Smiling, Synyg sat in the other chair. ‘Tell me a tale, Father, as you once did. Those days following your triumph. Tell me again of the children you killed. Of the women you cut down. Tell me of the burning homesteads, the screams of the cattle and sheep trapped in the flames. I would see those fires once more, rekindled in your eyes. Stir the ashes, Father.’ ‘When you speak these days, son, all I hear is that damned woman.’ ‘Eat, Father, lest you insult me and my home.’ ‘I shall.’ ‘You were ever a mindful guest.’ ‘True.’
