Without further ado, I present the second half of the fifth chapter:
The look on Balarin's face was unreadable. It was a mix of emotion, and no definite one could be made out. The gray-blue of her irises shook violently.
Panatar looked away from her gaze instinctively. “What did you see in my palm?” The lack of disbelief in his own voice shocked him. Did he already believe her to be legitimate? He wasn't quite sure.
A peculiar silence drifted through the air and Balarin rose from the table. “Walk with me,” she said. “I need to show you something.”
Her delicate gait almost birdlike in fragility was unnerving. She seemed to be unsure of herself and faltered as she walked. What could she have seen? Panatar trailed her curiously, suddenly frightened. He followed her into a narrow passage that led deeper into the gypsy like cottage. The gypsy-pink glow was traded for a darker, more sinister gloom. How much further could she go?
“Are you going to tell me what you saw?” he asked. She ignored him and continued deeper into the passage.
He stopped. “Wait a minute. I think I should tell my father where we are before carry on.”
“At this point in time,” Balarin said, “your father does not need to know where you're going.”
“I don't think I should leave without telling him.” Panatar said adamantly.
Her voice seemed to morph into something weak... almost pleading. “We won't be long here,” she said.
“Wait.” Panatar felt suddenly uncomfortable. “What's your problem?” A sudden foreboding pervaded the already stale air. What in the name of the underworld was she doing? He spun around and started sprinting back up the passage way. The stone walls became a blur and he focused on only the bright torches at its entrance.
“No Panatar, Wait!” Balarin's call seemed a distant echo in Panatar's head. Screams seemed to echo in his head playing tricks on his mind. The throbbing of his heart hastened and was amplified. He heard Balarin's chasing footsteps ringing through the walls, but they seemed to be growing more distant. The opening at the end of the passage was in view now. Only a few more paces.
“Mind the step!” Balarin's warning was too late. Panatar hurtled over, his head pounding ferociously. He felt himself being flung violently into the air and catapulted over the hard wooden floor onto the rug two meters in front of him. He skid across the carpet. A grimace stretched across his face as he felt a growing stinging sensation of pain burning through his forearm. His elbow had been painted a crimson color by the blood that oozed out of it, and when he tried to lift himself off the floor, a sharp pain shot through his ankle. The throbbing in his head had lessened considerably, though.
“Damned kid,” Balarin said from behind him, “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Her voice was grave rather than mocking.
“Am I trying to get myself killed?” said Panatar incredulously. “You seem to be the one bent on killing me.”
“I assure you, Panatar,” she said, “I have never had any intention of harming you.”
“If that is true, why don't you explain why you were so avert to me talking to Father.” The forced control in his voice barely masked his coldness.
“I'll tell you,” Balarin said, “but I warn you, you may or may not be ready for what I am about to tell you. Please, though, wait until I finish my piece before you respond.”
“Just spit it out, Balarin.” Palarin said.
“Okay,” Balarin said. Palarin wondered what caused the edge of discomfort that laced her voice.
After a long pause, Balarin began. “To understand the future is a skill in which few ever achieve a mastery. Divination is no more a magic than simple conjuring but few people truly understand what it is that the future reveals to them. The future is comprised of many different paths. Paths converge and diverge depending on choices that are made. I just made such a choice.” She took a deep breath. “I chose to save your life, but in doing so I could not save your father's.”
Panatar felt his face tighten. What did she mean? He felt unsure. The thrill that had carried him forward as he had tried to flee from the house had abated. He felt vulnerable. But Balarin continued. “Among the images revealed to me in your palm lay a specific one that marked a certain path that your life might have taken. I saw an image of your father and a cutthroat. They were in the street just outside, and the moon was just peeking through the cloud-cover. The cutthroat held a dagger dangerously balanced on his palm but your father seemed unaware of his presence.
“But before the cutthroat reached Cimrial, your father's head turned. I don't believe that I've ever seen anyone react on impulse faster than your father did. He saw the cutthroat and drew his own dagger. Your father began sprinting across the gap between himself and the cutthroat faster than I've seen anyone move ever.”
Then Balarin went silent. Her brow contorted painfully. Panatar could only guess she was trying to block the image of what she had seen next in her vision. He didn't need her to continue with her tale. From her face, he could guess his father's fate.
“In your vision,” Panatar asked needlessly, “was my father killed?”
A tear rolled down Balarin's cheek as she nodded. Panatar felt a dull throb of pain creeping up in his chest. His heart was suddenly pounding wildly again. “You said you saved my life. I wasn't in any danger. Was I?” He felt suddenly out of control. He was angry again.
“You were in danger.” There was no pretense in Balarin's voice. “Your palm showed me the image of you chasing after the cutthroat. When he disappeared into a side-street, you let out a scream. He had left a knife in your chest.”
“And what makes you so sure he's dead already?” He was desperate now. “Can you see when my father was killed over and above the fact that it would happen?”
The old wooden grandfather clock at the edge of the room struck midnight and a deep sound resonated. “No,” said Balarin, “but immediately after the cutthroat stabbed you the clock tower struck twelve o'clock.”
I'm talking about "incredulously."