Neither did the prospect of captivity appear to trouble him. The tallix within the traitor’s cell absorbed him totally as he exchanged the knife in his hand for another, uglier blade, all pitted and stained with age. Left curious by his detachment, the wine steward lingered in the corridor. Korendir shifted grip on his dagger, then knelt at the pattern’s center. Ruddy light touched his face; not caused by lantern flame, but by some refracted brilliance cast back from the crystal beneath. Magic lurked there, a coiling malevolence that flurried the mind with doubt. With tentative care, the mercenary touched his steel to the axis of Tir Amindel’s wardstone. A tingle of energy surged up his arm. Hair prickled at his nape, and the protective pendant from Ithariel heated on its chain until contact with the stone burned flesh. Korendir repressed a shudder. Each passing moment undermined his will with a reluctance that radiated through the tallix itself. He knew he must smash the crystal instantly, else forfeit the attempt.
