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. A SPATTERING OF BLOOD
TAINTED THE REMNANT.
"MARISSA!" HE YELLED IN IMPOTENT RAGE. HIS
SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD SISTER, HIS BEST FRIEND, SO
BRIGHT, SO ALIVE . . . MARAKION UTTERED A
STRANGLED CRY, CLUTCHED THE CLOTH IN HIS
FIST. . . .
*****
"Sir?"
Sir . . . ?
"Sir, are you asleep?"
Marakion started awake as the hand touched him. He
was disoriented, thought he was still there, still back at his
burned and devastated home. His hand reacted to the touch
with the quickness of a snake. Snatching the thin wrist, he
held it tightly. There was a gasp of pain. Marakion stared
hard, trying to focus his eyes.
Marissa?
The eyes of the woman were wide, and she was frozen
where she stood.
Marakion's harsh stare did not relent, but his grip lost
some of its steel. No, not Marissa, a barmaid, just a
barmaid.
"What?" he asked shortly, releasing the woman's wrist.
Her hair was a dirty red, and as unkempt as the plain,
rumpled brown dress she wore.
She appraised him coolly with shrewish eyes. "Griffort
wants to know if you want pepper in your stew."
"Fine," Marakion said, "that's fine."
"I'll tell him," she said curtly, and left.
Marakion slowly withdrew something from his tunic.
Unfolding it, he laid the piece of lavender cloth out in front
of him. It was worn, faded; dark brown spots stained it.
Closing his eyes, Marakion pressed the cloth against his
cheek.
"Marissa. . . ."
*****
The following morning dawned cold and unpleasant
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