I can hear the executioner sharpening his knives upon his stone, a noise that slices as sharp as the

edge he grinds. When I am done with these words, he will open up my belly so all can read what the

gods have written inside me. I will become an open book. So let these words be both a foreword to this

next translation of the Kelvish Scrolls and a foreword to the open volume my corpse will become when

the sun next rises.

I am forced this night to write my story so that my dear wife, Delli, may die quickly under the axman’s

blade, rather than suffer and writhe upon the Stone of Justice. I write so she might die in peace. But as I

told you before, I must be truthful with my final words. And the truth is that whether or not the quality of

my wife’s death hung on my actions, I would still write this foreword. For you see, writing is not only my

craft… but my life. True, writing earned bread for my children and a roof over my family’s heads, but it

also nourished my soul. Words sustained me. Words were my heart. So how could I refuse one last time

to tell a story—even if it’s the story of my own damnation, a story to be used to frighten you away from

the wonders inherent in the Scrolls.

I know I am to be an example to you students who hope to become Scholars of the Commonwealth. My

death is to be a testimonial to the perversity and damnation that can lie within the text of the Scrolls. So

be it.

Here is my tale:

Among the dank alleys of Gelph, I chanced upon a black market dealer in items arcane who offered that

which was forbidden. He stank of spiced sweetmeats and sour ale, and I was apt to shove him aside. But

the scoundrel must have spied into my soul, for he whispered an offer I could not refuse: a chance to

peruse words forbidden from ages past. He offered me a copy of the Scrolls, preserved on the flayed

skin of a dead zealot. As a writer, I had heard rumors of such a text and suspected I would pay any price

for the chance to read its words. And I was right—it cost me dearly to wrangle the copy from the

foul-toothed alley man.

By candlelight, I read the entire text over the course of four sleepless days and nights. I feared someone

interrupting and snatching the copy from before my eyes, so I read without stopping. My beard grew

stubbled upon my cheek, but I did not cease until the last word reached my tired eyes.

The first of the Scrolls seemed so innocuous I could not understand why it was banned. I raved that such

a benign work should be kept from the people, but by the end of the last Scroll, I knew… I knew why

the Scrolls were kept locked away from the eyes of the populace. This made me more than just rave—I

raged against the injustice! And with the words of the Scrolls giving me power, I sought to bring the

story to the people. So I devised a plan.

I thought I could convert the Scrolls into a play—change a few names and places, twist the story a

bit—and still bring its hidden

magick to the people. But a cast member betrayed me. On the opening night of my play, I was arrested

along with my troupe and the entire audience in attendance.

Of the two hundred people hauled away that rainy night, except for my wife, I am the last still

breathing… but their wails yet echo in my head. Over the five winters of my imprisonment, I have shed

so many tears that thirst is always on my tongue. Even as I write these words, tears smear the wet ink in

black trails across the tan parchment.

Yet as much sorrow as the perusal of the Scrolls has cost my family and many others, in my heart I still

cannot regret reading them. The Scrolls changed me with their words. I now know the truth! And that

knowledge can’t be cut from me by the executioner’s knives. I will die with the final words of the Scrolls

on my lips… and die content.

As a writer, I always suspected that words held a certain magick. But upon reading the Scrolls, I now

understand just how powerful the written word can be.

Words can be the blood of a people.

POSTSCRIPT TO THE FOREWORD

by Jir’rob Sordun, profeddor of University Studied

(U.D.B.)

Welcome back to the Scrolls.

Why, you might wonder, do we waste the first few pages with the dying words of a blaspheming man?

Sala’zar Mut was executed by public torture and slow decapitation at New Welk Prison in Sant Sib’aro

on the morning after he wrote the preceding foreword.

His death, dear students, is the first lesson to be pondered before one should continue through the

Scrolls.

Did you believe Mut’s words? Did you believe that words can be the blood of a people? That words can

have some arcane power? Do not be ashamed if you did, for Sala’zar Mut was a skilled writer.

But let this be a lesson to you… Do not trust words.

Mut was under a delusion, a weakness of the mind caused by the untutored reading of the Scrolls.

Let his death be the lesson here—not his words. Words did not save his life.

