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the dark pebble in that palm. The two children, cousins and just at the age where they were responsible enough for a few simple chores, followed him into the palm-shaded courtyard of Falkon’s home.
    Chanson, as the dyara who had invited them to take care of Falkon’s lands, had allowed him and the Arbran to move into it after their first week here. Both men had proven careful and methodical with the house and its contents, as well as the fields and the animals given into their care. Now that the Arbran Knight had ridden away, Chanson was ostensibly keeping an eye on Eduor to make sure he remained honest and honorable, but she watched him simply because ... well, she didn’t quite know why. Other than that she wanted to watch him. Eduor fit into the village, true, but he was still exotic.
    She watched him hand the boy a soft currying brush, which would be used on the filly that had been born just three days before, then hand a bucket of wheat corn to the girl, who moved over to the coop and scattered a few handfuls for the chickens to peck at. The trailing edges of the woven fronds sheltering Falkon’s courtyard made it hard to see more than that, but she did glimpse enough to figure out that much of the scene.
    So that’s what the betting was about, to see who got the “fun” chore of grooming the new filly and who had to deal with the mindless hens. She noted what chore Eduor himself had taken with pleasure and amusement. He’s certainly taking very seriously the rules about cleaning the guano from the henhouse and taking it to the compost heaps. Who would’ve guessed from their reputation that a Mandarite would so happily shovel ... aww, Goddess, the rains are starting in the distance already?
    Wrinkling her nose, she sighed and headed back to the temple. Not that she had far to walk; Falkon’s compound was just two houses and courtyards away from the court hall side of the temple. Her dyarina came hurrying up as she reached the front entrance.
    “The rains are coming, dyara !” Jimeyon told her, his eyes wide. “I can feel them this time, I swear it! They come from the northwest, right?”
    She grinned. He reminded her of herself at that age, all excited about the tingly damp feeling in her blood and her bones. “Good! Yes, they do. Now, up to the roof. You get to try spin-trancing for the first few minutes. A little more dampness on the village ground won’t hurt it and might harden the dust into dirt.”
    Jimeyon nodded, accepting her advice. He would be taught as she had been taught, by lessons, observations, and careful practice under the watchful eye of a trained dyara . The dyarina knew better than to practice without supervision. There were too many stories in Sundaran lore of what happened when a dyara turned bad, whether from evil intent, ignorance, pride, or selfishness.
    The reverend dyara of the village joined them as they mounted the stairs. Kedle was old, her face wrinkled and her hair solid gray; she moved with the stiffness of the joints that plagued all dyara in their later years and rarely left the village walls. But her mind was still sharp and her smile warmer than the sun, and everyone in Oba’s Well revered and loved her.
    Once they were on top of the roof, all three of them could see the silvery gray streaks in the distance, drifting like slanted veils. They could even smell the cool, musty odor of the approaching rain. Chanson pointed over Jimeyon’s shoulder, giving him a lesson in weather-reading. “See that? How the rain-veils drift to the east with the wind?”
    He squinted, thought, and nodded. “Yes. It looks ... it looks like it might miss some of the village lands. It’s going more to the east than southeast, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, and it’ll miss slightly more than half,” dyara Kedle stated. “I will call half of the clouds to the south. Your job, Jimeyon, will be to open yourself up to the clouds and spin the water over the village into the collectors.” She