If the thought were a prayer, he knew not to whom he prayed. The dwarf gods weren’t his own, and the superstitions of the common folk held no appeal to him. But he hoped that perhaps someone or something might hear his plea. And if not—if, as he suspected, no one was there to respond—then the task of improving was his and his alone. The prospect was daunting in the extreme, but there was solace in it too. Whatever he accomplished—good or evil—he might rightfully claim without apportioned dues. If chance dictated the events of his life, he was the master of his responses, and no king or god
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