As Kelvy sprinted along the border between the murmuring forests of Emerlyr and the Madlands, dawn swelled upon the horizon like a storm of light. Soon, the sun would come up and he would be utterly vulnerable in the Madlands. Daylight, unfiltered by trees, would blast the open grass, and possibly Kelvy, too. The Thinderzim – the vast magical current flowing throughout the world, would surge from a reasonably steady nighttime tide to a raging cyclone.
Kelvy kept glancing back over his shoulder, expecting to see the Ardeld Raarchlan sweeping up behind him. He skirted the pockets of darbane gathering beneath certain spirelock trees. He ducked at the windy rustle of every branch.
“Next time we venture into a Ghost house,” Flyndyng
suggested, “let’s do it during the day.”
“Some thief you are,” Kelvy huffed.
“Masters of the Acquisitional Arts are adept at avoiding confrontation, not so much at confrontation, itself.”
“From what I can see, you’re mainly a master at eating.”
