I’m coming home, he thought. Sighing, he cast aside his branch and walked on.

Cresting one last hill shoulder, he came to a halt again as he looked down at the gorge below. There was something different about the camp: cautious about lighting too many fires, the bandits tended to bed down early. Only the watchers remained awake for long after dusk. Now, though, the ravine was bustling, men calling out to one another as they hurried about. Some bent by the stream, filling skins with water. Others were saddling the horses, or pulling down tents. Amidst it all, Lord Tavarre stood on a grassy hummock, snapping orders and shouting curses.

Cathan stared in amazement. He’d only been away from camp a few hours. What was going on? He hesitated, not sure he wanted to know-he could go back to Luciel, no one would miss him-but finally he clenched his fists and started down into the ravine.

A wolf howled before he’d gone very far, and half a dozen cloaked men met him halfway down the slope. One stepped forward, sword in hand. “Halt!” he barked. “Name yourself before I give you a new hole for breathing.”

Hearing the man’s voice in the dark, Cathan couldn’t help but chuckle. “Thanks, Embric, but I’ve all the holes I need,” he said, raising his hands to show they were empty.

The shadowy figure hesitated, then lowered his weapon, pulling back his hood to reveal his scruff-bearded face. Embric asked with concern, “What are you doing back? Your sister-”

Cathan shook his head, scowling, and they stood there silently for a time. Embric looked at his feet, his face grim. Finally, Cathan blew a long breath through tight lips, and nodded toward the tents.

“What’s happening down there?” he asked. “It looks as though you’re striking camp.”

“We are,” Embric said. “Another rider came, a while after you left. He-”

“What in the blue Abyss is going on up there?” growled a voice from down the hill. “Six men, and you can’t handle one intruder?”

Lord Tavarre hurried up toward them, Vedro at his side. His scarred face was set with anger and darkened even more when he saw Embric and the other bandits. Before he could say anything, though, his eyes fell on Cathan and widened.

“I came back,” Cathan said. “Where are you going?”

The baron looked at him a moment, then ran a hand through his graying hair and turned to Embric “Go back down and get to work. You too, Vedro. I’ll be along.”

The bandits hesitated, then withdrew, and Tavarre turned to Cathan, beckoning with his hand. “I would have bet against your returning. Walk with me.”

Cathan glanced around, then nodded, and fell in beside his lord. Tavarre walked quickly for a short man, striding through the dark with a huntsman’s sureness. They made their way through the night with the commotion of the camp falling behind as they went back the way Cathan had come. When they reached the face-shaped boulder Tavarre stopped, so Cathan did too. The baron regarded him quietly in the moonlight.

“What is it?” Cathan asked nervously, wondering why Tavare had taken him away from the others. “Embric said something about a messenger.”

Tavarre nodded. “You know we’re not the only bandits in the highlands, yes?” He went on without waiting for Cathan’s nod. “Well, there’s been talk for a while, of banding together. Now it’s finally happening. There’s a man named Ossirian, a higher lord than me-he’s called us all to him, for something more than waylaying priests. Something bigger.” He paused, his eyes glittering. “We’re going to attack Govinna.”

“What?” Cathan said, shocked.

“That’s what I said, when I read the message,” Tavarre said, grinning slyly. “I know Ossirian, though. He has a plan. We’re to move out at once and meet up with the others at Abreri.”

Cathan stood there, his mouth open, unable to think what to say. Govinna was Taol’s largest city, walled and well-guarded. It was also a fortnight’s march away-far enough that Cathan had never seen it. The bandits had joked about sacking it, more than once, but that was all it was-jests.

“Listen, lad,” Tavarre said, putting a hand on Cathan’s shoulder, “you don’t have to come. I see where your heart is. Stay with your sister.”

Cathan held his breath, considering. He could remain here in Luciel, with Wentha-but to what end? She would waste away, like his parents, like Tancred, and nothing he could do would stop her death. On the other hand, Govinna was where Durinen, the borderlands’ high priest and ruler, lived. He couldn’t save his sister, but he could help bring down the god’s servant. That was something.

Slowly he exhaled, lips tight against his teeth. “No,” he said. “I’m with you.”

The day began for Symeon as it always did, with Brother Purvis waking him by ringing a chime made from the wingbone of a silver dragon. It still lacked nearly two hours before dawn, and he lay awake for a time, listening to the nightbirds’ final songs. Dust danced on the silver moonlight streaming through the windows of his chamber. It was near-ing summer, and the room was already warm. In the Lord-city, late spring was a time of humid days and cool nights, punctuated by lashing rainstorms that swept in off the lake. Smiling, the Kingpriest pushed off his white, silken sheets and rose from his golden bed for the last time.

The morning passed quickly, following the usual routine. Purvis brought him a mug of honeyed wine, and he drank it in his private bath while blind servants scrubbed his pink, soft skin. After, barbered, powdered and perfumed, he passed to his vestiary, where still more acolytes helped him into his ceremonial raiment: robes of Lattakayan satin, be-jeweled breastplate, rings and slippers, and the sapphire tiara that had graced the brow of every Kingpriest since the end of the Three Thrones’ War. Last, he donned his medallion, kissing the platinum triangle and murmuring the god’s name before slipping it over his head.

He was late today, as it happened, and the dawnsong bells were already chiming in the Temple’s central spire as he left the manse. He crossed a rose-covered bridge from the palace to the basilica, taking little notice of the fingers of mist that rose from the gardens below, or the clerics that hurried, answering the call to prayer. A scarlet butterfly with wings an arm’s length across fluttered close to him, curious, then rode the drafts away.

The Temple’s priests-most of them, anyway-already had gathered when he arrived in the basilica, more than a thousand men and women in all. They were from all over the empire: almond-eyed Dravinish, Falthanans with forked, dyed beards, even a few Solamnians and swarthy Ergothmen, each wearing white robes in the styles of their homelands, and of course, the Silvanesti, tall and beautiful, led by Loralon and his aide, a slim, golden-haired elf named Quarath. A choir of elven priestesses sang a hymn of heartbreaking beauty as the Kingpriest ascended his dais, the hall resounding with their song.

As he had every day for the past six years, Symeon spoke the Udossi, the Blessing of Sunrise, a half-hour liturgy in the church tongue that he knew as well as his own name. He scarcely heard the words as they passed from his lips, so familiar were they, and before he knew it the censers that flanked his throne issued gouts of white smoke, and the priests dispersed, returning to study and chancery, office and prayer room. Symeon retired to his private sanctum within the basilica, a chamber with flamewood walls and an alabaster fountain whose waters smelled of lavender. There his servants brought his morning meal- honeycakes, bloodmelon, and cheese made from mare’s milk.

He scanned scrolls as he ate, his eyes gliding over reports from the hierarchs, as well as missives from the provinces. Most of them he stopped reading after a dozen words or so, making certain none of the tidings were particularly dire before setting them aside: his underlings would deal with most of these matters. As Voice of Paladine on Krynn, he could not trouble himself with every one of his subjects’ needs. When he reached an epistle marked with Taol’s golden-bear sigil, however, he stopped and read it carefully. Revered Son Durinen sent reports weekly, with the precision of Karthayan clockwork, and Symeon read every word the highland patriarch set to parchment.