New conquerors. And that same young prince, who has a Rankan wife, consorts openly with one of those… creatures.”
He came to painful pause rather than a halt, but Strick said, “All this I know,
Aral Shafralain t’llsig.”
Shafralain nodded. “1 said that I want to believe you, Strick. White Magic is the Old way. We need it. Sanctuary needs hope.” Abruptly he rose. “I was not questioning you, my touchy friend. I love Sanctuary and hope you do.”
Strick rose. “My vow is long since made, Shafralain, and bound about. I am what
I say. A minor weaver of spells; spells for good and that only.”
“You said that you paid a price,” Shafralain said, after gazing at him for a time. “I would dare ask what price you paid for your… abilities. A tooth?”
Strick shook his head. He reached up and brushed his hand over his skullcap, wiping it backward from his head. Shafralain stared at the other man’s head, and at last he nodded. He extended his hand. Strick took it, and again their gazes met. Then Shafralain departed amid a rustle of silk. The big man carefully replaced his skullcap.
Noble Shafralain could guess at the rest of the Price Strick had paid for the ability, but probably would not. Strick didn’t care.
His name was Gonfred and he was a goldsmith with a reputation for honesty. No shavings, no scrapings or drippings remained in his possession when he worked with the gold of others. He hiccoughed as he entered Strick’s shop and again by the time he was seated and laying a silver coin on the desk’s blue cloth.