"No," he says, tracing the rim of his glass. "Not then. But I should have been able to guess, had I thought about it."

Autor lifts his gaze to Rabastan, and rather than his usually cool and patronizing stare, his eyes are heated and piercing. A lance tempered in flames. After this, the tightness in his jaw says, we really do need to talk.

The boy hasn't forgotten about Elea sitting there, watching them. He wishes he could.