Simna could not believe what he was hearing. “He’s drugged her! Or she’s been ensorcelled! She’s not free to voice her own mind. Break the hex, Etjole! Free her from this corrupting stupor so that she can speak the truth!”
The herdsman leaned slightly on his spear. “No, Simna. I do not think she is suffering under a spell. I have been watching her posture, her lips, her eyes. She is herself and none other. The words she speaks are hers, and come from the heart as well as the mind. She truly means to remain here.”
“Then—everything we’ve gone through; the battles we’ve fought, the dangers we’ve overcome, the lands and towns and armies and seas we’ve struggled to pass at the repeated risk of our very lives, it’s all been for nothing? For nothing?” When again his friend did not reply, the swordsman sat down heavily on the exquisite, highly polished gemstone floor. And then he began to laugh.
His laughter grew louder, and wilder, echoing through the length and breadth of the great hall. He began to rock back and forth, both arms wrapped around his stomach as the laughter spilled out of him in long, rolling waves. Only when he had come close to laughing himself insensate did the calmly foreboding voice from the throne speak again.
“Unlike the beauteous Themaryl, I hardly ever feel sorry for anyone. People make the lives they live. I regret to admit that in certain quarters of my kingdom I am not considered a compassionate ruler. But tonight, though I would like to laugh with you, mercenary, I find that I cannot. I can only—feel sorry for you.” He turned back to the silently staring Ehomba. “So you see, necromancer from across the Semordria, if such it is that you are, you are defeated before you can begin. That which you came to fight for no longer exists. Your reason and rationale have evaporated, like smoke.” Steel-clad fingers reached out to cover the back of the Visioness Themaryl’s perfect hand.