Shyan’s got her head in her hands when Fassn comes to. Abia has a hand on her friend’s shoulder in comfort, but long moments of silence pass. Old Mossy sits by his hearth, smoking a long-stemmed pipe with contemplative puffs. Fassn disturbs the morose tone with the beginnings of a hearty chuckle. All the other drawn, ashen faces in the room look up to him. He starts to jig and caper, letting his fingertips drag across the rough mud walls of Old Mossy’s hut. “I heard him, I heard him,” Fassn sings. He trips lightly about the room until he stops short in front of Shyan. He peers at her with sudden seriousness.
“I was with master Davit,” she begins.