That was no apology, no heart-warming greeting, only cold, logical, observation. The room hadn’t gotten any chillier but Ramar suddenly realized that he was cold. His bones ached and his joints hurt. He rubbed the wrist of his sword hand trying to work some warmth into it.

Jhendayre twisted his head to look around the room. “I see the rumors are true. You have given up on life and wait here for death to come.”

“It is no business of yours what I do. You may still call me Maven but you haven’t been one of my students for more than twenty years.” Ramar didn’t bother trying to disguise the bitterness as something else.

Loose papers, mostly old letters the older Eladrin had been too lazy to deal with, gathered themselves up and slithered into the fireplace. Some kindling and a small log joined them, carried by invisible hands.

“I hope you don’t mind.” Jhendayre said, moving his hand like a conductor to direct the arcane flow of energy.

“I don’t suppose it would do any good if I did, would it?” Ramar grumbled.