“How is he?”
“Lord king, we think he is ill.”
Oron went into the sorcerer’s tent. One servant sat by the bed, the second to one side. Abadu lay sweating and shaking, but his eyes were bright. Oron stood above him and watched him.
“Friend, how is it with you now?”
“I’ll survive. But you— You’re wounded, Oron.”
“Amrik.”
“No poison? No trickery?”
“It’s just a cut earned in battle.”
Abadu looked up into Oron’s eyes. “Are we returning to Neria?”
His king nodded. “In a day or two.”
Abadu closed his eyes. Oron took a step toward the door. Abadu reminded him, “I’ll speak with Desdira tonight. Do you wish—?”
“No. No. I’ll see her in Cenre.”
“I understand.”
“Rest,” Oron told him, then left and entered his own tent. Tion was there, waiting with a cup of wine. Oron sat with a heavy breath
