Ander stares at the door Blackthorn left through and swallows. Once again they have chosen to remain in the belly of the fort rather than try to escape and there is no way of knowing if the door will be thrown open to reveal troops and Markessa herself – an ending leading to torture and slavery or death. There was something about Blackthorne that didn’t quite feel right.
Casting around in his mind for a spar to cling to to hold himself together he finds slim comfort in telling himself that it is from stuff such as this that the great legends and stories have been made. How else to find inspiration for a truly new song – a song that trembles with the thrum of the universe and echoes the glory of the gods along with the sad yet rich songs of the mortal races. This was that path – a path his curiosity and ambition (and lust, a small voice said as he gazed at the distant, alien, Valshea) had led him on – but it was a terrifying journey.
He fingered the harp and the mandolin, wondering about their history, longing to play. His soul could do with a song to recall more joyous times.