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... id not exist. The supplicant’s cithara in his hands was but a petrified piece of wood without the additional accessory of a priest with mastery of the Gloam to weave strings and pluck at them. The first might not be so impossible, but the second was rather more of a hurdle. So, in the hours past midnight but before they left, Tristan asked a burning question.
“Can you play cithara?”
Sarai eyed him like he’d tracked mud all over her nice Izcalli carpet.
“Can you dance the ...
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