Chapter six
At the Temple of Delia in DelphondI, Dray Prescot, Lord of Strombor and Krozair of Zy, hitched up the ragged brown cloak over my left shoulder and took a firmer grip on the tatty cloth bundle that held my worldly possessions.
Leaning over the bulwark of the flier, Delia handed me the bamboo stick.
“You look a mighty savage ruffian, my love. Try not to scowl so, and cast your eyes down. To act a poor wayfarer is not going to be easy for you.”
“Maybe not, my heart. But I’ve done it before and, by Vox, I’ll do it again.”
Parting with Delia is always so cruel an experience that I wondered, every time I parted from her voluntarily, why I was such a fool. To hell with Vallia! What did it matter if an evil creed overturned everything? What mattered beside life and love that meant
