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to save another makes me uncomfortable. Moreover, querinalo did not only touch those who follow our creed. It killed many who had never given their wills to the guidance of the deities.”
    “So is it their retribution or not?” Blind Seer pressed.
    “I do not know if querinalo is divine retribution as such,” Eshinarvash said. “I do know that when it appeared, the deities did not stop its spread, nor did they give omens that indicated we should do so. If they did not create it to punish the wrongdoers, well, then, they certainly did not provide guidance on how to stop it. Therefore, if querinalo is not their retribution, perhaps it is their will.”
    Blind Seer grumbled something, and cracked down so hard on the bone he had been chewing that it broke in two.
    “I had hoped,” the wolf said , “that in your explanation I would find something we could use to turn Urgana to our way of thinking. There may be other ways to learn what we need. There are many here who may have tales, and Ynamynet has promised to ask among them, but there is no doubt that Urgana with her ability to read so many languages, and to find trails where Firekeeper and I would only smell dry paper, would have been useful.”
    Firekeeper felt that if she had proper ears, they would have pricked in excitement as a new course of action came to her.
    “The answer may be here nonetheless. Let us talk with Harjeedian. He is an aridisdu, and Urgana regularly goes to him for counsel. If we can convince him of the rightness of what we would do, then perhaps he can convince Urgana.”
    “And if his thinking is as confused as mine?” Eshinarvash asked.
    “Then there are omens,” Firekeeper said. “Truth is a great seer, and if she saw omens indicating that the deities might favor our hunt, then surely Harjeedian and Urgana would obey.”
    “Truth is honest in those omens she gives,” Blind Seer warned. “Since she wrestled Amhyn—or believes she did—when querinalo seized her, she is more devout than ever. What if her omens are not what we wish?”
    Firekeeper shrugged. “Then we are no worse off than we are now, and may need to hunt stories more slowly.”
    She leapt to her feet, feeling her body one clean line of purpose. “Harjeedian will be at the gates at this time. I saw him there earlier, and the watch runs until dusk. Let’s go find him, and maybe with him we will find Truth.”

III
      “BLOCKED? I FEAR I do not understand.”
    The words were spoken politely, but the speaker put into his tone that which made quite clear that “fear” was not his dominant emotion. Irritation sizzling on the verge of explosive anger was closer to what the young man sitting in the chair at the end of the high table projected, as well he knew.
    Although Bryessidan, King of the Mires, was not much past twenty-five, already his temper had graven deep lines between his eyebrows. The edges of his mouth bore deep creases from pressing his lips tightly shut over his immediate response. The lines gave a fierce character to features that were otherwise not particularly remarkable. Bryessidan shared the same slight build, brown hair, long brown eyes, and golden brown skin that set the majority of the Mires’ dwellers apart from the other residents of the continent-spanning realm once known as Pelland. Without his regalia—and his distinctive royal glower—Bryessidan could have blended into any crowd.
    Even though Bryessidan had long ago learned that acting as prompted by his temper was not the best response to most situations, still he felt that keeping the reminder that he might do so visibly present was a wise tactic.
    Certainly, being known for a short temper was better than revealing the insecurity that lay under the king’s surface confidence. A king might be many things, but insecure was not one of these. An insecure king was a weak king, and a weak king was soon a king in name only—and often not even that.
    Bryessidan had inherited his throne from