Is something amiss? said a woman’s voice, cold and calm. Ridmark shook his head in irritation, fingers tapping against his bamboo staff. Yet Ridmark nonetheless smelled something burning, though he saw no smoke against the gray sky. Few people lived in this region of Owyllain, perhaps because the soil was too rocky for farming. Hills rose frequently, their tops crowned with rocky tors. In all directions, the countryside was a rolling plain, covered in tough grasses. Perhaps it was because they had gone so far north. The sky was overcast, the clouds the color of iron, and it was the coolest afternoon yet since Rhodruthain had brought him to Owyllain forty-five days ago. Ridmark looked around, the wind tugging at his gray cloak. Forty-five days after the quest of the Seven Swords began, forty-five days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1488 when the cloaked stranger came to the High King of Andomhaim’s court, Ridmark Arban came to a sudden halt, his right hand falling to Oathshield’s hilt on reflex.
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