“Will your own people not come to seek you?” He looked out over the lovely country, the river gleaming in the summer dusk far to the south. “They may,” he said. “Eight years from now. They can send death at once, but life is slower.… Who are my people? I am not what I was. I have changed; I have drunk from the well in the mountains. And I wish never to be again where I might hear the voices of my enemies.”