So, before you open the first page of this second book, you must know the following truth and harden

your heart by reciting it one hundred times before the sun sets today:

“Words do riot have power.

The Scrolls do not have power.

Only the Council has power.“

Assignation of Responsibility for the second Scroll

This copy is being assigned to you and is your sole responsibility. Its loss, alteration, or destruction

wilt result in severe penalties (as stated in your local ordinances). Any transmission, copying, or

even oral reading in the presence of a nonclassmate is strictly forbidden. By signing below and

placing your fingerprint, you accept all responsibility and release the university from any damage

it may cause you (or those aroundyou) by its perusal.

Signature

Date

Place inked print of your right index finger here:

*** WARNING ***

If you should-perchance come, upon this text outside of proper

university channels, please close this book now and alert the

‘ proper authorities for soft retrieval. Failure to do so can. lead to your

immediate arrest and incarceration.

TOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

WIT’CH STOR

Birthed in fire and shadowed by the wings of dragon

Outside my window, a winter’s sun prepares to set into the blue of the Great Western Ocean. The sky

above is not the rosy glow of spring, but a bruised jumble of purples, reds, and yellows. I sit at my desk

and wait, as I have done every night since finishing the first part of her story last year. For the past

hundred nights, I have watched the moon wax full and wane to a sliver several times from this very seat, a

pen poised above parchment, unable to write.

Why? Why do I delay in continuing her tale? I know it is the only way to free me of the wit’ch’s wicked

spell. Only by writing her entire tale in truthful words can I lift her curse and finally die. So am I dragging

my feet in a secret attempt to extend my interminable existence? Perhaps to live another century, or two,

or maybe three?

No. Time destroys all illusions about oneself. Like water flowing through a chasm, digging an ever deeper

channel, the passing of years has worn away the layers of my self-deception. This is the only reward her

damnable curse has granted me: a heart that can now see clearly.

These days and nights of empty pages are not sprung from a desire to continue with my life, but simply

from dread, a paralyzing fear for what I must write next. Some things even the tincture of time cannot

soothe.

I know next I must tell the tale of her dark journey, a road blackened by the long shadow of the wit’ch.

Yet I fear to put this story on paper. Not only will writing this account require unlocking and star-mg full

in the face again the horrors that lay along the road, but also

y»li UJH

by placing ink to paper, it will make the legend more real, give substance and form to what is now only

memory.

Still I must…

So, as the bright days and rosy sunsets of spring and summer fade behind me, I find within the icy

breezes and bruised skies of winter the will once again to write. This is the season in which I can tell her

tale.

It is not, however, the same season in which her story begins.

Listen… Can you hear the ice breaking in the mountain passes as spring finally releases winter’s hold

upon the peaks of the Teeth, opening the way to the valleys below? Listen as the ice moans and cracks

like thunder heralding the beginning of her travels.

And like all journeys, foul or fair, it starts with a single step…

DARK ROADS

Elena stepped from the cave, pushing aside the leather hanging that kept the warmth of the mountain

folk’s morning fires snug within the cavern. Even though spring was already a moon old, here among the

peaks the early morning hours were still laced with whispers of ice from the mountaintops. Free of the

caves, the air smelled crisp, scented with pine and highland poppy, and this morning, a breath of warmth

even hinted at the summer to come.

A sigh on her lips, Elena shook back the hood of her green woolen jacket and raised her eyes toward the

mountains. Still tipped with heavy snow, they seemed to lean over her as if threatening to topple, and the

roars from a hundred waterfalls echoed through the valley from the torrents of snowmelt. After a long

winter, where both water and time itself had seemed frozen forever, the spring thaw was like a new birth.

Smiling, she took a step forward—but, as if to remind her that winter had not yet completely given up its

grasp on the highlands, her heel slipped on a patch of black ice.

She cartwheeled her arms to no avail and landed on her backside upon the rocky trail.

Behind her, Elena heard the rasp of leather on stone as Er’ril pushed aside the cavern’s apron to join her.

