some people like that fool Amero found fascinating.
Tiphan drew out the particular piece of parchment he sought. Called a “map,” it was a large triangular fragment, the corner of a larger sheet of the finest sheepskin. In four colors of ink, the map showed the plains west to Khar, the forest at the Edge of the World, part of the Silvanesti’s forested homeland, and the southern range of the mountains. Two fine lines of blue ink snaked south and east to the distant sea, showing the Thon-Tanjan in the north, the Thon-Thalas in the south.
Tiphan smothered a laugh. The unspeakable Bek’s manuscript was a real treasure. All that remained was to collect the stones of power. He could leave tomorrow, before the rising of the sun. Konza could oversee the cleansing of the Offertory and preparation of the dragon’s meals, but Tiphan would need help on his journey, someone to carry his provisions and to hunt along the way.
Who should he take? Who could he trust? Sorting through the ranks of the Sensarku in his mind, the answer came quickly: Mara and Penzar.
Tiphan returned the map to his cache. With the stone in place, no one could tell what was there. He donned his warmest garment, a black panther cape and hood covered with white dove feathers. On a stand a few steps away, his father’s brazen robe gleamed. The stand that should have held Tiphan’s bronze robe was empty.
Tiphan stifled another laugh. What had seemed so high a price a few days ago he now deemed cheap. Konza had asked about Tiphan’s missing robe, but so far he had fended off the queries. Once he returned laden with stones of power, no one would question his judgment on anything ever again.
He lifted the door latch and stepped out into the night. Yala-tene glittered in the soft, pearly light of Soli, the white moon. Tiphan skidded down the frosty lane until he reached the house of the Sensarku women. Next door was the house of the male acolytes.
Unlike the other villagers, the Sensarku lived in communal homes, treating each other as kinsmen. Townsfolk thought this odd, but it was considered a great honor to be chosen to join the Sensarku. Some of the proudest families in Yala-tene willingly gave their sons and daughters over to Tiphan’s keeping.
Walking straight into the women’s house, Tiphan took a lit lamp from its niche by the door. Raising it high, he called, “Mara? Where is Mara?”
Midway down the row of sleepers, a girl sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I am here, Tosen.”
“Come. I wish to speak to you.”
Holding a rabbit-fur blanket around her shoulders, Mara padded on bare feet past her dozing sisters. At seventeen, she was not the eldest of the female acolytes, but her devotion to the great dragon and to Tiphan was unquestioned.
She pushed a tangle of curly auburn hair away from her freckled face. “What is it, Tosen?”
“We have a task to perform, Mara. A very special task,” he whispered, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “You must prepare for a journey.”
“Journey? Where?”
“Over the mountains, to the east.”
She blinked, her brain still befogged by sleep. “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow before dawn.”
That woke her up. “Tosen, I bring the dragon’s meal to the Offertory tomorrow! My father selected a fine yearling ox — ”
“Lower your voice, girl! This is more important! Do as I say. Dress warmly and pack food and water for the two of us for twelve days.”
“Two of us, Tosen? Are we going on this journey alone?”
“No, Penzar is coming, too. He’ll bring his own supplies.” Mara let out the breath she was holding. Eighteen- year-old Penzar was a fine hunter and tracker. He could certainly supply game for them, wherever they were going.
“It will be done, Tosen,” she said, bowing.
“Say nothing about what we do, even to your sisters,” he murmured. “And bring a weapon.”
“Weapon?”
“We’re going to the wilderness, beyond the eye of our Protector. Do you have a weapon?”
“A bird stick. A quartz knife.”
“Bring both.”
Tiphan returned the lamp to the wall niche. “Good night, Mara. I’ll see you at the entrance to the Offertory when the morning moon sets.”
“Yes, Tosen. Good night.”
When Tiphan emerged from the women’s house, a raw wind was scouring the street. He faced away from the wind and hurried to the men’s house. The scene with Mara was repeated as he roused Penzar, telling him they were going on a special journey.
The boy scrubbed a hand through his sandy hair, causing it to stand out from his head in short spikes. Blearily, he said, “Leaving? Has the Arkuden cast you out?”
“No, fool. I have an urgent task to perform on the far plains. You and Mara will serve me on the journey.”
“Mara?”
“Yes. She’s strong, keen-eyed, and a good reader of weather signs. You’ll be our hunter and tracker. Bring your hunting spear and supplies for yourself for twelve days.”
Penzar nodded. “Aye, Tosen.”
As Tiphan left he was startled to see sleet falling. He headed home, the tiny particles of ice stinging his face. Sleet began to pile up in silver drifts against the houses. His breath plumed out, hanging in the air like smoke as he skidded across the frozen streets.
Duranix had told him there would be no more snow. He thought of the seedlings the villagers had planted. Ice was not snow, but it certainly meant woe to the tiny fruit trees. Had the Protector been wrong, or had he, Tiphan, misunderstood?
Alone in the empty street, Tiphan shook his head. The Protector was never wrong, and it seemed unlikely that he, the Protector’s chief servant, would be wrong either. Trust the dragon and believe in your own wisdom, he told himself. Believe, and all will be well.
Little noises teased Amero’s ears. He didn’t want to notice them. He was too comfortable. Snuggled deep under a pile of furs, his nose buried against the back of Lyopi’s neck, he was content. The noise was probably Unar, bumping around the dark interior of the house.
The noise grew louder. Someone was hammering on the door. Amero bolted upright. He heard loud, unintelligible talk in the street outside.
Lyopi pushed herself up on one elbow. Tendrils of hair had worked free of her braid and stood out around her face. “What is it?” she said crossly.
“I don’t know. I’ll find out.”
He made for the door. “Amero,” Lyopi called, “you might want some clothes.”
He looked down at himself and grinned. “It is cold out.”
The room resounded with more blows on the door. Amero pulled on his leather breeches and buckskin shirt. When he opened the door, he caught his foreman in mid-knock.
“What is it, Huru?” asked Amero, squinting against the morning light. People were running in the street.
“Sorry to wake you, Arkuden, but there’s trouble.”
Lyopi appeared behind Amero, wrapped in a black bearskin. “What trouble?” she asked.
“Ice fell all night. The fields are covered with half a span of sleet. The orchard planters are furious. They say the dragon lied to them, told them winter was done.”
Amero sighed, scrubbing his fingers through his short hair. “I knew this would happen. Where are the planters?”
“At the Offertory, demanding an explanation. Old Konza can’t handle them.”
“Konza?” Lyopi’s dark brows rose in surprise. “Where’s Tiphan?”
The dark-skinned man shrugged. “No one knows.”
Amero closed the door and put on his sandals and cloak. Lyopi began to dress as well.
