‘Come in, Commander,’ Dan-Tor’s voice spoke before Urssain had struck the door. He started and almost lost the inner balance he was maintaining so precariously. Then he straightened up and pushed the door open.
A faint, familiar scent pervaded the room. Familiar now because it lingered wherever Dan-Tor had been. It was delicate perfume, underlain by the smell of blood.
The palace servants did sterling and silent work to eradicate all signs of the Ffyrst’s slight but relentless bleeding, but traces always remained. Urssain had long stopped asking himself why Dan-Tor would not allow the arrow to be drawn, or why the wound did not either heal or fester. One day, when Dan-Tor appeared, the shaft of the arrow had been mysteriously broken, but there was an aura about the Ffyrst that forbade al
