Brandyé spent the following weeks in gloom and despair, hardly registering what he was doing. No word had been heard from Narün whatsoever, and the clouds continued to grow thick and black. The seas rose high, and vessels stopped arriving from other lands in the port of Viura Râ. A storm was coming, some said, but to Brandyé it had already arrived.
After some time, Brandyé realized that he was being carried far into the countryside, away from the ruins of Hope and through the hills. He had grown quiet after the argument with the Sarâthen, and allowed himself to be borne wherever they wished. He was uncertain where they made for, but his chest still pained him greatly, and so he cared little either way. He thought perhaps the pain was receding slightly, or perhaps he was growing accustomed to it, but it seemed to hurt less by the time they stopped that night by a stream.
Brandyé awoke to darkness and the muted roar of distant flames. He tried to move, and found his hands were shackled before him. His throat was parched, and he wondered how long he had been kept here, wherever he was. As he lay in the dark, he found he could hear the sounds of many people moving about, and suspected he was in a tent. He wondered that there seemed to be no guard to keep watch, and equally wondered that he seemed alone—what had happened to Athalya, and the Sarâthen?
Satis Writes 