As he had. And more than a hundred years later, he still relished it just as much as ever. But this was the sort of morning that took the joy right out of it. The cold rain chilled him despite the magical tattoo and minor charms intended to keep him warm and dry. Maybe he was sensing Jet’s discomfort across their psychic link, for his familiar was certainly drenched as well as vexed at winds that consistently blew in exactly the wrong direction to help him go where he intended. With the sky lumpy with storm clouds promising even heavier rain later on, it was shaping up to be a foul day. As such, it provided the perfect backdrop for Aoth’s first look at the Dread Ring of Lapendrar. The place was black and immense, and something about the precise curve of its walls and shape of its fanglike towers screamed of arcane power, even though Aoth couldn’t decipher the design. Maybe, as a warmage, his knowledge of wizardry was too specialized, or maybe no one could interpret it unless he’d first read Fastrin the Delver’s book.
