“You know, there are those in Ehl-Larimar who would give a great deal to see me dead.” When Peregriff started to offer the requisite ritual objection, Hymneth waved him off. “No, it’s true. For whatever reason, I am not universally loved by my people. I tolerate this because I must. A certain amount of dissension is valuable because it allows the discontented to let off steam, and to preserve the illusion that they enjoy a greater degree of personal freedom than is the case.” With a resigned sigh he turned back to his general and to the heavily perspiring soldier.
“But I must strive for perfection in those who serve me, even as I aspire to perfection in myself. Especially among my personal bodyguard there can be no room for hesitation, or incertitude. The irresolute must live with the consequences of their own spinelessness.” Having abandoned the fallen lance, the two eromakadi were now darting and dancing about his ankles. Clenching his fingers tightly, he lifted them up to the sweating soldier—and opened them.
Uttering an inarticulate cry, the young man wrenched on the reins of his mount, whirled, and bolted from the ranks.
Rotating slowly perhaps half an inch above Hymneth’s open palm was a fist-sized sphere of dark green vapor shot through with black streaks. It was lit from within by a dull, miasmatic light. Miniature clouds roiled across its surface, evolving and vanishing after a few seconds of life. Lips tight, Peregriff held his ground. At Hymneth’s feet, the eromakadi bounced and spun in a paroxysm of deviant delight.