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would happen.”
    â€œAch, you don’t know nothing,” muttered Petsane.
    â€œTwo years ago I warned our high priestess,” said Manjuza. “I say to her, that mountain range ain’t gonna keep the peace between Cirrans and Brinnians forever.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, you be right, as usual,” said Petsane with a loud sniff.
    â€œI hear they paid a sorcerer to make their path,” Mama Bintou said, her eyes roaming the room. She clutched her wool and needles in one hand but it was only for show. She was searching for a mind to read.
    â€œThat couldn’t be, Mama,” said Elliott. “Brinnians don’t believe in sorcery.”
    â€œBrinnians believe in whatever gets the job done, and don’t you think otherwise,” snapped Mama Petsane. “They’re gonna stomp on our Cirran ways because they can.”
    â€œThey got the bigger boots, eh?” said Manjuza. She laughed and then began coughing.
    â€œYou should quit smoking that sasapher, Mama,” said Ophira.
    Jordan edged closer to her. “Did you hear anything about my mother?”
    â€œAll the grandmas say she’s with Arrabel,” Ophira replied.
    â€œWhere have the Brinnians taken them?”
    Ophira busied herself with a fraying pocket. “We don’t know.”
    â€œAye, what’s she doing here?” grumbled Bintou, pointing with her needles to a small older woman who stood across the room alone. Her grey hair was in a tumble and she wore a long stained coat and rubber boots.
    â€œSweet sasapher,” Ophira said to Jordan. “It’s Grandma Willa.”
    Willa had parted ways with her seer sisters many years ago, having given up prophecy for the utterly non-magical pursuit of door-making. Most of the sisters thought her mad and wanted nothing to do with her.
    â€œLook how she march around this place like an Uttic fishwife,” said Petsane. “Boots! In the Meditary. Just imagine!”
    â€œWhere’s her robes?” said Manjuza. “And how come she goes out without her veil?”
    â€œFancies herself a real door-maker now, I reckon,” said Bintou.
    â€œAch, she can make all the doors she wants,” said Petsane. “Once a prophet, always a prophet. Don’t matter how fast she runs from it, it’s gonna catch her sooner or later.”
    Ophira shushed them and pointed to the northern archway. The chatter in the temple gradually stilled as a tall man strode in and stood before the central font. He had long black hair, a beard that ended in a point midway down his chest, a long nose and dark hooded eyes. He seemed to be smirking. Jordan grabbed Ophira’s arm.
    â€œI’ve seen him before.”
    â€œThat’s not possible,” said Ophira. “No Brinnian has ever crossed those mountains. We wouldn’t even know what one looked like.”
    â€œNo, Phi, that man was at the archery contests. He stood beside me.” Great Light! The coup had been taking place right before Cirran eyes and no one had realized it. Had Jordan unwittingly made things worse by answering the man’s questions? Tonight he was wearing black robes — normally the robes of a sorcerer — that fell open to reveal a jewelled breastplate. In one hand he gripped a golden staff. Yesterday he’d seemed like any other pilgrim.
    When he snapped his fingers, Landguards surrounded the font. Jordan couldn’t see what they were doing but then Ophira gasped, “That’s cedar wood! He’s setting fire to it.”
    â€œThat couldn’t be,” said Jordan, but when he strained to see, there were flames and smoke and the smell of burning. The tall cedars of Somberholt Forest were filled with the Great Light’s healing magic. Those trees were never felled. Jordan often stole away into the forest and lay at the soft mossy base of the great cedars, staring up at their invisible crowns. Invariably he would fall asleep, and