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. Sturm relaxed and shook the damp ends
of his long hair from his face.
The lamp above Artavash's couch guttered and went
out. In the dense darkness, Sturm could feel his pulse
throbbing in his hands and feet. He wiggled his fingers
under the binding. His hands were crossed over his lap, so
his left hand was over his right pocket, and vice-versa.
There was a lump in his left pocket he recognized as
Captain Graff's wind cord. He counted the knots. Two
hands, plus one; eleven fresh gusts of magic were locked in
that dirty strip of rawhide.
But it WAS magic. As a knight, he was forbidden by the
Measure to make use of it. Still ... to fight the Dark Queen. . . .
The day dawned bright and hot. Sturm awakened from a
tense, shallow sleep with the sun in his eyes. His body
ached from being tied all night. Artavash did not stir until a
pounding on the door compelled her to rise.
"What in thunder?" she grumbled, her voice husky and dry.
"Where is my son?" demanded Lady Ilys through the door.
"Here, Mother! I'm in here!" he shouted.
Artavash winced. She yanked a bell pull by her couch.
By the time she staggered to the door and opened it, eight
soldiers were waiting for her outside
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