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. Noble offspring are
hard to find; they're usually well guarded. It was the
greatest stroke of luck that I intercepted your ship."
Sturm didn't feel at all lucky. He submitted without a
struggle as Artavash took him to her chambers. All the
while, even when she bound him to a heavy chair with
silken sashes, he was thinking, thinking. He batted the
feeling of helpless terror that gnawed at his mind. Soren a
captive, his mother and Carin hostages, . . . and himself. To
be bled dry, his life drained to further the evil work of the
Queen of Darkness . . .
He thought of his father, standing on the battlements of
Castle Brightblade with only a few loyal retainers while a
mob of madmen howled around them. Lord Brightblade
would meet the foe face to face, head to head, to conquer or
perish. It was the knightly way. It was the Brightblade way.
The tremors in Sturm's limbs faded. In their place a heat
grew in his chest. He was angry. His father had trusted him
to take care of his mother, and he had failed! And who
would bear the Brightblade name back to their ancestral
home if not him?
"Be still, boy," Artavash said. She tipped a clay cup to
her lips and drank.
"Lady Artavash?" said Sturm, his voice cracked with
emotion
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