Twelve returned. Her other son still toiled with the witches as well, it seemed, in Tar Va-lon, where even Balwer possessed few eyes-and-ears. Her grunt was disgusted enough for a mouthful of rotten plums. Myrelle left the tent first, then a man in just boots and breeches who had to duck low through the doorflaps, a bared sword in his hand and scars crisscrossing his lightly furred chest.
She wanted to sleep for a month, a year, to forget worries until Lan wakened her with a kiss like the Sun King with Talia. Gulps of it, actually. The wolves were still the talk of the camp, uneasy speculation over where they had appeared from and why. Moghedien had good reason to dislike her, very personally, and the only sister who could match one of the Forsaken alone, when she could channel at all, was in Ebou Dar.
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