At the High Pass he turned and looked back at the ancient city. Its white towers were tinted by all the colours of the legendary Dusk Rainbow: carnelian, gamboge, chartreuse, viridian, turquoise, burnt umber and mauve.
Perhaps he would never return. Never to try a hand of cards with the amiable tavern whores, nor to pick a fight with one of the Bickering Monks. Never again to glance guardedly into her chrysoprase eyes.
“What the heck is chrysoprase, anyway,” he muttered.
I thought it was a flower, said the voice of his sword. Only he could hear the voice, which seemed to come from inside his head.
“A green flower?”
It’s not green. It’s sort of… golden. I think.
“You’re bluffing. As usual.”
Then there was a long silence. It was almost the same as not having a magical intelligent sword which seemed to speak to you from inside your head. But sulkier.
It would be a long voyage.