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I brushed Mother's desperate, restraining hand from my
shoulder, and stared into the swirl of broken light.
There was a dead man. He was small. His shadow
swayed back and forth in a room of wood and stone,
dappling the floor below him with dark, then light, then
dark. His fine clothing fluttered and his hood lifted slightly.
I saw his face . . . his arms . . .
"The scars. Lady, they are like mine. Who is he?"
"Orestes," she replied, stirring the water. "Pyrrhus
Orestes. Your father, hanged with a harp string."
"And . . . WHO?" I asked, my sudden urge for
vengeance stabbing as hot as the BEATHA, as the burning.
"By his own hand, Dove," L'Indasha said. "When he
thought he could neither redeem nor . . . continue the line."
REDEEM NOR CONTINUE. It was quite confusing and
I was muddled from the potion and the hour.
L'Indasha's face reflected off the fractured ice in the
bucket: it was older, wounded, a map of lost lands. "You
weren't told. But Orestes got his desire and now the scars
have ripened."
Mother clutched my shoulder. The pain relented a bit.
"Continue what? Lady, 'tis a riddle."
A riddle the druidess answered, there in the vaulted
cave, as the weather outside turned colder still and colder,
on a night like those on which the fisherman claim you
could walk on ice from Caergoth across the waters to
Eastport.
She told me that my father, Orestes, had ridden
desperately westward as the peninsula burned at the hands
of the invaders. He rode with freebooters - with Nerakans
and the goblins from Throt, and they were rough customers,
but he passed through Caergoth unharmed
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