Ratte was in bad shape.
He was not gravely wounded or dying. He was exhausted and listless, as though a Succubus had drained him dry.
Weeks of pursuit and flight had taken their toll on the body and mind of a man who had only just left the Mage Tower—even if Murat, a third-level Mage when he set out, was now, like Michael, just one step away from Elite rank.
"You did this to me... and somehow I still have to thank you for saving me," Murat said sincerely, a bald patch showing at the front of his head. A Mage's lofty status meant something to commoners and minor nobles, but the King of the North, whose standing rivaled a grand duke's, had personally risked his life to rescue him. If Murat had been a woman, he would have thrown himself at the boy and kissed him deeply.
"Oh, the Mage and the Sorcerer make peace at last."
The sight made the Bard want to break into song.
"Why does Mage come before Sorcerer?" Annan complained.
Ratte was in no condition to remain in Betar City, so Annan planned to ask Lady Deepwinter to escort him back to Breeze City. Ratte insisted on staying, though. He wanted to see the people who had attacked him punished with his own eyes.
Annan did not argue. Lady Deepwinter had announced earlier that day that she had obtained the Magic Ring, drawing both attention and danger onto herself.
"It's time I claimed my reward," Murat said. "I want a role in your Magic Film. One with lines."
That was easy enough, and Annan had no intention of charging Murat a performance fee. He just had not decided what his second Magic Film would be about.
"Let me rest in peace for a while,