“Girl, we can’t have you breaking your neck before we even leave the Teeth.” He reached a hand to help

her up. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine.” With her face burning hot enough to thaw the ice under her rump, Elena ignored his hand

and struggled to her feet on

WIT CH S>TORM

her own. “I didn’t see… I slipped…” She sighed and turned away from his stern expression. Under

black brows, his gray eyes always seemed to be weighing her, judging her every action. And why was it

that he only seemed to acknowledge her when she was burning a finger on a flame or snagging a toe on

an unseen rocky outcropping? She wiped a palm over her gray trousers, searching for her dignity but

finding only a sodden spot on her backside.

“The others have been waiting a long time,” he said as he slid past her, leading the way up the three

hundred steps toward the pass where the rest of the party had gathered. “Even the wolf should be back

by now.”

Fardale, in his wolf form, had left at daybreak to survey the trails that led to the distant valleys.

Meanwhile, Nee’lahn and Meric had been assigned to tack the horses and ready the wagon, while

Tol’chuk and Mogweed hauled and inventoried their supplies. Only Krai still remained below, saying his

final farewells to his mountain clan.

“If we hope to clear the pass by nightfall,” Er’ril said as he climbed, “we must be off quickly. So keep

your eyes on the stairs, rather than on the clouds.” As if mocking his warning, a patch of ice betrayed

Er’ril’s own feet. His one arm shot out, and he had to hop two steps to keep his balance. Afterward, as

he glanced back at her, his face was a shade darker than before.

“I’ll make sure I watch where I’m going,” Elena said, her eyes bowed meekly—but she couldn’t keep a

grin from her lips.

Er’ril grumbled something under his breath and continued forward.

They managed the remainder of the stairs with care, each in a cocoon of silence. Elena, though, imagined

both their minds dwelt on the same worry—the journey ahead, the long trek across the many lands of

Alasea to the lost city of A’loa Glen. Somewhere in the sunken city lay the Blood Diary, hidden there by

Er’ril centuries ago: a tome prophesied to contain the key to saving their lands from the black corruption

of the Gul’gothal lord. But could they reach it, a band of travelers from different lands, each with his own

reasons for pursuing this journey?

With much of the last several weeks spent plotting, planning, and outfitting the band of travelers, a

mixture of relief at finally being under way and dread at leaving the security of the frozen passes swirled in

each member’s breast. A heavy silence, like now, hung around the shoulders of everyone, except for—

“Ho!” The call from behind them stopped both Er’ril and Elena near the head of the trail. Elena twisted

around to see Krai squeeze his huge frame through what now seemed a tiny opening in the granite cliff

face far below. He waved an arm the size of a tree trunk at them, his voice rolling like a boulder through

the canyon. “Hold up there. I’ll join you.”

With his back bent under a heavy pack, he bounded up the steps, taking three stairs with every stride.

Elena held her breath and winced. She was amazed that more of the mountain folk didn’t break their

necks upon the icy trail. But Krai seemed hardly to notice the slick stairs, his feet finding firm purchase

with each step. Was it just luck or skill, she wondered, that kept the huge man from a deadly fall?

He soon drew abreast of them. “It’s a good day to be off,” he said, not even winded by the thin mountain

air. He seemed to be the only member of the party to have no doubts about their journey. While the

others had grown more silent with the approaching day of departure, Krai had swelled with nervous

energy, anxious to leave. He was always rechecking their supplies, honing weapons, trimming the horses’

hooves, measuring the ice melt, or satisfying some other need for their departure.

Noting Krai’s wide-toothed grin as he joined them on the stair, Elena asked the question that had been

nagging her. “You don’t seem at all bothered to abandon your home. Aren’t you a little sad to leave ?”

Krai rubbed a hand through his thick black beard while his expression softened to amusement. “Spring is

the usual time of our Scattering. With the winter passes now open, our people split into separate Fires

and hike the trading routes. The clan will not unite again until the end of autumn. In truth, we call no place

home. As long as there is rock under our boots and a heart in our chest, we are home.” He nodded them

forward to the head of the trail.

€Er’ril refused to move, though. “Krai, you speak the truth, as all your people do, but you leave much

unsaid.” From his higher vantage on the hewn stairs, Er’ril stared the mountain man straight in the eyes. “I

suspect I know better what spurs your hurried desire to depart.”

