Tristan struggled to his feet but did not try to justify his actions. He was after all 372 years old; he had learned excuses meant nothing to his mother. They did not call them the angry gods for nothing. Blôdughadda’s hand gripped Tristan’s thought. She held him agents the wall and a foot off the floor. “Listen well my son, you will kill this rival and bring me back my stone.” She slammed him against the wall. “Do not fail.” The door to her cabin opened.
Tristan stood gasping for air and rubbed his thought where Blôdughadda boney fingers had gripped it as he walked out of the door.