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The torch he carried cast smoky highlights on his steel
breastplate and wolf-fur mantle.
"Father?" said the boy groggily.
"Get up, son," Lord Brightblade said. "It's time to
go"
"Go? Where, Father?"
Lord Brightblade didn't answer. He turned quickly to
the door. "Dress warmly," he said before going out. "Snow
is flying. Hurry, boy." The door thumped shut behind him.
Sturm sat up and rubbed his eyes. The tapers in his
room were lit, but the ashes in the grate were cold. He
pulled on a heavy robe, wincing when his feet touched the
bare stone floor. As he stood, unsure of what to do next, he
heard a knock on the door.
"Enter," he said.
Mistress Carin, handmaid to his mother, the Lady Ilys,
bustled in. Her usually cheery face was pale under a close
flannel hood.
"Are you not yet dressed, Master?" she asked. "Your
mother sent me to speed your packing. Do hurry!"
Sturm rubbed his nose in confusion. "Hurry, Mistress?
Why? What's happening?"
"It's not for me to tell you, young lord." She hastened
across the narrow room to a black wooden chest and began
tossing clothing out of it. "This, and this. Not that. This,
yes," she muttered. She glanced at the puzzled boy and said,
"Well, get your bag!" Sturm pulled a long leather bag from
under the bed
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