Farid callaba. Sus oídos amaban la voz de Lengua de Brujo. Era la voz que lo había sacado de su otra vida mísera, pero amaba más a Dedo Polvoriento, sin saber por qué.
You’d like him back, too, wouldn’t you?”
It was difficult for her to turn her eyes away from Farid’s face. “He’ll never come back,” she whispered, and look at Dustfinger. She didn’t have the strength to speak any louder. All her strength was gone, as if Farid had taken it away with him. He had taken everything away from him.
He bent over Farid and wiped some soot from his cold forehead. “Roxanne knows it,” he said. “She’ll tell it to you. Just go to her and… and tell her I’ve had to go away. Tell her I’m going to find out if the story is true.”
He spoke with a strange kind of hesitation, as if it were infinitely difficult to find the right words. “And remind her of my promise- that I’ll always find a way back to her, wherever I am. Will you tell her that?
What a plague love is!
Reality is a fragile thing.
And there stood Basta with his foot already on another dead body, smiling. Why not? He had hit his target, and it was the target he had been aiming for all along: Dustfinger’s heart, his stupid heart. It broke in two as he held Farid in his arms, it simply broke in two, although he had taken such good care of it all these years.