“Not since the Blood Wars has a member of your tribe journeyed to Casoria, and then not to Court,” Ranald gathered strength as he spoke. “I’d hoped a messenger would come this session or the next. I never thought it would be you. Life is full of surprises, even at its close. As our guest, you will be treated with courtesy and heard without interruption.” The King motioned Oren to his feet. “Please forgive the rudeness of the Earth Skyll. His impatience to adjourn is merely concern for my health, am I correct, Elymas?”

            “As always, Highness,” Elymas murmured.

            “Not long ago, Hunter, I made a vow to the Gibbor on the bluffs of Ron Jonna. I’ve kept that vow, but he made a promise to me as well. If you carry evidence of its fulfillment, I beseech you to produce it at once.”

            Oren drew a flap of soft leather from the inside of the vest. He unfolded the flap and lifted out a feather of the deepest blue. The King reached for it like a dying man reaches for hope, his hands shaking so badly that the Hunter didn’t release it until the feather was safe in his clutch.

            “It is mine now,” said Ranald. “Have no fear.”

All portions of “This Textured Darkness” copywright by Joan Spilman