Zyrella slept on a pallet along the opposite wall; Ohzikar was absent. Jaska's stomach churned, demanding food. So with creaking joints and trembling muscles, he retrieved dried meat and dates from the supply packs. He sat by the pool and ate. Jaska was dressed in a grey shirt and pants that cinched at the ankles and knees. His pack, weapons, and uniform lay stacked nearby. No, he thought, those weapons can't belong to me. Mine fell into the river. These . . . must have belonged to my students. He nearly wept as he thought of the young men he had trained for the last few years. But then what sort of men had they truly been? Salahn couldn't corrupt every palymfar through sorcery. Most, if not all, must be the worst sort. And Jaska had trained hundreds of them. He took the razor from his pack and thought of slitting his throat but couldn't. After sitting there for some time, lost in thought, he began to shave, navigating around scar tissue through touch. His barely-lit reflection in the pool showed so much scarring that he cringed to imagine what it must look like in full light.
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