Another knife followed it, and then another. All three knives quivered, inches apart, exactly where the man’s heart would have been. “Impressive,” Absalm said. Sorin walked over to the weapons rack and pulled out a blade. The slight hitch in the sorcerer’s breathing told him that Absalm knew which knife he had drawn. He flipped it up in the air. The blade twirled, a deadly circle of steel, until he caught it by the hilt. “Shouldn’t you be careful with that?” Absalm asked. He had recovered his usual gentle cadence—what Sorin thought of as his wise teacher tone. “Should I?” Sorin said. “Can’t the Renegai heal poison?” “Not that poison.” Sorin threw the blade up again, spun on his heel, and was facing the sorcerer when he caught it. “So if I nicked myself,” he mused, “I would die. And what would you do, then?” “Not heal you,” Absalm said. “Because I can’t.” “I believe you. I meant, after I died.” Sorin’s arm tensed, wanting to fling the knife up again.
