One he knew immediately, the other was new. And easier to understand. “Prepare it,” Darius said. “Pestling potions is for your likes.” “Sir,” said the other voice. “You know nothing of him. If naming rites have already been performed, then a blood-bonding is impossible. It will be his killing. Splay his throat and spare the ingredients.” “Endorian blood crawls beneath his skin, and he lives on. Touch the burnings on his face and ken where death dripped. The twain sight came upon him through storming bolts, and he is not yet ash, nor even mad. Your strength is naught beyond vaporing steam beside his flame. He will be second among Lastborn. He will be a seventh son to me.” “You have no other sons,” the man said quietly. “And to become second among us would require a nomination and at least a two-thirds voting at the society's midsummer banquet in order to express dissatisfaction with my service.” “Ass,” Darius said. “Ass! You are no true witch-dog, no better than a pharmator for mixing love draughts.
