It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.
“I saw the place in Imre where you killed him. By the fountain. The cobblestones are all shathered.” He frowned and concentrated on the word. “Shattered. They say no one can mend them.”
All the scars were smooth and silver, streaking him like lightning, like lines of gentle remembering.
“You can call me Chronicler.” “I didn’t ask what I could call you,” Kote said. “What is your name?” “Devan. Devan Lochees.”