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"Not that I think the Cataclysm was really such a
terrible thing," Matya said to herself. "I daresay I wouldn't
make as good a living as I do if these self-important knights
still patrolled the highways. And while times may be hard,
it only means that people will spend more dearly for the sort
of things I can bring them in my wagon. If anything, the
Cataclysm has been good for business, and that's all that
matters to me."
With a start, Matya realized that the knight had heard
her talking, was watching her. His eyes were pale, almost
colorless.
"To whom do I owe my life?" he asked her.
Matya stared at him in surprise. Despite his unlikely
looks, the knight's voice was resonant, deep and almost
musical, like the sound of a hunting horn.
"My name is Matya," she said briskly, recovering her
wits. "And as for what you owe me, we can discuss that
later."
The knight inclined his head politely. "I am Trevarre, of
the House of Navarre," he said in his noble voice. "For your
assistance, I thank you, but if it is a reward you seek, I fear
we must discuss it now, not later." He gripped the wagon's
side and tried to pull himself up, heedless of his injuries.
"What are you doing?" Matya cried.
"Leaving," Trevarre said. A crooked smile touched his
lips, and determination shone in his deep-set eyes. "You
have been more than kind, Matya, but I have traveled day
and night to reach the end of my journey. I cannot stop, not
yet."
"Why, you knights are greater fools than the tales say,"
Matya said angrily, hands on her hips
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