Many moments of action.
“I don’t think I can die, Estriilde,” Gryff said quietly, his first words since the peak of the bridge.
“You’ve pickled your head in wine, Farmer,” Estriilde replied. They hurried toward her tent, so close to being free of the wind.
“It’s not the wine,” he persisted. “It’s the sunwield. I don’t believe it will let me die.”
“We all die, Farmer.” Her cloak opening wide as wings, she flew ahead. He plodded behind her, entering the dark tent as she fumbled to light the brazier. Sparks flinted to life and the fire began its fight to banish the cold. He sank onto a stool as Estriilde sat back on her heels and studied him. “Every one of us dies in our time.”
Drawing on the leather cord, he lifted the medallion from inside his shirt and let it hang exposed around his neck. She shuffled forward…
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