The Warthen of the Sands, he said, refused our visit. Oh, his address was cloaked in flowery words, but the meaning was unmistakable. And the Warthen was leagues distant, beyond my dubious charms and arguments. I sat grimly, waiting for my tea to steam over the fire. “Tursel, can we force the pass?” “Unlikely, and the attempt will cost us many men. The very geography conspires against us. Those cliffs, in the shadow, are stronger than walls. See how they swoop down toward the center, and how the rampart is anchored at either side in the rock? The land forces an attack to the middle, and the fortification is hardy.” “Well, you’re my advisors. What do we do?” “Vessa, I suppose.” Rustin. Perhaps he hoped to avoid Groenfil, that I might not treat with one whom I betrayed. Yes, Vessa, though his support was unlikely. His vote, like the Warthen’s, might free me from my vow to Soushire. “Shall I summon Vessa forth, or sneak into Stryx dressed as a mummer? Shall we ask Tantroth’s leave?”
