Arcolin started to unfold it, but Dattur stopped him. “No one must see,” he said, jerking his head to a caravan slowly making its way down, two turns behind them. “Later.”

Arcolin put it away, into one of his saddlebags.

CHAPTER FORTY

Fin Panir

When the first chill autumn winds blew in from the north—winterwards, as the Finthans called it—and prompted Arvid Semminson to unpack his cloak again, he realized he had not heard Gird’s voice in his head for a long time. He wondered why, but when he asked Cedlin, the Marshal shrugged. “Who can know the ways of the gods and their saints? My guess would be that whatever you were called to do, you need more training, more knowledge of the Fellowship. Young lads ask what great deeds they will do later, and I tell them what I’m now telling you. Do your work faithfully, grow in strength and knowledge and wisdom, so that when trouble comes, you are ready to do those deeds.”

Arvid nodded. “I understand that, Marshal, but wondered if I had missed some word—”

“From what you told me before, you hear Gird clearly enough. He had his reasons for turning you out of your old life, and you’ll find them out later. Though—where would your son be, if you had not been diverted?”

Arvid shuddered. “If that was the only reason, Marshal, it was reason enough. I am content.”

“Not for too long, I’ll wager,” the Marshal said. “I hear you’re raising questions up the hill … called Luap an idiot, didn’t you? Ambitious scoundrel?”

“Well, yes. He was.”

The Marshal chuckled. “Keep that up, Arvid, and you’ll find yourself rising like the bubbles in boiling water. Aiming at Marshal-General, are you?”

“No, Marshal!” Panic roiled his mind for a moment. “The Fellowship does not need a thief-enforcer for a leader.”

“Only the gods know what the Fellowship needs,” the Marshal said. “And someone who actually hears Gird may someday be what’s needed.”

Arvid shied from that thought and scrambled to find another topic. “This Council the Marshal-General’s called—do they always last so long?”

“No. You know what it’s about—”

“Something about magery,” Arvid said. He had heard scattered comments but could not make sense of them. “Blood magery, isn’t it? People using it here? Does it mean priests of Liart moved here from Tsaia when they were driven out there?”

“Not at all,” the Marshal said. “Not blood magery, but innate magery, what Duke Verrakai in Tsaia has. A talent, like a talent for singing or swordplay or strength.”

“But it’s bad—” Even thinking of magery brought the memory of Paksenarrion’s torment to mind, and everything he’d heard linked magery to evil, including the rumors now murmured in the markets here in Fin Panir.