Diyiren rested his head against the seat, closed his eyes. They were flying into the sun. It would be morning again when the plane touched down.
Diyiren didn't recall the date. Sometime in the 1500s, before King Henry the Whatever had insulted him.
The first Dethewaite in Diyiren's employ came in, inched down his crutch and kowtowed.
"You don't have to do that, Mr. Dethewaite."
"Apologies, My King."
Hero had been doing that for decades. His effort to pull himself up was equally strenuous and drawn out. Hard to believe this man had become a patriarch with a dozen children.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," the original Mr. Dethewaite said, "but Barty passed away last night."
YOU ARE READING
The Lamb and the Gray Battle
FantasiaEvie has spent the last 575 years on the North American continent, now called America, the Pure and Clean. She smiles, volunteers and makes cakes and pastries for her neighbors, hiding away her demon blood. She wants nothing to do with her estranged...
