Frandis—his brother—had been a Forsaken. Abruptly Fredrik started to tremble, and the wine sloshed around in the beautiful goblet. He took a gulp to steady his nerves, then kicked himself for not savoring the rare vintage.
“A hero,” Fredrik said, repeating King Anduin’s words. “That don’t sound like a Forsaken,” he added cautiously, wondering if this was some kind of game.
“Not like what we think of as Forsaken, no,” the woman said. Beside her, the gray-haired man was looking increasingly irritated.
“But does it sound like Frandis?” the king asked.
Tears shimmered in Fredrik’s eyes. “It do,” he said. “He were a good man, Your Majesty.”
“I know,” the king said. “And he was a good man even after he died. There are other Forsaken who also retain themselves even after . . . their transition. Not all of them, certainly. But some.”
“It . . . don’t seem possible,” Fredrik murmured.
“Let me ask you a question,” the king said. “Let’s suppose, by some chance, Frandis was still with us. As a Forsaken. Knowing that he was still largely himself, still the good man who was your brother, would you have liked to meet with him?”
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