“And what might that be, man of the plains?” Krai’s eyes narrowed slightly, the amusement on his lips

fading to a hard line.

i

Wit ch Storm

“When we first met back in Winterfell’s inn, you mentioned a prophecy of doom heralded by my

reappearance among your tribe.”

Krai’s gaze darted away; he seemed to study the cracked ice on the stair.

“It’s not the journey ahead that excites your heart,” Er’ril continued, “but simply relief that I am leaving

your people—and your clan yet survives.”

“You shame me with your words,” Krai mumbled to the cold stone.

“I don’t mean to. That’s not why I stopped you here.”

“Then why?” he asked sourly.

“To thank you.” Er’ril took a step closer and reached up to grasp the man’s shoulder as Krai’s eyes

grew wide. “I’ve already thanked you for sheltering us and healing me of the goblin’s poison, but I never

thanked you for the risk your tribe took in taking me in. You knew the prophecy, yet took me into your

home.”

“You owe us no… thanks,” Krai said, stumbling with his tongue. “We could do no other. We are bound

to the Rock and will not shirk our duty—or its burden of prophecy.”

“Still I owe you a debt, friend.” Er’ril squeezed Krai’s shoulder a final time, then turned around to lead

the way up to the Pass of Spirits. “And we of the plains, too, know something of honor.”

Elena followed Er’ril, but not before noting the shine of respect in the mountain man’s eyes.

As they continued higher, toward the pass, Er’ril began to limp slightly on his right leg, the climb

obviously worrying the bone struck with the goblin’s knife last autumn. The dagger’s poison had wasted

the Standi plainsman to a hollow figure. Though he had quickly regained his muscle and form afterward,

echoes of his injuries still persisted, especially with exertion. And Er’ril wasn’t the only member of the

party bearing scars. Each member carried wounds—not all of them visible—from their first confrontation

with the Dark Lord. And who knew what other battles were yet to be fought before the party reached

the lost city?

Er’ril reached the top of the trail and stopped. His eyes were toward the open pass. “I still think the plan

is foolhardy,” he mumbled.

Elena and Krai joined him.

The Pass of Spirits spread in meadows and gentle slopes away

JAMES CLEMENS ±/

from them. Here spring had truly reached the highlands. Blooming crocuses spread in splashes of blues

and whites, and at the edges of the pass, some flowers were even pushing right out of patches of

persistent snow, as if spring itself were trying to shake its shoulders free of winter’s mantle. Besides the

flowers, the pass teemed with life. At the fringes of budding birch trees, the spotted red flanks of a family

of deer could be seen, slowly working up the pass. Overhead a circling hawk screeched and dove into

the green sea of meadow grass then sprang back out, something small and furred wriggling in its

talons.

Er’ril’s eyes obviously saw none of this. “Look at that wagon,” he said. “It looks like a cheap tavern

whore, painted and draped in bells to attract every eye and ear.”

Near a small creek that murmured among mossy boulders, Elena spotted the herd of tethered horses

grazing by a large covered wagon. The“ wagon’s wooden sides were painted a burnt orange, and its

canvas covering, stretched taut over a frame of bent maple saplings, had been stained dark blue with

hand-stenciled white stars. Cowbells ringed its flanks, each painted a different color.

“I sort of like it,” Krai said beside her.

Scowling, Er’ril marched toward the milling horses and people waiting nearby. “I should’ve just taken

Elena by myself. Then we would not have needed this foolishness.”

“It’s been long decided. We all cast our stones,” Krai said. “Besides the elv’in Meric—who wanted to

abandon the entire journey—you were the only one who wanted to split up the group.”

“We are too many. A smaller party could move more swiftly and attract fewer eyes.”

“Perhaps, but if you should attract an enemy’s eyes, you’ll need the strengths and skills of all to keep the

girl from the Black Heart’s grasp. It is not just brigands and thieves we must protect her against.”

“I’ve heard the arguments.”

Elena had to half run to keep up with the bigger men. She spoke between gulps of air. “Uncle Bol

warned us that we must stay together.”

