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. Tanis wondered if he would have found them sufficient or
even comprehensible had he been able to hear them.
What twisted purpose, he thought, his head aching with the
wondering, would move a man to this warped use of magic?
An old man, his skin the color of parchment, his hands gnarled
claws, crawling with thick, twisted veins. Age? Was that the thing
the mage had thought to stave off with the life spirit of young
Daryn? Had he been pirating the youth of others to keep himself
alive? Disgust, empty even of pity, filled Tanis until his stomach
knotted.
Wearily he turned, looking for Flint. He found the dwarf in the
darkest comer of the chamber, kneeling beside a small, richly
clothed bed. In that bed, covered with thick robes and blankets, lay
a slim, frail boy.
For one long moment Tanis thought that the boy was dead. His
breathing, so slight that it might have been the play of shadows
across his chest, made no sound.
"Flint?"
The old dwarf shook his head. "He lives, but only barely."
The boy sighed, then opened his eyes, and Tanis felt an echoing
throb of the pain that he saw there. It seemed an ancient pain, long
suffered and too long denied. Then, for a moment, the eyes filled
with pleading, darkened with fear.
"Father?"
"No," Tanis said, dropping to his knees beside the bed.
"Father, no more."
Tanis looked to Flint, who shook his head. The boy was so weak
he could barely see, so weary he could not know that Tanis was
not the father he spoke to
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