Before they reached the porch, the heavy wooden door creaked open and a tall, balding man with a wreath of brown hair exited. He wore a pinched frown and dark green robes, the raiment of a priest of Oghma. A bronze holy symbol in the shape of an unfurled scroll hung from a chain around his neck. He took in their weapons and armor, still frowning, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I don't believe—"

Jak cut him off. "We have come to see Sephris Dwendon. We're prepared to make a donation to the Lord of Knowledge."

The priest pursed his thin lips, obviously perturbed by Jak's interruption. Cale was pleased to see that the man was not the sage, as he had at first thought.

"Sephris is indisposed," said the priest, but he didn't turn to leave.

Cale well understood the game, priest or no priest. He would have smiled but for the bad taste it left in his mouth.

"We're prepared to make a large donation to the Sanctum of the Scroll," Cale said. "We will not require much of Sephris's time, or yours."

The priest took that in and gave them an appraising look, as though evaluating their capacity to pay what Cale had promised.

After a moment, he said, "Very well, then. I shall see if Master Sephris is receiving visitors."

He turned to reenter the house.

Jak called after his back, "Tell him Jak Fleet is here to see him. Jak Fleet."

The priest did not acknowledge that he'd heard.

They waited, Riven smirking all the while.

"They rotate priests as caretakers for him," Jak explained. "It's not a highly regarded job. Sephris can be difficult."

"That explains him then," Cale said, referring to the priest.

After a few moments, the priest returned. In his hands, he held an open silver box lined with red velvet.

"Sephris will see you, but I must collect the donation first, of course."

Riven sneered, but Cale wasn't surprised by the request. In Sembia, even religion was business.

"Of course," Cale said.

He took from his belt the pouch of platinum suns given him by Tamlin, counted out ten, and placed them in the donation box.

The priest gave a tight smile and snapped the box closed. Cale wondered how much of that coin would actually find its way to the church's coffers.

"Follow me," the priest said. "Sephris is in the library, as always."

They entered the tiled foyer of the home and walked down the main hall. The windows, screened by the overgrown trees and shrubs outside, let in only scant light. No paintings hung on the walls, only scrawled numbers and equations, written floor to ceiling in Elvish, Dwarvish, and Chondathan. Cale stared at them uncomprehending. The mathematics were either very advanced or utterly nonsensical.

"We erase them," the priest explained, nodding at the numbers, "when Sephris moves on to another room. The whole house is this way."

Cale shared a glance with Riven. Rather than smug, as Cale had expected, the assassin looked ... coiled.

Did evidence of madness make him uncomfortable? Cale wondered. A still more uncomfortable thought surfaced in Cale's mind—did serving a god ultimately render all priests at least a little insane? Cale had encountered at least two before: the Righteous Man, and Jurid Gauston.

The priest led them to a pair of walnut double doors, notable for the lack of numbers written upon them.

There, he turned and said to the three, "He may have already forgotten that I told him of you. After announcing you, I will await you here in the hall. Do not unnecessarily agitate him. Do you understand?"

Cale realized then that he didn't know the priest's name, and that the priest didn't know his. It was better that way, he supposed.

They all three nodded. The priest opened the doors.

The circular, high-ceilinged library smelled of ink and esenal root, an herbal paper preservative. Books, scrolls, and papers were crammed so tightly into the wall shelves that the room appeared built of books rather than wood and stone. Thamalon's collection was paltry compared to it. The single room alone rivaled the temple of Deneir's borrowing library. Books and papers, covered in numbers and equations, lay strewn haphazardly across the floor as though blown by a whirlwind. Small teaching slates, similar to those used by Cale's language instructors back in Westgate, lay here and there around the library, filled with chalked formulae written in a tiny, precise script.

Sephris sat at a huge, ornate oak desk in the center of the library, furiously writing with a stick of chalk on another such slate. His thinning brown hair, neatly parted on the side, sprouted from a round, overlarge head. He could have seen fifty winters, he could have seen forty. He wore a heavy, embroidered red robe, and where his arms peeked out of the sleeves, Cale could see numbers inked on his skin. The man had covered his body the same way he'd covered the walls.

The priest cleared his throat and said, "Sephris, the men I spoke of are here."

Sephris looked up at them, though his hand continued to scribble on the slate, as though propelled by another mind. His brown eyes, piercing and thoughtful, narrowed.

"I see them," Sephris said. "You may go."

The priest nodded and excused himself from the room, closing the door as he departed.

"I knew you were coming," Sephris said to them. His eyes looked at them but didn't seem to focus. "See?" He held up the slate upon which he had been scribbling. It was covered in various mathematical formulae. Cale could make no sense of it. Sephris must have sensed their confusion. He tapped a number in the lower left hand corner of the slate. "Three heroes. See?"

Cale didn't. Neither did Riven, it seemed.

"This is madness, Cale," muttered the assassin. "He thinks scribblings told him we were coming. How? Madness."

Cale heard tension in the assassin's voice.

Sephris smiled softly, set down his slate, and rose from his desk. He dusted chalk from his robe and looked at Riven.

"You wonder how?" the loremaster asked.

Riven made no response but took half a step back.

"How many heavens are there?" Sephris asked him.

Riven fidgeted uncomfortably. He looked to Cale and Jak as though for help. Cale had none to give.

"How many?" Sephris asked again.

"How would I know?" Riven snapped.

"There are seven," said Sephris, and he clicked his tongue. "How many Hells?"

Riven scoffed—nervously, Cale thought—and gave no answer. Sephris waited, fingers twitching.

Cale answered, "Nine. Nine Hells."

"Correct. And there's your answer. That's how I knew."

"What?" Cale asked.

But Sephris's mind had already moved on. He stared hard at the halfling, as though trying to remember who he was.

"It is good to see you, Sephris," said Jak slowly. "Do you remember me? Jak Fleet. We met through Brelgin."

Sephris nodded, smiled as though he had just remembered a truth, and said, "It is good to see you, Jak Fleet." He snapped his fingers. "You are one of the three. Servant of the eighteenth god. You remain a seventeen. That is well."

His eyes went vacant. Hurriedly, he bent over the desk and scribbled something on the slate, muttering to himself.

Cale, Jak, and Riven shared a look. None knew what to do or say.

Sephris completed his calculation, or his mad scribbling, examined the result, and nodded.

He looked up at them and said, "I'd offer you a seat, but as you can see, I have none to offer. Zero."

He focused his gaze on Cale, a studied look that made Cale uncomfortable.

"You're the first," Sephris said. "One of the five. Were you aware of that?"

"One of the five what?"

Sephris ignored him and studied Riven in the same way.

"You," he said to the assassin, "You're the second of the five. Two blades, one eye. Your soul is dark. Do you know why you lost your eye?"