“As certain as I’ve ever been.” “So not really, then.” The warlord and the witch stood amid a grove of trees, less ancient perhaps than those of Theaghl-gohlatch, but older still than Imphallion itself. They towered above, aloof giants with beards of leaves and tears of moss, oblivious to the scurrying of the tiny creatures below. It was a place of power, Seilloah had claimed—a power that they were about to desecrate, to poison for generations to come. Around the perimeter of a rough circle, not a clearing but simply a relatively even growth of trees, thirteen men and women sat on the earth, tied securely to the unyielding boles. The begging and pleading had long since run its course, leaving nothing but frightened sobs and quickened breath to break the night’s still silence. Criminals, most of them, and soldiers the remainder, people who had chosen a life of violence and known that their deaths might well prove the same. Corvis wasn’t self-deluded enough to think that it actually made a difference, though.
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