Seedbirds trilled their undulating call. Hopping from branch to branch, they followed Grantin's progress on the trail below. The beauty of the day had lost its edge. In his mouth was the subtle taste of ashes. Pyra's rays no longer dappled the grass with warm ale-colored light. Instead, to Grantin the beams appeared as harsh orange blotches against a sickly pea-green lawn. The seedbirds' song became strident. The road itself seemed more than usually filled with rocks and roots.
Sweat dribbled down Grantin's brow and cheeks. One by one drops of perspiration leaked from his fingers and dripped to the road. He tried to dry his hands against his trousers but without success. The palms remained slippery and damp. Every few yards, almost by reflex action, he grasped the bloodstone with the tips of his fingers. Perspiration coated the band. Despite repeated attempts he was unable to obtain a firm purchase.
As Grantin labored up the hill toward the manor house a slight breeze swept across the trail. He shivered in the wind, as though it carried a penetrating chill. Perhaps he had caught some disease in Dobbs's stable. He cursed himself for his magnanimity in accepting Greyhorn's assignment without sufficient recompense. His generous nature had obviously played him false again. Nothing to be done for it now, however, except crawl into bed and sleep until the fever passed.
Grantin plodded on the last few feet, lifted the latch, and pushed back the massive front door. To his right, stone steps marched upward to the second floor. No mountain crag could have presented a more imposing sight. He doggedly attacked the stairs one by one. When he had climbed halfway up a voice called from the sitting room on the first floor beyond the stairs.
"Grantin, is that you? Come in here at once and bring me the ring!"
Grantin halted his ascent, panted, and leaned against the wall. His left hand waved feebly in an attempt to dissipate the subtle tingling which had begun to creep up the arm. Had the ring pinched off the flow of blood? In a fit of pique Grantin grasped the bauble and tried to wrench it from his finger. Instantly his arm numbed. Small white dots swam in blackness before his eyes. His left hand slipped unnoticed from his grip and dangled limply at his side. Kaleidoscopic fragments of color glittered in his mind.
Slowly his vision cleared. Again Greyhorn's summons echoed from below: "Grantin, stop dillydallying! If you want to remain my factotum you must learn to perform your duties promptly. Now, come in here!"
Deciding that it was easier to go down than up, Grantin descended to the entranceway, then turned along the passage to Greyhorn's parlor. The wizard sat in the center of the room, reclining in a massive leather chair, a tablet of paper and a stylus across his lap. As Grantin entered Greyhorn turned and stared at him peevishly. Sickly yellow light from the room's only window toned the tip of Greyhorn's nose, the jut of his chin, and the left half of his visage. In harsh contrast bluish-gray shadows filled the sockets of his eyes.
"So you decided to return at last, did you?"