117
It was just past midday when Bradamante and the warrior monks set out for the White Temple.
The warriors had ridden at speed to reach Bradamante in time to thwart the ambush. But now Ferrau set a more leisurely pace to allow their horses to rest on their return journey.
“How is Manat?” Bradamante asked him at her first opportunity.
Ferrau seemed uncomfortable with the question. “She’s… different than before.”
It was just as Bradamante feared. When she left Manat last year, just a few days after the fire, her teacher seemed to have aged twenty years overnight.
She walked with stooped shoulders and a halting step.
Her long white hair hung over her face like a shroud.
She looked frail and uncertain in a way Bradamante had never seen before. Manat seemed to have lost all faith in h
