Alleyne blurted out that he seemed to be able to say everything at this time, and he could express all the words in his heart concisely and accurately. Pen ~ Fun ~ Pavilion www.biquge.info However, at this time, James glanced at Alleyne, his eyes were full of pity, but Alleyne was the only one who did not want to accept this feeling, he turned his face away and took a sip of wine.

"Then say goodbye here, take care. ”

"Take care. James turned away, his steps hurried and fast, as if he didn't want to remember that he had been to this place. Alleyne looked at his back in the crowd and suddenly felt that this was the last time he would see him. For the first time, he thought that he had never told Phatis James what was recorded in Rayon's diary whether they were right or wrong, and he always thought sadly why it was necessary for himself, a man who had lost his faith, to do such a thing as defending the illusions of others, and yet he did not say anything, he just stared, and his posture remained motionless. James didn't look back.

He was finally shaken off by the wave of memories, and the dawn of dawn had faintly emerged from the sky. He was tired, lonely and at a loss. Then the butler came in and reported that the Queen's messenger had arrived. Alleyne was a little depressed, and the blood of a warrior that flowed naturally in his body told him that he was about to set foot on the battlefield.

He ordered his attendants to come in and put on his armor, and then went downstairs, listening to the loud voice of the messenger, his mind still churning with memories.

When Besture returned to Amerad with his bloodstained "tokens", it was already early the next morning, when the morning light was not yet bright, and the city seemed quiet and serene in the soft darkness. Mayor Mare seemed to wake up a little earlier than usual, and there was still a hint of sleepiness on his well-maintained, smooth face. He yawned and waved his hand lazily, as a greeting to Bestul. Besture didn't speak, he slowly rode his old steed to the mayor's side, patting the dust off his horse's back, and saluting the mayor in return. Then he turned over and dismounted, handing the burden around his waist to the mayor. The smell was obviously not very good, and the mayor frowned as usual, but then skillfully unwrapped his baggage, scrutinized the round heads with surprised and ridiculous expressions one by one, and then rested his eyes on one of them, a subtle smile appeared between the corners of his mouth. Then he turned and took the heavy package on the table behind him, and carefully handed it to Bestul. Besture flipped through the package, and there was a muffled sound in it, and he nodded, and led the horse away.

When he returned home, it was still dusty, dreary and dry, but he always felt something different irritating to his heart. He took off his turban, threw the package on the bed, patted the thick sand and dust that had been stained all night, and then sat down on the edge of the bed, silently counting the steps of the morning light in his mind as he always did. When the sunlight shone through the small window, a narrow pillar of light illuminated the slowly drifting dust in the room, making it warm and bright, he felt much more comfortable, and took the kugit bow from his waist, wiped it carefully, and put it back under the bed. He pulled out his comb, brushed his hair haphazardly, fumbled through the package, grabbed a handful of dinars and stuffed them into his robe, and strode out the door. He went to the store and bought four large bags of bread and two large bags of date meat, then took a handful of dinars from his robe and put it on the counter. The shopkeeper, knowing the character of the regular customer, waved his hand and asked Besture to go to the warehouse to get it himself. Besture walked slowly back to the house with six heavy bags in his hands, but his heart became more irritable because he couldn't figure out the source of this irritability. Along the way, I saw nothing more than those overly familiar and somewhat boring people walking around and buildings next to each other. The broad leaves of the palm trees swayed gently, and the fiery shadows on the ground gently flickered, and Besture felt as if his mood had been disturbed by such an inexplicable thing, and he thought back to it, as if to attribute the irritability to the emptiness of his own galloping on the empty desert. He didn't believe it could be a hunch, because he never believed in a hunch and didn't want to entrust his life to something illusory. He remembered the face of a young man named Marchko in his ranks, solemn and melancholy, as if he were forever in a mood, sometimes fanatical and unbelievable, sometimes quiet and confusing. He shook his head, as if trying to shake off the impression. He went back to the house, gently placed the bags on the floor, and stuffed them into the cupboard one by one. The cabinet was stuffed to the brim, and he didn't bother to tidy it up. He went to the well outside the house to fetch water, and scrubbed his body carefully, as if this concentration on something would free him from the emotion. Then he changed his clothes, lay quietly on the bed, looked at the gray and dilapidated ceiling, looked at the dust illuminated by the sun, looked at the light of the sky outside the small window, and looked at his scarred, rough and wrinkled hands, and suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion, he had not felt such sudden exhaustion for a long time, and before time had allowed him to react, he fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, the light had dimmed, and the brightness of the day had become an illusory edge on the horizon, a harbinger of the coming night, and this color was consistent with the twilight, revealing a blank grayish-white. For the first time in eighteen years, he had once again a desire to confide, a desire that was accompanied by a certain memory that was still vivid and strong, and an aftertaste of the spicy, pungent, inferior ale. The irritability did not subside much, but became more and more intense and indiscernible as it mingled with this burning desire. He got up and dressed hastily, a wide and warm coat, and hurried out the door.

When Besture stepped into the tavern again, he could never have imagined that it was not much different from the feeling he had when he first stepped into the tavern at the age of eighteen: noisy, crowded, noisy and full of chaos, as if all taverns had a constant theme. But it was this feeling that he sought, because then he would no longer be alone with the irritability and confusion of his heart. He ordered two cans of ale and gulped down the voices that filled the small space, but the feeling of loss grew heavier. He asked for two more cans of ale. When the sky outside the window had completely turned a thick and deep black, the lights of the street flickered brightly, and only a few tables in the tavern were still drinking. The silence rose in the tavern like rising water, and the sporadic words in it were like the low, quickly fading sound of stones falling into the water. Besture carefully discerns the words of the different people, and listens patiently and carefully, as if he had been playing the role of such a listener here for a long time. He's always been a good drinker.

