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As they walked, Scyld had begun to remember the day of Linduial’s escape much more vividly than he had in some time. He had come this way before, each time accompanied by a beautiful woman: that one innocent and vivacious, and this one worldly-wise and mysterious. The panic of that warm April day contrasted sharply with the serene chill of this one.
It was the cold as much as anything else that anchored him in the present, until Rowenna spoke and shook him out of his reverie: “Do you like the quiet?”
“Sometimes,” he replied. Silence left you alone with yourself – and lately Scyld didn’t always like what he saw there. I could leave, he thought suddenly. Go somewhere where these uncomfortable realizations don’t always have to be dancing around my periphery. The thought lacked conviction, though, and one powerful reason for him to stay was now walking right beside him. He glanced over at her; if anything, her reddened cheeks made her even prettier. I can think of one good reason why those brigands kept her alive… “And sometimes,” he continued, raising an eyebrow at her, “I wonder what secrets the quiet is hiding.”
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