Tomorrow. We're leaving tomorrow. Bobby and Killisan have had new horseshoes made, new bits, new saddles, everything. Our much lighter inventory had been squeezed inside three saddlebags, all of which I'll be carrying.
The blacksmith had given me a pair of soles made out of a black rock that consists of thousands of hardened chips stuck together. Supposedly they'll prevent my feet from sinking into the ground when using Kaishen's power; they're no prismatic cuirass, but better than burning up my leather boots on the first day and running barefoot to Rutherford's lair.
The night has grown cold. Sleet has been falling for hours now, yet no one, not Kathanhiel, not the twenty thousand men and women gathered in the outer courtyard to listen to her speech, pays it any mind.
'...and let it be known from the Precipice to the Sunset Isles that each and every one of you have chosen, of your own will, to carry this sacred burden, to stand against that which cannot fall, to fight against the imperishable, so that your children's children can look up to the sky and admire the blue heavens with eyes unafraid and filled with pride...'
Such a nice speech. Rousing. Standing by Kathanhiel's side I see the rapture on their faces. Her words have captivated their hearts, put light to the shadows in their minds and chased them away. Just as Arkai had said, she's very good at giving hope.
Talukiel is down there. Him and his mad flock.
Twenty-seven cultists had been rooted out and secretly executed, each and every one of them long-serving members of Iborus. An untold number is still out there however, and if they're all like Palasine, the threat of death would only galvanise them.
He's coming tonight. It has to be tonight.
Kathanhiel's speech ends, and the crowd breaks into rapturous cheer. Waving, she gives me a sideways glance. Her eyes are that of a grinning lioness.
This is the last day, isn't it; from now on there'll be no rest, no rest until we're dead.