It is as though Brundool, trade representative from Opayknon, knows by osmosis; while others grapple with symbols and abstraction, Brundool already knows only to consciously become aware of everything later. Thus, when an official of the city of Pantyan approached Brundool at the open air restaurant, Brundool smiled and simply said, “I had a feeling I might be visited by you today.” His green eyes sparkled; he sipped his wine, sipped it so carefully.
The official, an overweight, trying-to-hide-concern sort of fellow, dressed in the yellow robes of city official/purple belt for enforcement of laws, sat at the table and stared at Brundool.
Brundool smiled. “I’ve known you for a long tine, Krelta; I sense you’re anxious about something.”
“I’m not anxious.” Krelta made an effort to still his hands on the table.
“I see,” said Brundool, “and the anxiety I experience is self-generated; I’m not resonating with you at all. Is that correct?”
He stopped. “The anxiety I experience has just increased. Are you feeling threatened by me?”
“No,” said Krelta, a bit too emphatically.
Brundool shrugged, passed a hand over his baldness, then sat back in his chair and placed his hands on his stomach, over the simple maroon robes of Trader. He smiled. “I fantasize you want me to do something for you that may not be legal.” He winced. “My, the anxiety! How do you contain it within yourself, Krelta?”
“I’m not anxious!” said Krelta, his face growing red, his hands fidgeting.
“I see,” said Brundool, “and your hands certainly tell of a vast and wondrous inner peace?”
Krelta scowled.
“Krelta,” Brundool said at length, “come now. I know you—what is going on?”
Krelta sighed, looked away for a moment, then looked back. “Do you—are you familiar with the name Dasdan? Dasdan Yorko?”
Brundool thought for a minute. “Oh, oh, yes. You directed the detective work which led to his capture. I heard about it not long after I first came here.” Brundool looked at Krelta for a long minute. “Ah. I suspect something has happened to him and your political career is in danger?”
Krelta looked chagrined and lowered his head as though feeling somewhat shamed. He swallowed. “That is true. He escaped from detention which is under my jurisdiction—he killed several enforcers in his escape—it is not my fault—but I must answer for it. Everyone will know the news in several hours. I must go back and answer questions and what I must say is that he will be captured soon—” Krelta looked around, then whispered, “Very, very soon.”
Brundool sighed. “I’m not sure what you mean by soon—but if you can find me some of his victims here in Pantyan or on Prandor—”
“Anything!” said Krelta. “We can find his victims—I know of two—three—right in the city.”
“I guarantee I can find him—whether or not I can help him—”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Krelta, “just find him—the man is crazy—”
“Crazy?” asked Brundool.
“He loves to torture, to inflict pain—he has dismembered people, animals—”
Brundool looked both sympathetic and repulsed. He nodded. “It’s easy to speculate how he grew up. And it’s fairly easy to see how he can be helped.”
Krelta looked puzzled. “How?”
Brundool shook his head. “No, let us wait. I want to be sure. Can you take me to his victims?”
Krelta nodded. “It will have to be tomorrow—I have to contact people. This afternoon, I am going to have to answer many uncomfortable questions.”
“Tomorrow, then,” said Brundool. “Meet me here at this time?”
Krelta nodded, “if you can help me—”
“Ah-ha!” Brundool smiled. “Bribing an Opayknon Trade Official?”
Krelta flushed, blustered and bristled. “What I mean is—that is—I’m grateful—it’s not bribing—”
But Brundool laughed gently and raised his hand. “Tomorrow.”
Krelta, smiling tightly, nodded and left.
The next day Krelta appeared on time. He sat warily at Brundool’s table and placed his hands, palms down, on the yellow and blue tiled surface. “It’s been most difficult,” he finally said, not looking at Brundool. His round face somehow seemed much thinner as though what had transpired drew out more from him than just energy. “I did not sleep well. Anxious.”
Brundool leaned forward. “From guilt?”
“That and feeling like I’m incompetent and I’m having trouble handling what has happened.” He looked up. “Sorry that I wasn’t honest with you yesterday about what I was going through—” He sighed. “Felt so overwhelmed, so vulnerable and bewildered. How things change so quickly; I’m very tired.”
For a few minutes, Brundool said nothing. Finally, he reached over and placed his hand on Krelta’s arm. “I know it is difficult. Let us go and see what we can do.”
