One morning much like the dozens of others since I’d returned from the Ember Cavern, I prepared for a day full of training. I put on a sandal and reached for the other when I saw that someone had slipped a piece of paper into one of my sandals.
All around, other initiates were rising from their beds and grumbling about the early start that came to them every day. With no one paying attention, I slid the note into a pouch for later.
That day started with an extended meditation, followed by a run through the newly thawed woods. It was lunchtime before I had a moment to myself to read the note.
“Meet me tonight,” it said. “Shrine a mile down the valley road. An hour after sunset.”
I turned the note over and looked for any clue as to who had written it. The neat penmanship was unfamiliar, the paper a scrap carefully cut off some larger sheet. But whether it came from a man or a woman, initiate or master, or even some servant or outsider, I couldn’t tell. There was only one way to find out, so I decided I’d meet with the mysterious messenger.
Dusk was already falling when we finished our lessons for the day. While my fellow initiates went to enjoy a rare moment of relaxation before dinner, I slid out of a side gate, skirted around the edge of the plateau, and headed into the darkness down the road into town.
As I walked, I considered who I might be meeting. Most of my secret encounters since reaching the guild had been with Faryn or Vesma, and the memories of those occasions left me hoping for more. Slipping me a note would have been a novel approach for either woman, and a little odd given that they had opportunities to talk with me directly. But perhaps one of them had wanted to add some mystery to our proceedings, to spice things up a little.
At the other end of the spectrum, this could be the work of someone who wanted to hurt me. There were subtler ways to lure me into an ambush, but I made no secret of my curiosity about the world, and the direct approach was sure to get me to the right place at the right time. That was why I’d come out with the Sundered Heart Sword strapped across my back. Nydarth only spoke from the weapon when she had something to teach me, but the blade itself was even sharper and better balanced than the one I had brought from the Unwashed Temple. If there was trouble, I would be ready for it.
After walking for most of a mile, I started looking around for the promised shrine. It soon became obvious—a small, square building set back a dozen yards from the road, timber-built with a roof of clay tiles. Two steps led up from the path to a pillared porch on which two figures stood in loose robes, arms by their sides, swords at their backs. Between them, lamplight spilled out of the doorway to the shrine.
Not a clandestine hook-up then. I stretched my arms and checked my own sword before approaching.
As I set my foot on the first step, the guards moved to block the entrance. One was a man, and the other a woman, their hair tied tightly back, their movements swift and graceful. Flames leaped from their hands as they raised them, and the fires illuminated angular, haughty faces as close to identical as brother and sister could be. The flames also lit up the red eagle emblems on the left breasts of their green robes.
Now, at least, I had some idea of who I was here to meet. These two belonged to Clan Wysaro.
I closed my eyes, felt for the channels within me, and let a trickle of Vigor flow. I could sense the power radiating from these two, more than I had seen in almost any fire Augmenter. If this turned nasty, then I would need to act fast to get out alive.
“Please tell the representative of Clan Wysaro that Ethan Murphy lo Pashat is here to see them,” I said.
“I am no representative,” a stern voice announced from within. “I am Clan Wysaro.”
The guards stepped aside and allowed me entrance to the shrine. For a moment, I considered walking away, going back to the temple, and telling Xilarion what had happened. Just knowing Clan Wysaro was sniffing around the guild could be useful to him. But then, I would never know why I had been invited here.
I walked through the doorway and into a small room thick with pungent incense. A shrine against the far wall held a statue of a local goddess, craggy and angular as the mountain she inhabited, surrounded by the symbols of the elements. I didn’t know her name since I’d never visited the shrine; she was just one of hundreds worshipped by the populace. Two fresh pots of incense sticks had been lit to either side of her, offerings to encourage her blessing upon an endeavor. There was a wooden stool against the wall to the left, and another to the right, offering rest to weary travelers, a gift from the goddess’ followers to those who took the time to pray.
The seat on the left was empty. The other held the man who had summoned me here.
I had only seen Jiven Wysaro once before, but I recognized him instantly. Dark hair and a beard flecked with gray fell across long, green robes embroidered with a red eagle. Up close, I could see how incredibly intricate that embroidery was, just as I could make out the creases at the corners of his eyes. Time had been good to Lord Wysaro, letting him keep his health and Vigor, but no one could hold back age forever.
I took the empty seat before he had a chance to offer it. For a long moment, the two of us sat staring at each other by the
