Master Varnaythus said sourly, leaning back in his comfortable chair in the windowless room. Malahk Sahrdohr sat across from him, eyeing the images in the gramerhain on the desk between them with an equally sour expression. Two coursers, a red roan and a chesnut with a white star, forged steadily through the Wind Plain’s tall, blowing grass towards the Escarpment. They moved side-by-side, in the smooth, unique four-beat “trot” of their kind, moving like echoes of one another and so close together their riders could hold hands as they went. It was all too revoltingly romantic and touching for words, Varnaythus thought, grumpily watching the loose ends of Leeana Hanathafressa’s red-gold braid dance on the breeze. “Surely it doesn’t make much difference, in the end,” Sahrdohr said after a moment. He sounded rather more hopeful than positive, Varnaythus noted. “I’m not prepared to say that anything ‘doesn’t make much difference’ where Bahzell is concerned.” Varnaythus’ tone was no happier than it had been, and he glowered at the younger wizard, although he couldn’t really blame any of his current lack of joy on his associate.