“I know, Elena,” Er’ril said, slowing slightly to allow her to keep abreast of him. “I don’t mean to

disparage your uncle. He was a brave man. But the portents he attempted to decipher are tricky to

interpret with accuracy. He might have been mistaken.”

Witch Storm

“He wasn’t,” she said firmly, and in her heart, she truly did sense the importance of keeping the group

intact. Maybe in part because she had already lost her entire family: her parents burned to death by her

own hand, her aunt and uncle slain by beasts of the Gul’gotha, and her brother Joach stolen from her by

black magicks. So much loss would have been inconsolable without the support of those around her.

After six moons together, this group had become a second family, united not by the blood of birth but the

blood of battle— and she did not want to see this family sundered. “We must stay together.”

“So we will,” Er’ril said, but doubt rang in his voice.

“It’s a sound plan,” Krai argued. He pointed at the gaily painted wagon. “There stands our banner.

Disguised as a small circus, one among many plying the warm roads of spring and summer, we will hide

in the open. While searching eyes will seek for us along back roads, we will travel open and free, loud

and noisy. Not only will this keep furtive eyes from looking too closely at us, it will also earn us coppers

and gold to replenish our supplies. I say it is a sound plan.”

“Yes,” Er’ril said with sarcasm. “And you mountain folk only speak the truth.”

Krai harrumphed and patted Er’ril good-naturedly on his shoulder. “Ahh… I see your time among the

clans has taught you a bit of wisdom.”

Close to the wagon now, Krai’s loud voice drew the attention of the others away from their final

preparations. Nee’lahn turned her head from where she had been cinching a saddle atop a roan stallion.

She raised a hand in greeting, then froze as her eyes settled on Elena. Blinking a few times, she dropped

the currybrush she had in her other hand and crossed closer to them.

As she approached, Nee’lahn wiped a smudge of mud from her cheek while speaking: “Sweet Mother,

Er’ril, what have you done to the poor child? Her hair!”

Elena, suddenly self-conscious, raised a hand to her shorn hair. Where once long auburn curls had

draped past her shoulders, now only a coarse crop of hair that barely covered her ears remained. And

that hair was no longer auburn, but dyed as black as Er’ril’s own locks.

“If we are to hide Elena within this daft circus,” Er’ril said, “what better way than to mask the girl herself?

So… meet my new son.”

Er’ril watched the others gather around Elena.

Amongst the thronging party, Tol’chuk’s bulk was like a boulder in a stream. Twice the weight of even

the huge mountain man, the og’re did not crowd too closely, seeming to sense that his massive form still

unnerved the much smaller girl. Even though the creature was foul to the eye—with his leathered skin,

fanged teeth, and hulking mass—Er’ril had grown to respect and admire the og’re for his calmness and

intelligence. It was Tol’chuk’s quiet words during the oft-heated discussion of their plans that had finally

persuaded Er’ril to their present course.

In contrast, dwarfed in the og’re’s shadow hid the quiet Mogweed. To Er’ril, the shape-shifter remained

a blank slate. The skinny man with mousy hair and nervous movements hardly spoke a word, and when

he did, he talked so softly he could hardly be heard. Yet, as little as the si’luran man revealed through his

manner and speech, Er’ril felt something oily and slippery about him. Even now, as Mogweed studied

Elena, darting quick glances from a few paces away, he struck Er’ril as being like a hungry bird studying

a squirming worm. Er’ril could practically see Mogweed’s mind swirling with thoughts and plans he never

voiced.

Whereas Meric, dressed in his usual white linen and billowy green pants, never kept his opinions to

himself. The tall, silver-haired elv’in leaned closer to Elena, reaching a narrow finger to raise her chin, but

his words flew to Er’ril. “How dare you touch her? You had no right to mar the beauty of our royal line in

such a manner.”

“It was necessary,” Er’ril answered coldly. “Her disguise might just very well keep that precious royal

line of yours still breathing.”

Meric released her chin and turned hard eyes on Er’ril. “And what of her mark?” He pointed to Elena’s

hand, where shades of ruby whorled in languid swirls. “How do you propose to hide her wit’ch’s blaze?”

“My son will earn his keep at the circus by hauling and sweeping. And for these chores, he’ll need a

good pair of work gloves.” Er’ril tapped his belt, from which hung a set of plain leather gloves.