Krelta nodded; they rose and, some minutes later, were at the dwelling of Saya Kokras—a young female from Suthersland, practically on the other side of the planet.
Krelta said, as he knocked on the door, “She was raped and beaten some time ago by Dasdan. She had to be placed in—” he paused, “—detention—kept trying to kill herself.”
Brundool nodded but said nothing. He looked straight ahead to the door. He noticed Krelta seemed ill at ease and looked as though he was trying to distract himself by focusing on the broad walkway, the rounded cubes of dwellings, the luxurious, jungle-like courtyards, the red, brown, yellow and blue cascades of Spadevine growing from balconies on all levels of dwellings—the door slid slowly back a ways and halted. A face appeared. Krelta cleared his throat. “Krelta Tarsda.”
The door opened the rest of the way; the figure stepped back from the door.
Inside it was dark; Brundool immediately felt both sad and wary. The female was not emotionally well. On a low, dusty couch the three sat. There was a sour smell in the dwelling like something rotting or profoundly unclean.
“How are you, Saya?” said Krelta, gently.
She nodded. And after a long time, finally said, almost inaudibly, “I do well.”
Brundool watched her; something was gone from her; a sparkle, a vividness of life that one so young should have—but did not. Her amber eyes were dilated, dark and sad. She was dressed in a simple dark blue robe—frayed at the bottom. Her dark hair was long and not combed well.
“Saya,” said Krelta, “this is Brundool. He is here to ask some questions about—” he hesitated—“about what happened. Are you still comfortable with that?”
She nodded and gave Brundool an utterly neutral look.
No, thought Brundool, something has not been taken from her nor lost so much as it has been yanked and ripped away. Yes. Yes. Brundool brought out a ring from his gown; he placed it on his forefinger. Its stone was a small, cloudy sphere. “Saya,” he said with infinite tenderness, “I understand what has happened. You needn’t speak of it; I just want you to think of it—to feel a bit of it—so that I can understand what you went through—I just need a little bit of it—and that will provide me with all I need to know.”
She closed her eyes; Brundool put his thoughts aside; reduced his heart rate, his breathing, became very, very still, opened his mind, his heart, open, open receptive—yes, there—walking home, alone. Evening. Out with Toog Raka—pleasant feelings. Movement. Hand over her mouth. Panic! Bewilderment! Flood of adrenalin! Pounding heart! Wanting to scream! To vomit. To urinate! Bite! Struggle! And laughter... yes, Dasdan’s laughter. Arms pinned in front of her, dragged off the street, into an empty dwelling. Too frightened to scream. Fist in mouth. Teeth breaking, warm thick blood in mouth. Clothes ripped away. Darkness. Slowly, slowly, Saya shook her head; tears welled up in her eyes.
“Enough,” said Brundool, “enough, I have enough. I can complete the rest.”
And Brundool became Saya and then, in his mind, he stood back and watched the transformation continue—the pain, the pain, the pain—and complete itself—to wake up, cold, miserable and so broken, broken, broken. Clothes torn. Dried blood. To stagger out of the building, to stagger, stumble, collapse, to wake up in a medical unit...
Brundool looked at Saya. Gently he touched her shoulder, “I’m sorry that happened to you. Are you going to be all right?”
Sobbing silently, she nodded.
“I’d better get someone to be with her,” said Krelta. He left and returned a few minutes later with a young helper, about the same age as Saya; she could stay with Saya, observe her and if necessary get further help if Saya showed increasing instability.
Brundool sighed when they left Saya. “Truly ugly,” he said. “I found myself fighting to maintain control as I experienced everything she experienced.” He nodded. “And now it’s all been transferred and faithfully transcribed in here.” He lifted his hand; the ring glowed.
“What exactly is that?” Krelta asked.
“One function of this is to record. I concentrate, this ring picks up all that I experience. Whoever gets it will experience exactly what I have experienced—an impression so vivid that the person who has this ring might as well be me—or whose experience it has recorded—like Saya’s.”
Krelta looked both impressed and taken aback. “Isn’t that a bit—dangerous?”
Brundool nodded. “That is why only Opayknons can record with it—” he smiled, “or even make it work.”
Krelta looked relieved. “That’s good to know.”
“And fortunately, or unfortunately, what works well for Opayknons doesn’t always work for others. That is why I never sell these.” He paused, and looked at the ring. “It also functions as a transmitter/locator. As soon as Dasdan has it, its signal will alter.”
