“A sorceress,” the guard repeated, “I told you.” “Did she give her name?” “She did, but I’ve forgotten it. She had a safe-conduct. She was young, comely, in her own way, but those eyes… You know how it is, sire. You come over all cold when they look at you.” “Know anything about this, Dandelion? Who could it be?” “No,” the bard grimaced. “Young, comely and ‘those eyes.’ Some help that is. They’re all like that. Not one of them that I know—and I know plenty—looks older than twenty-five, thirty; though some of them, I’ve heard, can recall the times when the forest soughed as far as where
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