Even as he returned his attention to the steep-sided valley and the austere mountains that towered high over their heads, unbidden came an image of the witch, Rhia. He had tried not to think about the beautiful young elven girl, about their conversation in the Hall of the Steward, or about subsequent encounters with the girl, who may or may not have just happened to be nearby when he was seeking a few hours of contemplation and privacy.
That she found him intimidating, even frightening, was apparent in her apprehension as she approached him at each encounter. He thought at first that her attention was out of mere curiosity, of a type he had witnessed many times before; people, he knew from experience, often sought out the very thing that gave them fear, out of morbid fascination. But the young witch . . . she was different. There was an innocence about her; no malice or hypocracy lay in her fascination with him.
He remembered with perfect clarity the last time he had seen her, high atop the Great Tower of Lund the day before her departure. This last was a planned encounter, one she herself had initiated. The hour was late in the morning, the skies above overcast, the windy air cool and moist. With awkward gravity he had wrapped his heavy cloak about her shivering shoulders, and had given her one of his rare smiles as he considered the effect. The cloak was many times too large for her, draping over her like a large blanket, and she had hitched it up, sat primly upon a stone bench, and smiling, gestured to the bench beside her.