On the night of the first snowfall at Bakyon, nearly a month after Oron’s capture of that city, a messenger visited the palace and requested a word with its ruler. He was ushered into Oron’s presence, and the Wolf grunted as he looked upon this rogue. He was a thin man with shifty, hooded eyes, and when he spoke, he writhed his hands together and tapped his feet as though in discomfort.
“Lord Oron,” he said, standing before the throne dais. “I am a wandering man with no steady home, so I do as best I might, traveling to and from all places. Lately, my lord, I have traveled long and far, from Istidrul to Sum in Amer, and thence to this city of Bakyon. And as always on my journeying ways, I make my meager income from selling good news to those who might make the best of what I offer.”
Oron
