Chapter 8Vredech threw his cloak on to a chair and slumped into another one. He put his hands to his head. He had hoped that the leisurely ride down from the Witness House and through the town would have settled and relaxed him, but it had not. If anything, he felt more tense and disturbed now than before Cassraw’s seemingly miraculous recovery. He took a deep breath and laid his hand on a copy of the Santyth that was resting on a small table by the chair. It was an old, battered copy and its position on the table was both permanent and one of honour, as it had originally belonged to his father. By an irony which Vredech always appreciated, his father had been that rarity in Madren society, an unbeliever. ‘Some good tales in there, lad. And a deal of wisdom — no denying. And some fine writ
