It had poured all morning, and even when the rain stopped that afternoon the clouds refused to part. The rising sun was peeking over the rooftops behind his shoulder, so it was hard to make out the face beneath his hood. I am no Gwynesse. He drank deep, wiped his mouth, and let them bear him off to their cookfires, to listen to their talk of war and crowns and plunder, and the glory and the freedom of his reign.
The next day. I'll tell him. This is not going as well as 1 might have hoped. Lady Merryweather had pointed that out, and she was right.
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