“It will be signaling constantly?”
“Yes. So that you can monitor me—then Dasdan.”
Krelta looked at Brundool with a mixture of hope and skepticism. Then he shrugged. “Very good. Now, we must catch a transport to south of the city.”
They were fortunate; the first transport that stopped for them was going to Kroddasa, a large city of 500,000, that used to be a half day’s journey south of Pantyan. They climbed on the long and shining transport and easily found seats; the vehicle was relatively uncrowded so early in the morning. There was the muffled clicks of magnets releasing and quickly they accelerated, soon passing the inner city, the tall, slender, multi-hued structures that graced the air. Soon, they were outside the city; Brundool watched Pantyan receding, noticed how insignificant it was compared to the ragged and snow-covered Pyrntes Pasa mountain range that abruptly rose high and massive just a short distance outside the city.
After a short time, Krelta pressed a blue, glowing button in the wall beside him; the transport slowed and settled in silence. Krelta and Brundool got out and stepped onto a sheltered platform. An old male came up to Krelta; his hair was white and thick. He was short and robust, red of cheeks and wide-grinned. More than a few of his teeth were gone. He was obviously glad to see Krelta. Brundool noticed that old man’s robe was of a coarse, brown cloth and none too clean.
Krelta motioned Brundool closer. “This is Garthal Bodroada. His mate was beaten senseless—no apparent motive in the attack. She had gone to Pantyan to purchase gifts for a family gathering.”
“Hello,” Brundool said.
“He-he-he-he,” said Garthal, “he-he-hello. He-he.”
“As I told you,” said Krelta, “Brundool wishes to talk to your mate about what happened when the man—”
“Oh. Oh,” said Garthal. “Yes. Yes.”
The three of them walked a path away from the station and the small cluster of buildings. The land here was flat, agricultural. Brundool marveled at the flowers: yellow, red, blue and orange.
“Keethara—” said Garthal at one point, “She—she better—walk now. Yes. Yes. Long, long time has taken. But she better. Yes. Yes.” They walked toward four rounded cubicles. The land beyond was furrowed; not far away a crop of antra, still green, grew. One of the immense and glaciated twin summits of Morkova Volcano, a safe distance away, was erupting violently. Smoke and ash boiled into the air. The snow around the crater was blackened.
They went to the nearest cubicle; the door slid open and they walked in. A woman, Keethara, Brundool assumed, had been resting on a low cot. She started when the three males entered; she sat up, involuntarily pulling back, then relaxing. Brundool judged her to be much younger than Garthal. Her hair was darker and pulled back. She was, however, just as short as Garthal, though much more slender. Her fingers were surprisingly long and moved in her lap as though they had a life independent of her.
She smiled shyly; Brundool realized that she once was—and still was—a beautiful female. Her skin was dark, wrinkled about her eyes, her mouth and neck. There were scars on her cheeks and forehead, now healed, but you could see the ragged lines.
She was dressed also in a coarse cloth, but it was pale green and clean. Brundool was struck by how calm she appeared, how warm, yet shy and the fingers, the restless, moving fingers... Krelta leaned to Brundool. “The fingers. Permanent neurological damage.”
Garthal went to Keethara. “You—you remember Krelta—he-he brings his friend—Broo—Broondul to talk. Yes. Yes. To talk.”
She nodded. With her eyes, she indicated Brundool to sit on the cot. He did.
Brundool spoke slowly. “I’ve come to hear about what happened—” He stopped, chose his words carefully, “You needn’t remember everything—I just need enough of your experience to understand how it felt to you—”
“Of course,” she said quietly.
Brundool was somewhat startled. He had not expected such a clear, warm response.
“I’ll try to cooperate as much as I can,” she said. “What should I do?”
“Just think back to what happened, how it began; you needn’t say anything, just think of it—feel it.”
Keethara closed her eyes.
It was silent except for the distant thud-thud-thud of the volcano. Tremors caused Brundool to start. Garthal shook his head; Brundool relaxed. Apparently the tremors were common; nothing to be concerned about.
Brundool closed his eyes. He opened himself to Keethara—“They shouldn’t let old things like you run about—” Dasdan.
“That was very unkind of you.” Anger. Keethara.
