4
“Impossible,” Maren whispered.
“Please tell me I’m seeing things,” I said.
“If you are, then I am.”
The sorcerer walked to the center of the camp and stood near the fire. He pulled his hood back, and there was no mistaking it. The black hair, the hawkish nose. It was him. He spoke, his words booming across the camp, but he was speaking in the goblin tongue. The rasping, throaty words echoed off the surrounding hills.
was“He’s using magic,” Maren said.
“Well, I didn’t think he spoke that loud normally.”
“No. I mean, yes, he is projecting his voice, but he’s using other magic, too. It’s the same slippery magic from Tiradale. He must have another flute.”
“There’s something else,” I said. “He’s able to talk. Didn’t Giffor say he removed the man’s tongue?”
“You’re right,” Maren repli
