Prophecy [antikvár]

1 No one has work for a wizard with holes in his shoes. Cymric paused briefly to weave a delicate illusion. Holding his staff stiffly enough for show, he strode down the second hill in now-gleaming boots, down into the village of Twin Chin. The wizard rotated his shoulders and shook his thin arms to expand the sides of his robe. The breeze was too light to catch the cloth, but the sunlight glinted brightly on the robe's rich blues. The young wizard swept his hand through black hair, trying to keep it out of Ms eyes. He then took deliberate steps down the dusty slope. He wanted to give Twin Chin's residents time to see him. Cymric also wanted a chance to survey the town. The breeze shifted, bringing with it the scent of cinnamon. Cymric smiled; cinnamon rolls were a favorite, despite the difficulties he'd had with the Bakers Guild in Tuakan. Cinnamon also meant some of the villagers had enough coin to afford the occasional indulgence—an important bit of information when the wizard came to setting his prices. Cymric counted the buildings—sixty-five of them, eight of brick or stone. Two of the outermost buildings were bumed, but the rest of the village looked in good shape. Cymric's smile widened until he caught himself and adopted a sterner, more wizardly expression. Drawing nearer, he saw three little girls loudly playing Hobmen in the Field. One in a yellow smock was the first to glance up in the right direction, then the other two follow^ her gaze, until all three were staring. Cymric paused, leaning on his staff for effect, then made broad, theatrical motions