said Vortka. His voice was a whisper, his body shaken head to toe. “Zandakar, am I dreaming?” He tried to smile, his throat was so tight. Here was Vortka, his friend from boyhood, the man who had saved him when Yuma would kill him, when Dimmi would kill him. His face deeply lined, his eyes weary beyond anything, but he was still Vortka. “No, high godspeaker. I am here, the god has brought me. We have much to speak of, the god tasks me with its want.” “Zandakar,” said Vortka, and seized him close in a suffocating embrace. “Aieee, the god see me, you are come home.” Never in his life had Vortka embraced him, never had the high godspeaker wept out his name. Something cold and hard within him broke, then, and he held tight to Vortka like a man drowning in a sea of grief, or joy. At last Vortka released him and stood back. His godbraids were silver, as silver as his godbells.
