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Brotherhood. Teague retrieved the brazier and long dagger and strode to the center of the exercise yard.
    Once more he laid the dagger beside the brazier and squatted before them. A small tinderbox hung from a red cord tied to one of the brazier's handles. Teague opened it and removed the stone, a piece of metal, and a bit of dried grass. He soon had a small fire burning in the pile of charcoal.
    The sharp fragrance of aromatic wood gum from the sacred cedra tree filled the air. Teague inhaled deeply, mentally visualizing the incense filling not only his body but his mind, consecrating him, cleansing him.
    Purify me , he solemnly intoned the opening words of the sacred blade ritual. Open me, heart and soul, to the cleansing odor of righteousness. Guide me so that I may soar to the highest regions of the mind. Free me, if only for a brief moment in time, from a body constrained by base urges and the sordid corruptions of the flesh.
    Teague reached inside the narrow band of cloth that covered him and withdrew a small vial of oily fluid. Unstopping it, he poured a generous amount into his palm, touched his fingers to the liquid then began to rub it onto his body. The peppery scent of sacred herbs, overlaid with the heavier odor of musk, rose on the freshened breeze. The brazier blazed hot and bright now, warming Teague's flesh and the ceremonial oils.
    His fingers glided over the swell of his chest, then down the length of his arms, then back over his chest again and down his belly. Teague's skin began to tingle. A fire flared to life, searing deep into Teague's bone and muscle and sinew. Strength such as he'd never experienced, save in these rare moments of consecration, surged through him.
    Teague closed his eyes, willed himself to breathe slower and slower. Willed his pulse to slacken. With long, languorous strokes, he smoothed the remainder of the oil over his thighs and down his calves. Even as he did, he felt the power swell within him. It was time for the first, most intricate movements of the blade ritual.
    He rose, the sheathed dagger in his hand. With a firm motion, Teague crossed his left arm over his body, grasped the dagger's hilt, and sharply withdrew it. Lunging forward on his left leg, he gave a guttural cry and thrust the dagger to the sky. For long minutes he stood there, every muscle in his body taut and straining.
    The wind gusted down, tossing his long, tawny hair into his face and across his shoulders, the strands clinging to the oil coating his body. Teague paid it little heed. In an effortless flow of powerful muscles, he leaped back, then wheeled, sweeping the blade through the air with a sharp, slicing motion.
    Changing direction with catlike swiftness, he spun about once more. His hands moved in unison with his legs, slashing and kicking. He swung first to the right, then to the left, over and over and over, until his muscles began to burn and clench with spasms.
    Yet still Teague forced himself on, the sweat beading and sliding down his body to mingle with the sacred oils. There was no surer way to reach the heights of self-renunciation, no surer way to drive the demons from his flesh and heart. The night was young, and only in the pinnacle of his torment would he at last be free.
    Free ... to attain the final purification—and earn the right to take the ultimate test of all . . .
    ***
    Gusts of wind slammed down the mountain, buffeting Raina, impeding the determined progress she made toward the hermitage and her meeting with the monk named Teague Tremayne. It had already taken her over an hour to make the trip from the royal palace, through the city, and up the road that led into the foothills of the Cams Mountains. Though she could now easily make out the perpetual light torches at the four corners of some stone enclosure beside the monk's beehive-shaped hut, the increasing steepness of the trail and the encumbrance of the wind would lengthen the remainder of the journey yet another