“The Lord Arna shine upon you,” he intoned with an almost aggressive apathy. “May he who rises in the sun send the Nine among us, they who are fire and light, to dispel the darkness of your ignorance and warm the coldness of your spirits.”
It was an ancient blessing, not a prayer, and thus not spoken in the Old Tongue. Galdtchav looked round the square and saw confused frowns. He sighed. The blessing, he knew, wished its hearers a deepened insight into the ways of Arna and warm contentment in the knowledge of these ways. The Archpriest could speak those words in a way that would transform any gathering, but Bal-jarrak’s curt tones had made them sound like an accusation. The Loremaster resolved to speak to the Archpriest about the phrasing of the blessing. A small difference would remove a
