‘Enough of this,’ Calidus said. The old man stood, looking taller to Veradis, his back straighter, shoulders broader. ‘The Seren Disglair does not negotiate. He is. And his followers will know him. As I do.’ Suddenly Calidus changed. It was as if he had been wreathed in mist, for now his travel-stained clothes were replaced by a coat of gleaming mail, his eyes blazed amber, and things were growing from his back, wings, Veradis realized, great wings of white feather. They extended across the room, flexed, the wind of them staggering Veradis, spilling the jug of wine. ‘The Ben-Elim,’ whispered
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