Logain watched with wonder as the people flocked around his Asha’man, weeping for their salvation. Elderly men took Asha’man by the hands, overcome, praising them. Nearby a youth looked at Logain with admiration. A dozen youths. Light, a hundred. Not a hint of fear in their eyes. “Thank you,” the young mother said again. “Thank you.” “The Black Tower protects,” Logain heard himself say. “Always.” “I will send him to you to be tested when he is of age,” the woman promised, holding her son. “I would have him join you, if he has the talent.” The talent. Not the curse. The talent.
