Balian’s remarks and the sight of Martise’s face, white with shame, had set his temper soaring. For a moment it felt as if the dolt was insulting him instead of his apprentice. Anger, mixed with no small amount of jealousy and possessiveness, roared through him. Stabbing that knife point into the vulgar bastard’s hand went a long way to cooling him off. Scarring and beating him bloody had made Silhara almost cheery.