Images formed in Brundool’s mind. Late afternoon. The park near the southern limits of the city Pantyan. Keethara resting, her gifts near her on a bench, waiting for the transport out. Brundool tried to focus on an image of Dasdan but can only see a dark-robed blur; blurred from fear? No, he realized, from hate. She indeed knows what he looks like and so loathes his appearance she cannot and will not bring it to mind.
“Unkind of me—” said Dasdan. “Oh, you don’t know how unkind I can be—”
Intense fear, rage. “Please—I’ve done nothing to you—”
“Yes, you have,” said Dasdan, “you’ve shown me how disgusting senility and old age is.”
“That hurts.”
“It’s supposed to. Why don’t you die?”
“Please leave me alone—I’ve done nothing to you—”
“I should help you die. That’s what I should do.”
Fear. Pounding heart. Adrenalin. Need to escape. Wonderment that there is no one nearby. Hope that there will be someone. Hope he will go away. What to do? Get up. Leave. Maybe the gifts will distract him. Why is there no one else near?
Dasdan goes up to the gifts. “Anything here for me?”
“No,” she says.
“Oh, come on,” he says, grabbing a gift and tearing it open: a new robe. “Oh,” he says, “how pretty.” He looks at it mockingly. “But I’m sure it won’t fit.” He tears it in half, then into shreds.
Rage.
“Here,” says Keethara, picking up a vase, a beautiful, clear glass vase. “Come look at this,” she says, “I’ll give it to you if you leave me alone. See the beautiful etched designs?”
He draws close. “Oh, my,” he says. “My, but that is so pretty,” he leans, mocking her and she slams it right in his face; the delicate glass, it shatters; he falls back; she tries to run. He recovers, screams and pain! Pain! Pain! Something breaking! Vivid light, circles of color in her eyes. Then nothing. She wakes up in a medical unit, blind. It turns out to be temporary but her hands have taken on a life of their own.
Brundool shakes his head out of sadness and out of a sense of mystification: there is something familiar about Dasdan. Something haunting, disturbing and perplexing to Brundool. He opens his eyes; the ring on his finger glows. It is all there. It is all taken in.
Keethara fights to remain in control, “if I see him again,” she says, “I shall kill him. A person like that who so enjoys his hostility is not a creature that deserves to live. Even mindless insects that crawl and fly through darkness treat each other better. They survive; they are not deliberately cruel and do not seek enjoyment of the other’s destruction.” She then looked at Krelta. “He’s escaped, hasn’t he?”
Slowly and with much discomfort, Krelta nodded. “I don’t know how it happened.”
Keethara nodded. “His character is totally foreign to Prandor. He is not of this world. His enjoyment of his hostility and cruelty is beyond comprehension. If I see him,” said Keethara, “I will do all that I can to kill him. There are some who do not deserve to live if their sole purpose in life is to inflict pain.”
Krelta smiled hastily. “I understand your feelings very well, but—”
She looked intently at Krelta. “I will kill him. And if I die for killing someone who deserves death, then I will die knowing that I spent my life well performing an act of profound kindness to someone so sick and kindness to others who will be rid of a living death.”
Grathal looked frightened but said nothing.
Thud-thud-roar roared the volcano. A shock came that almost knocked all of them to the ground. Keethara looked straight ahead. “This whole planet is outraged at him,” she said, whispering, “if only the land could rise, form a fist and smash him into a stain.”
On their way back to Pantyan, Brundool and Krelta said nothing. Brundool looked out the window. Keethara’s right, he thought, Dasdan is not of Prandor. Then where? Of Earth? No. Not even Earth people are as vicious and cunning as Dasdan. And yet why is he so familiar? He sighed and looked to his ring then at Krelta. Krelta simply stared straight ahead as though he was in a stupor. When they reached Pantyan, Krelta took a deep breath. “We have one more stop.”
“Another victim?”
“Another victim.”
They climbed off the transport in the heart of Pantyan and walked to the immense sprawl of the medical center. When they reached the proper floor, they went to a desk, behind which health care professionals monitored instruments and performed other tasks.
“Hello,” said a male, “are you well today?”
“How is he?” asked Krelta.
The health professional looked sympathetic. “No news—I’m sorry. His condition is essentially stable as it has been for quite some time.”
Brundool looked very puzzled. He knew Krelta was sad—but unsure as to why. Neither of them talked as they walked down the corridor. They then went into a room; in a bed was a child.
