offered wine to the scholar and was politely refused, and filled his own glass. And in truth, he felt the need of it. This scribe had a way of demanding answers to questions he had rather not think about.

'I only have one more question, Captain,' the scribe said, chuckling when he saw damn's expression of resigned dismay. 'Though it could be seen as more than one.'

'A puzzle, then? Or a riddle?' Clarrin hoped so. He and his grandfather had often traded riddles long into the night.

'Perhaps, yes!' the scribe agreed. 'A puzzle of questions.'

Clarrin waited while the breeze stirred scent up from the night-blooming flowers around them, and made the wind-chimes play gently. 'Your puzzle, then?' he prompted.

'Only this; why are the young ones chosen by the priesthood taken from their homes at night? Why are they tested, cleansed of all ties of kinship, and never seen again by their kin except at a distance? Why are those that cannot be cleansed of kin-ties in your temple, or those who fail the testing, cleansed instead by burning in the fire of Vkandis? Why does the Sunlord, the giver of all life, require the death of children? Is it the cleansing and sacrifice of kin-ties that give the priests and priestesses the power to perform the Sunlord's miracles, or could they perform them if they never set foot in the temple or donned robes?'

Clarrin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the scribe was not yet done with him.

'Is it possible,' he continued, leaning forward so that his terrible, knowing eyes bored into Clarrin's, 'that the ones who are fire-cleansed are destroyed because their powers are too strong, too strong to permit their minds and hearts to be cleansed of the love of their kinfolk, and that if they lived, they could rival the priests and priestesses without ever having to wear a robe?'

His eyes seemed to penetrate right into Clarrin's mind, as if he were daring Clarrin to find the true answers to this 'puzzle' of his. And there was something lurking in the depths of his gaze; a hint of pain, of loneliness, of half- madness that made Clarrin finally shiver and turn away.

'I — have no answers for you at all, sir scribe,' he replied, rising to his feet, quickly. 'I am only a poor lancer, with no head for such an elevated discourse. I will have to leave these things to men of wisdom, such as you and my grandfather. Now, if you will forgive me — ' he ended, hastily, already backing away, 'I have duties early in the morning. Very early — '

And with that, he beat a hasty retreat.

Tirens Mul-Par also faced the sun this morning, but not to pray. His prayer had been answered last night, and that in itself was proof enough of the Sunlord's power — and that His power, like the light of the sun, granted blessings and prayers in every land and not just in Karse.

Instead, he watched as his servants secretly readied all the horses in his stable for a long journey, and his thoughts, too, returned to the previous evening's conversation.

Clarrin beat a hasty, but tactically sound, retreat from the garden. He did not — quite — run, but it was plain enough from his posture that he wished he could. It was too bad for his peace of mind that he would never be able to run fast enough or far enough to escape those questions the scribe had placed in his thoughts.

Tirens watched him go, and hid a smile. This was not the first time that he had entertained the scholar who called himself 'Brekkan of Hawk's Rest,' but it was the first time he had been utterly certain of what this 'Brekkan' really was.

'I fear I may have upset your grandson, Tirens Mul-Par,' the scribe said softly. 'It was not my intention.'

The old man snorted. 'It was always your intention — Valdemaran,' he said, and watched with interest as the scribe's hand twitched a little. Interesting. A sleeve-dagger? 'You Heralds of Valdemar do not care to see folk become too complacent, do you?'

He saw the man's eyes widen just a trifle, and smiled.

'I think you are mistaken — ' the so-called 'scribe' began.

Tirens held up a finger, cautioning him to silence. 'If I am mistaken, it is only in thinking that a Herald would not resort to a hidden dagger up a sleeve.' His smile broadened as the Herald twitched again. 'But I did not make any mistakes in giving you my hospitality, nor in bringing my grandson here for you to disturb with your questions. He is old enough, and well-placed enough, to make a difference in this sad land.'

Again the Herald moved as to protest, and again he silenced the man with a single finger.

'Your questions deserve answers, not platitudes or religious cant. But he must decide for himself what is right. I cannot give him answers, nor can you.' He shrugged expressively. 'I do not know what his answers will be, nor can I say what he will do once he finds them. That will come as Vkandis wills.'

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