“You propose to have elv’in royalty sweep and handle filth?” Meric’s white skin darkened. “You’ve

already made her a sorry enough figure with your ridiculous shearing.”

Elena’s face had by now flushed to match her ruby hand. Meric knelt down by the girl. “Listen, Elena,

you don’t have to do this. You are the last of the elv’in king’s royal line. In your veins flows the blood of

lost dynasties. You must not ignore your birthright.” He took her hand. “Give up this foolish quest and

return with me to the wind ships and seas of your true home.”

“The lands of Alasea are my home,” she answered, slipping her hand free of his. “I may be descended

from some lost king of yours, but I’m also the daughter of these lands, and I won’t abandon them to the

Gul’gothal lord. You are free to leave and return to your home, but I will stay.”

Meric stood back up. “You know I can’t return—not without you. And my mother, the queen, would

not tolerate any harm coming to you. So if you persist in this foolish pursuit, I will be at your side to

protect you.”

Er’ril tired of this man. “The child is my charge,” he finally said, guiding Elena away by the shoulder. “She

has no need of your protections.”

The wasp-thin elv’in ran a disdainful eye up and down Er’ril, then waved an arm around the pass. “Yes, I

see how you protect her. Just look at the wagon in which you propose to lead her. You would have her

travel like a vagabond.”

Er’ril inwardly winced at the words, recognizing his own complaint from earlier. He hated to hear the

same sentiment on the elv’in’s lips. “It’s not an unsound plan,” he mumbled, knowing he was

contradicting his previous words. “For centuries, I have traveled the roads myself as a juggler and

showman to earn my keep. Its gaudiness will hide one plain girl.”

“But just look at her hair,” Meric moaned. “Was that necessary?” Before either could speak again,

Tol’chuk interrupted, his voice a rattle of rocks in his throat. “Hair grows back,” the og’re said simply.

Krai grunted his amusement and turned to Nee’lahn, who stood at the mountain man’s side. “Well, it’s

settled then, lass. With Elena disguised, I guess you’ll be the only woman traveling with this troupe… Of

course, if you feel outnumbered, we could always pop a mummer’s wig on the og’re and call him

Mogweed’s sweetheart.”

The petite nyphai woman swept back her long blond hair. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Now if

you’re all done gawking at the poor girl, maybe we can finish hitching the horses and be under way.”

JAMES l^LEMKNS

“Nee’lahn’s right,” Er’ril said, turning his back on the elv’in. “The wet passes will be ice by nightfall

and—”

“Look!” Elena said, pointing past everyone’s shoulders.

A huge black treewolf could be seen at the head of the pass, loping across the meadow toward them, a

dark shadow in the grass.

“It’s about time, Fardale,” Mogweed mumbled under his breath. Er’ril heard the distaste in the man’s

voice and sensed there was much unspoken between these shape-shifting brothers.

The wolf swept up beside Mogweed, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. With his amber eyes

aglow in the sunlight, Far-dale fixed his brother with an intent stare. After several silent breaths, the wolf

nodded his head slightly, breaking contact, then crossed to the nearby creek to slake his thirst.

“Well?” Krai asked Mogweed. “What did your dog say?”

Before Mogweed could answer, Elena scolded the mountain man in hushed tones. “He’s not a dog. You

shouldn’t call him that.”

“He’s just teasing, child,” Er’ril said and joined Krai at Mogweed’s side. “Now what did your brother

discover about the condition of the passes?”

Mogweed edged away from Er’ril, deeper into the og’re’s shadow. “He says many of the ways are

blocked by fast and deep waters. Impassable. But the northernmost trail is clear of all but a few swollen

streams.”

Er’ril nodded. “Good. Then we have an opening to the valley and plains.”

“Except…” Mogweed seemed to shrink in on himself.

“What is it, man?”

“He says that it… smells wrong.”

Elena moved closer to them, a seed of worry growing in her eyes. “What does that mean?”

Er’ril rubbed at a throb that had developed in his temple during the hard climb here. “Yes, what does that

mean?” he repeated sourly.

James Clemens - The Banned and the Banished 2 - Witch Storm

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