Her son, Nath na Falkerdrin, was not here.
Ered Imlien, just as boastful, just as bristling, short and squat, shook a fist at me wrathfully.
“Again my estates have been despoiled! And your daughter has been seen—”
He stopped himself. He was shaking. His face looked as red as a scarron. The last time he’d accused Dayra of raiding down onto his estates around Thengelsax from the northeast areas I’d half choked him, and scared him. Now he was harking back to the old sore, and so it was clear that more trouble had blown up — trouble of a serious kind — when I’d been away in Ba-Domek.
I said: “Look at that little fly, Ered Imlien, Trylon of Thengelsax.”
The fly buzzed to a swooping landing along the windowsill. A long, slender, incredibly agile green tendril shot through the air and the su
