Nor would I be, save I'd aid Cennaire." "You told me her heart might be restored her," Calandryll protested, alarm edging his voice. "It may be done." Ochen raised defensive hands. "But . . ." He paused, and Calandryll waited, breath baited, his own, living, heart pounding nervously, for he heard in the sorcerer's voice a hesitation that set his nerves to tingling, apprehension growing. "But?" he prompted. Ochen sighed, hands folding, lost in the wide sleeves of his green robe. For a moment his gaze encompassed the night, the stars, the sickle of the moon, then his eyes turned to Calandryll's face, somber. "You deserve the truth, unalloyed," he said at last, "and that HI give you. But first, a warning: the truth may not be what you want to hear. No, wait," as Calandryll's mouth opened, his eyes narrowed. "Hear me out, knowing that I speak holding insufficient knowledge, that I speak of the worst that may be, and that—Horul and his kindred gods willing—the worst may not come to pass.
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