Finally, he grasped the bits and pieces of news that were incomparably important to him in those haphazard, uncentered conversations. He heard them talk and describe in a casual tone about the banner he knew so well and once valued his life as important, about the former comrade-in-arms with white skin and high nose and handsome appearance, and about the war that was at hand. The agitation in his heart dissipated suddenly, as if everything had been clearly confirmed, and he suddenly felt sober, more sober than ever, and the things he was about to do and the fate he was about to receive seemed to be more clear before his eyes. He walked up to the two chattering travelers, and asked in a strange Karad, which he had not spoken for a long time:

"You're saying that Lord Alleyne of Decherium City has already set out with his army, and he will arrive at Dukuba in two days, right?"

The outline of the traveler's face was distinctly outlined in the light of the lamp, and the surprise on his face was evident, and he clearly felt a little sudden, but quickly disguised it, nodded and Bestur stopped talking, and turned away. The two travelers began to talk again, again casually and slowly. The lights were warm and bright, flickering slightly with the sound of fragmentary words.

Besture went back into the house, took off his coat, and put on his nomadic robe carefully and unhurriedly, with a solemn and quiet movement, and his expression seemed calm and indifferent. He took out the kugit bow from under the bed, and then the bag of arrows. He wiped his bow, stopped, as if thinking about something, and pulled out a heavy scimitar from under the bed. The scimitar was so rusty that he stared at it for a few seconds, seeming to hesitate, but finally pinned it to his waist. He put on his bow, counted his arrows, and when he was sure that they were thirty, he covered his turban, took a handful of money from the parcel that had been left aside since the morning and had been left out in the cold for a long time, and stuffed it into his robe, and went out the door. The dust in the room shook softly by the closed door, and it quickly regained its calm, and was no longer disturbed by the old silent man who had left.

When Mrs. Asona had lost her sleep again in the early morning, she looked out the window, where the morning light was mild and clear, and the shadows of the branches and leaves were silently reflected in the window. She liked it, and if she could, she would have been fond of it if she hadn't been thrown out of her room like a dog on an equally peaceful and quiet morning many years ago. She would not forget that morning, or perhaps it was because it was so ordinary, that every ordinary morning in her years to come would remind her of what had happened that morning. She doesn't actually know whether it's a good thing or a bad thing, but she often treats it as a good thing, because it alerts herself, and she loves the word alertness very much, and it can even be said that it is inseparable, and this kind of pure intuitive alertness is actually the foundation of her existence, but she hates this simple existence that actually has no meaning, but she still can't get out of it. She sometimes thinks that with such a keen intuition, she might be able to become a poet, a painter or a musician. When she was a child, she loved to read poetry, and she also liked to write a little by herself, and then secretly hide the poems. And her father, the kind old man with full gray hair, could always mysteriously find the paper on which her young handwriting was written, read it to her with a smile, and then laughed at her cheeks that were red with shame. Yes, she loved her father very much.

Her mother died very early, and her impression of her mother was always sick and pale, and even this was only a vague impression. She has no siblings, and her father's health has not been very good since she can remember. When her father was in good health, she would beg him to tell her the heroic stories, the knights on white horses, she would hum songs in his ears with her mellow and light voice, and she would weave garlands with her own hands and put them gently around his neck, as every child in this country loved him, or so she thought.

However, such opportunities became less and less common, and when she was a child, she did not quite understand why her father had taken her away from Sagoth, and they were surrounded by knights who were waiting for her and looked stern. In fact, she liked Sagoth very much, because it was very close to the sea, and the sea breeze was always so gentle and gentle, and the edge between the sea and the sky was always so distant and mysterious. But her father told her that they had to leave, and she could see that behind his forced laughter was infinite worry and excessive old age, but she did not say it, and she was afraid to face it at the time. She was a little afraid of the majestic knight who led the way. She knew that her father loved him, and that he always gave full love and trust to the people around him, but she didn't know if the knight loved his father. Her father told her to call the man Uncle Harlaus. He is their family.

Later, she came to Suno, where the sky was always blue, and the dense woods around him were a soothing and quiet dark green, and when the wind blew, a large green wave rose and fell gently, and the mountains in the distance seemed even more distant. She also likes Suno a lot, but she still misses Sagoth from time to time. Her father's health was getting worse and worse, and the smile on his face was getting less and less, and she could tell that the occasional smile was a smile for her. Her father began to talk to her about the country, about honor, about responsibility, which were still unfamiliar to her. But she was a very bright girl, and as she grew older, she understood that the country she was in was in some kind of crisis. She was tall and beautiful, with long black hair that shone softly, and her eyes were like that, as if to tell her that she could always listen to you and understand you, that Aisona was loved by all those around her, but she didn't know what the so-called relatives farther away thought of her. And then her father told her that she was this country, this country was her, this was the honor and responsibility, she looked at her father, nodded, and the old man was a little surprised by the precociousness and perseverance shown in the eyes of this young girl. She began to help her father with the affairs of the country, and she understood the reason why they were leaving Sagoth, the Nords, which was the aggression and challenge of another people against hers.