“He was beaten by Dasdan as well?” said Brundool.
Krelta nodded. “Gefta—” he closed his eyes. “My child... beaten on his way home from school... has not regained consciousness...” Krelta then went to his knees, arms folded on the bed, head buried in his arms. “My own child—” He sobbed silently.
Brundool opened himself, opened himself... and there it was: no, not the reactions of Gefta, but of Krelta, of being in the city chambers on a bright day in winter—getting the message—the medical center has requested your presence—concern, bewilderment! What has happened? His mate, Ponarla? His child, Gefta? he leaves, hurries. Finds Gefta being readied for urgent treatment. Confusion... enforcers have physical description; Gefta was assaulted. Panic! Anger!
Why Gefta? Gefta! Gefta! My little Gefta! Why this? No one deserves this! Revenge! Will find him! Revenge! Capture! Pound fist in his face! Strangle him!
Brundool then envisions the child: Broken arm, fractured skull, blackened eyes; bruised and beaten. Attacker captured by passersby.
Krelta’s mate, Ponarla, rushes in, sees Gefta; her face twists in horror; leans to touch Gefta, places a hand, a gentle, trembling hand against the child’s cheek; Ponarla’s mouth is open, contorted, no sound emerges. She straightens, places her hand to her face, staggers. Krelta rushes to her, supports her; she turns, they hold each other, weeping. Gefta wheeled away for surgery and urgent care.
At the bedside, Brundool places his hand on Krelta’s shoulder; Krelta weeps in wrenching sobs and the child sleeps, arms outstretched on covers, eyes closed, scars almost healed.
Brundool looks from Krelta, from Gefta, across the room, to windows, to the spires of the inner city, to the immense, snowy mountains beyond.
Dasdan, Brundool thinks, Dasdan, I am coming. I am coming for you. In the name of Gefta, Keethara and Saya, Dasdan, Dasdan, I am coming for you. He concentrated on the ring; it has taken it all in, all of it and it glows an angry, angry red, like boiling blood, like lava. “Dasdan,” he says to himself, “maybe if you truly know how it really feels to be hurt by you, you will stop hurting others.” He stared at the ring, the glowing, angry ring. Take me to him. He felt the ring tug, pulling him, like an animal after prey.
Krelta slowly got to his feet. He looked at his child, gripped his hand and sighing, he turned to Brundool. “Have you had enough?” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Have you had enough?”
Brundool nodded. He gave Krelta a small blue sphere. “Let it rest in the palm of your hand,” said Brundool. “Now face me.”
Abruptly, a high pitched whine sounded and a light appeared in the sphere.
“Turn right,” said Brundool. The whine decreased, the light did not change. “Now, turn left, slowly.” The whine increased, then faded.
Krelta nodded.
“Both light and sound can be adjusted for distance. The light grows brighter with decreasing distance. When I give Dasdan this ring, the pitch will change to a deeper tone and you will know that I have found him. Come immediately.”
Krelta nodded again. “I’ll also have three others with me and reinforcements nearby, paralleling us some distance away. We will try our best to keep in visual contact of you as well.”
“Let us go,” said Brundool.
Later that afternoon, outside the Chambers of Administration, Brundool, Krelta and the others met. Krelta gave orders; the hunt was organized and begun.
Brundool walked at a moderate pace, letting the ring take him, lead him. The second sun set, evening came, the city glowed from indirect lighting, in pale blues, greens, and yellows. Brundool walked through the inner city, then down near the long, curved rectangles of warehouses on the River Manthar. It was quiet; no shipments were being loaded or unloaded from mighty ships. The ring glowed red; the pull became stronger. Past the warehouses, over a bridge, in the direction of the Kroyamatan Inter-Cosmos Launchport.
Ah, yes, thought Brundool, get money, get aboard, get away. Far, far, far away. A bulky Earth vessel rose silently skyward.
Brundool walked a pathway in a landscaped area along the river. It was dark, and abruptly Brundool was aware that the tugging stopped. He slowed. The ring had changed back to a beautiful, pale white sphere.
He felt someone draw near. Then a gentle voice: “Shouldn’t be walking about with such a strange and lovely ring.” The someone came up from behind Brundool. “Someone might try to take it from you.”
Brundool did not turn. Instead, he stopped, took the ring off and held it out. “I’ve done you no harm. If you want this ring, take it and leave me in peace.”
