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Though Lindir in his eagerness to rescue Endamir from his own sorrow had scarcely heard the Smith's words, Malris paused, poised on the threshold between the main forgery and the storeroom, now a morgue. He put his head slightly to one side, staring at where he supposed the Smith might be.
"We are not passing through the Keep," he answered curtly. "Once my friend is restored to a stable state of mind, we will retrace our steps and leave this place. Your fate is pitiable, Smith, and I hope it may be redressed in time. But my companions have been forced before now to be your agents, and are hardly likely to be so again willingly. Let others lay your bones to rest, old Elf."
He turned, gripping the hilt of the knife he had salvaged tightly, and followed Lindir at his own pace. He could not deny a certain sympathy for the plight of the Master-Smith, but he thought of the sundered twins, and shut his mind fast against it. No, he thought, they would not risk more danger by venturing into the Keep.
Yet later events would cause Malris to be mistaken on this point.
Thinking no longer of the matter, Malris called out to his old friend, who had been so mild and reasonable at the start of this journey, and was now a thing almost, in the grip of bedlam. Judging Lindir wise, he let his weapon fall on the stone.
"Endamir," he called out, "it is only I, Malris. You are among friends now, who bear you no ill-will. Let us help each other to treat Orėmir with the dignity his valour and keen judgement have ever deserved."
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