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Dunvane hurried aft and knocked loudly on the stern
cabin door. "May I enter?" he called.
"Yes, come."
Dunvane pulled off his knitted wool cap and raised the
latch. The cabin inside was hot and dark. The sole candle
had gone out. Dunvane's eyes adjusted to the lack of light,
and he saw a pale face emerge from the shadows near the
cabin berth.
"Are you well, Revered Son?"
"I am well, Captain." The passenger stood and stepped
into the well of faint light from the open door. A tall,
ascetic-looking man, not yet thirty years of age, his fair
skin and blond-white hair shone in the gloom. Despite the
violence of the night, he appeared remarkably composed.
His white priestly robes were neatly draped around his
narrow shoulders, and his hair was smoothed back from his
forehead. Composure came easily to Revered Son Imkhian
of Istar. He wore it as part of the costume of his office.
Seating himself at the table in the center of the cabin,
Imkhian asked in a calm, deep voice, "What has
happened?"
Dunvane opened the side shutters and let diffuse red
light fill the cabin. "A storm like no other I ever
encountered in my life, Revered Son. I shot the stars just
before eight bells, and everything was as calm as a farmer's
pond. The sky was fair. Then the lookout called, 'Fire!
Fire!' 'Whereaway?' says I. 'In the air,' says the lookout."
"Fire in the sky? Most strange," Imkhian said coolly.
"Then what?"
"A great globe of fire fell into the sea, and a burning
hot wind struck us
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