Anton considered the statue. It looked similar enough to the Temara he had seen when he’d scried into the Wanderer’s past. A strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, framed by a sweep of cropped hair. Perhaps, then, it was the expression that the Wanderer objected to. Steadfast and sure, her face as cold as the stone it was carved from, lips pursed and eyes gazing off into the distance. This was the Temara that the Order would have known.

“I assume we were granted permission, then?” the Wanderer asked, turning to Anton at last.

He nodded. “Tonight at sundown. We’ll scry for the other Prophets.”

Anton could imagine the mix of emotions the Wanderer was feeling. The other Prophets had played a role in what had happened to Temara. They were the reason the Wanderer was the Wanderer, and no longer Ananke the Brave.

But Anton needed them. The world needed them.

“If this works,” the Wanderer said. “I can’t come with you to find the other Prophets.”

Anton caught her eye. “When this works,” he insisted, “I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. The touch was surprisingly tender, and Anton felt himself lean into it. He still hadn’t quite shrugged off the fact that she had knowingly put Jude in danger by sending him to Pallas Athos. But at the same time, she had put her faith in Anton.

“Thank you,” he said seriously.

“For what?” she asked, sounding genuinely nonplussed.

“For not giving up on me, I guess,” Anton replied. “For being there when I needed you, even if I didn’t know it at the time.”

She smiled. Not her usual secretive, sly smile, but one that lit up her whole face and made her look like a young woman again.

“Come,” she said, gently leading Anton away. “It won’t do to scry on an empty stomach.”

The sun sank below the western mountain ridge of the river valley as Jude, Anton, and the Wanderer climbed up to the Circle of Stones. The low buzz of the Circle’s resonance grew louder and steadier as they ascended the stone stairs and approached the heelstone that marked the entrance.

“I’ll wait for you here,” Jude said, coming to a halt beside the heelstone. He squeezed Anton’s hand once and then let go.

He had come this far, but this part was reserved for Anton and the Wanderer. A strange wave of familiarity washed over Anton as he stepped into the circle of great monoliths with the Wanderer. Each of the Seven Prophets towered above them, the Stones burnished rose and gold in the evening sunlight. It was strange to see Pallas staring down at them, his stone face soft and benevolent. Stranger still to see the Wanderer, without a face.

“Another poor likeness.” Her lips tilted into a smile as she looked up at the stone meant to represent her.