There was a long, long silence.
“Turn around, slowly,” came the voice.
Brundool did. And there was Dasdan Yorko: curling blond hair, dark eyes, yellow teeth, the face strangely clean as though too much effort went into looking neat and clean. The lips pulled into a sneer, the nose wrinkled and his manner became contemptuous. He wore a long, maroon robe.
“Well, well, well,” said Dasdan. “A trader you are. My, my, my, how impressive.”
Brundool glared. “How dare you wear the robes of an Opayknon Trader?”
Dasdan smiled. “Gets me what I want. Besides, don’t you understand—” He stopped. “No, give me the ring first, then maybe we’ll talk a little more, yes?”
Saying nothing, Brundool did.
“Thank you,” said Dasdan, “now, I’m sure we have much—” He stopped. A profound look of surprise came over his face and Brundool could feel all the pain of Saya Kokras, of Keethara, of Krelta; Dasdan became them, became the victim of himself. He fell to his knees and looked up at Brundool and Brundool stared. Abruptly Brundool backed away, staggered, as though physically shoved. “Oh, gods!” he whispered. “Oh, gods! It is not possible!” He turned, stumbled away, only dimly aware of Krelta and the others running, then carrying a non-resistant Dasdan Yorko to a waiting security vehicle.
Krelta ran to Brundool. “Brundool—what is it—what is the matter? What is wrong?”
Brundool shivered. “Gods! It can’t be possible! I—I was thinking all along that this person Dasdan Yorko must have been miserable—was inflicting pain because he was hurt, and truly no greater prison is there than such a prison, for there is no escape if one is convinced that the world only exists to hurt—but I did not see something...” Brundool shivered again. “I did not see that one can be imprisoned—and not know it! Dasdan did not at all become sensitized to someone else’s pain...” Brundool shook his head. “He wanted more. I gave him exactly what he wanted. Exactly! He is insane and has utterly no idea that he is insane. No idea at all.”
Krelta nodded. “That is the worst insanity of all. But...” Krelta regarded Brundool carefully, “that’s not all, is it...?”
Brundool did not look at Krelta. He watched a massive moon rise over the Pyntar Pasa Mountains, over their tall and ragged summits. He squeezed his eyes shut and tears welled up, flowed down his cheeks. He shook his head. “No, no, that’s not all—” he whispered.
Krelta nodded. “When we came over, I heard him talking to you as though he knew you...?”
Brundool sighed. Then he spoke, but not just to Krelta. He spoke to the sky, the night, the moon, the mountains. “Opayknons are regarded as wise, powerful, strong and kind. What so many don’t know is how incredibly brutal and violent we were. We almost exterminated ourselves three times before we learned to understand our violence. No self-aware species likes to know they are mortal. For some reason, we liked it even less. No greater insult to vanity and pride than death.” And Brundool stopped and took a deep breath. It was silent. The moon had risen fully and Brundool stood in the light as an actor on a stage. “How much time did it take?” he whispered. “How much time? How many attempts at immortality? How much rage at the knowledge that there exist only three absolutes: birth, life, death. Somehow we survived to finally accept our mortality. But somehow, at times, there are those born who—at some point—can’t—don’t—won’t accept it.”
Krelta nodded. “Like Dasdan Yorko?”
Brundool closed his eyes. “Yes.” Tears again. “Somehow to love and be loved is not living. To those like Dasdan, to give pain and receive pain—is. And to see that brings so much shame—so much sadness and bitterness and anger for all the time it took to learn, for all the achievements gained and lost, for all the struggle—to gain then to lose and to lose profoundly—and to see it happen—to see someone who has and acts upon the violence that we tried so hard to leave behind—that we still, even now, wrestle with within ourselves—we don’t kill such individuals; we send them away, to a colony, to help them with their overwhelming violence that is so reprehensible to us. Sometimes they are cured, sometimes they are not.” Brundool hugged himself. A second, smaller moon was rising over the mountains.
“And sometimes they escape?” asked Krelta.
Brundool said nothing.
“And maybe they end up—perhaps on Prandor?”
Brundool shuddered. The small moon rose full now, as though tailing the large one.
Krelta put his hand on Brundool’s shoulder. “It must be very, very difficult to see a little bit of Dasdan in yourself.”
“Oh, gods,” whispered Brundool, “oh, gods.” Then silently, he watched the small moon rise.