Drognad the Green leant on his hoe and mopped his brow. The double suns of the First Spring had been unusually intense just as Magrod the Seer had prophesied. ‘You need to moisten the seeds, Drognad.’
Stupid crone, he’d thought . What did she think he did? Wish them well? He was a bloody gardener. Watering was part of his very nature.
But he’d give her credit. The soil might have been friable, the compost fecund and the worms just the right side of slimy, but this year the little darlings had needed that little bit extra.
Behind the bulging screens, Drognad wondered at the crowd’s mood. He always tried to ignore their chants and entreaties, their speculations about the year’s harvest. Was it his own doubts that infected them and made them seem especially keen this year to see the results of his efforts. He had planted their seeds, as they asked, he had offered nourishment and the usual incantations but had he given them enough of a soul drenching?
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