The numbness swelling in Silhara’s heart since Martise rode off with the priests worsened. The Fire bubbled in his belly. He’d lost the woman he loved and now the friend he admired. Gurn had been more companion than servant—one who understood a need for solitude but helped keep years of loneliness at bay with his quiet presence. Silhara appreciated his loyalty, was grateful for it. How had he, a wharf rat, managed to engender such faith in a servant turned friend? “You can’t stay, and you can’t help. Not here. If you’re my friend as you say, you will do me this last favor. When you reach
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