To the right of the Lothian table, High Priest Aubin adjusted his ceremonial white and golden robes while studying the gathering with sharp eyes that seemed years younger and keener than the rest of his appearance.
Over the years, as his hair had faded to a sparse and brittle white and his hands grew thin and gnarled, he'd become known as a voice of wisdom in most councils and young men like Loman and even Owain couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been the High Priest of the powerful Lothian Temple.
"You seem discomforted, young Templar," he murmured to Sir Tommin, keeping his voice low enough that only the nearby Templar could hear. "Your heart and faith are among the purest in the march, or the Holy Light Blade wouldn't have accepted you as its wielder. So why the anxious look now?"
