[Himaran]

A cool wind whistled across the campsite, but it was not enough to cool Abarzadan's heated temper. He had not spoken a word to anyone in the party the rest of the entire day. The man had even considered deserting, and striking out on his own; why was he out here anyway, risking life and limb to save one of the lower classes whom he had never even known. The anger in his heart slowly melted as he lay there in the uncomfortable saddle-bag - it was far too rough, and was not properly stuffed - but it was turning into something else, just as destructive: bitterness. What had Marsillion been thinking? Abarzadan's story had been far more believable, after all; just not quite as animated. The King's men were not preparing to slaughter them all, and yet the little hero had felt it necessary to not only save the day, but humiliate another party member in the process. It was amazing that the King's Captain had so willingly swallowed his tale, in direct contradiction to the previous one. Furthermore, Marsillion had yet to apologize for spitting in his face; an act that, under any circumstances, Abarzadan felt worthy of the harshest retribution.

The wind was interrupted, after a while, by the sound of muffled voices. Curious, Abarzadan slid out of his bag. Peering outside, he saw Azarmanô holding up the flap of Marsillion's tent and speaking rather quickly. Straining his ears, the man could pick up most of the words; as expected, Azarmanô was heaping lavish and almost servant-like praise on his 'master.' "Do you have any idea what Thoronmir was planning?" Master and servant, eh? No, Thoronmir's acts remain a mystery, but I would prefer to be tortured by the King's men than ever so much as speak to either of you again.

And he meant it.