Neikirk carried his fresh cup of tea into Cerant's bedroom and resumed his seat, reaching out for the hundredth time to trace the lines of Cerant's pale, bruised face.
Thank goodness the lightning incantation had worked. His body still ached from the effort of controlling it, and using it had been a greater risk than he was comfortable admitting even to himself, but it had worked.
His elation over the victory, the result of years of work, simply was not there, however. Anything he might have felt was drowned out by the terror of seeing Cerant thrown about like a rag doll, the smack and crunch as he had slammed into that stone wall. But the lightning incantation had worked, and Neikirk had gotten to Cerant in time to save him.
Forcing himself to sit back, Neikirk sipped his tea and tr
