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Updated: May 24, 2025
What had become of the row of white beds, with Dearwyn's rosy face on the next pillow? And she herself why was she lying on the outside of the covers, with all her clothes on, a cramped aching heap? Rising on her elbow, she gazed wonderingly at the frowzy woman stretched near her on a pallet.
Leaving them, he moved forward to the well and stood gazing into it, his fingers mechanically raking together and crushing the dead leaves that had fluttered down upon the curbing. Dearwyn's pretty lips began to quiver with approaching tears. "Randalin, I am miserably terrified. The air feels as though awful things were about to happen."
But her gaze was still on the ring; and as she felt him start, that impish dimple peeped out of her cheek. "Is it not a handsome thing?" she said. "It looks to be a ring to belong to a giant." "Is it Rothgar's?" The dimple deepened as she heard his tone. For all its absurdity, there must be some truth in Dearwyn's witch-skill.
"It seems that the world has begun to fall to pieces everywhere," Randalin said wearily. The momentary forgetfulness which the happenings around her had created was beginning to give way before the weight in her breast. She drew herself up listlessly. "Is it of any use to remain up here, Dearwyn?" But Dearwyn's grasp had tightened. "See! the King is beginning to speak."
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