Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i held a low and cynical opinion of his fellow Tervola. He viewed all they did through the lens of that cynicism and his own low birth. But he could and did grant kudos to those who rose above their nature. Kuo was one such man.

The routine in the prison tower remained unchanged. Only the faces of those who brought the meals were different. They talked no more than had their predecessors.

Ragnarson was tempted to attack somebody to force an interaction.

He did not. The beast inside was cunning enough to understand that he would regret that sort of defiance quickly, deeply.

Mist’s remarks during her visit had begun to shape his thinking.

He now spent too much time trying to figure himself out. It was embarrassing. He was glad that his beloved dead could not see him so enfeebled. Haaken, Reskird, Elana, and so many others would never have understood.

He came to fear that his ghosts would understand more and better than he did.

His own philosophy of life had shrunk to a smash-and-grab level.

Once the introspection vice set in nothing was safe from repeated review. Trivial incidents stuck in his head like musical refrains, cycling over and over.

Time flew, then. In sane moments he wondered if this was not just a way to escape the monotony of imprisonment. Then he would recollect an incident or decision that constituted another early brick in his edifice of despair.

Mostly he dwelt on mind-warps that had led him to rush through the Mountains of M’Hand and attack an invincible enemy already determined to exterminate him.

He could not identify the moment when confidence in his own talent and luck had become an irrational conviction that he could never be deprived of good fortune and victory.

He knew the seeds lay in the head butting with Varthlokkur over whether or not to tell Nepanthe what Ethrian was doing in the east.

He concluded, after numerous rehashes, that Varthlokkur was more culpable than he. That old man’s stubbornness, in the face of all evidence, had caused Kavelin’s downfall.

Insofar as Ragnarson knew there had been no softening of the wizard’s attitude. He would not admit that he was wrong.

Ragnarson could do that. Privately. To himself. He did not know if he could confess the failing publicly.

Days fled. Mist did not return. Ragnarson received no news. He could only imagine what was happening at home. Imaging, he could only picture the worst. The worst he pictured was too optimistic.

He lost track of time. Days became weeks. Weeks became seasons.

It seemed like summer out there.

Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i was nervous. He had been called to the Imperial presence. The summons had been there waiting, like an unhappy promise, when he returned from the island in the east.

Reason said it would be Imperial business. Emotion feared that the woman knew what he had done.

And she was scarcely a hundred yards away, now, here in his own army headquarters.