Though Chard didn’t match the description, Lord Baenarn, better known as Ezran to his companions, was almost certain he had found his mark. As he went over the lip of the hill and out of sight of the farmhouse, he slowed his horse to a thoughtful walk.
One of the paladins, third-in-command after Fordrellon, urged his black charger to come up on Ezran’s left side. “I see what you meant by the state of the villages here,” he said carefully, clicking his way through a heavy accent.
“Yes, and you’ll see why I am glad to have your assistance, Zastik.”
“The sun is too bright here.”
“There is the forest, not too far from the tower. It will almost feel like home,” Ezran assured him.
They rode in silence for some time more. The fields of crops were replaced with pastures of grass, and a herd of sheep moved through it. The oddly named paladin fell back in line with the others as soon as Fordrellon barked at him, but Ezran barely paid any attention to him.
“How do I get through to him?” he wondered out loud. “ ‘Hello, we haven’t met, but I’m pretty sure I sired you’ just doesn’t carry the same ring to it here on the Surface. Ah, maybe Jassa would have a better chance with him. Or maybe I’m just a coward.”
He didn’t notice as he rode past a tussock that concealed what appeared to be a lazy shepherd, catching a nap in the late day’s sun. Sirith wasn’t lazy or sleepy anymore, however. He stared after the lord with wide eyes. Ezran had spoken in Gontian, and though Sirith didn’t know the language, he did know the accent — and what kind of person frequently spoke it.
Sirith swallowed dryly. The new lord had seemed too good to be true, but he hadn’t expected the man could be an akor’mar of all things.
An akor’mar would be more than the farmers of Hillet could stand against, so soon after the Second Shadow. But who would believe him if he made mention of it now?