Danjin looked away, not wanting to discomfort her by staring. As the silence continued he began to feel uncomfortable. There was something a little unsettling about seeing one of the White tearful, he mused. They were supposed to be strong. In control. But she isn’t exactly an old hand at this, he reminded himself. And I’d prefer that those who guided humans in matters of law and morality still had human feelings rather than none at all.

The door opened and Dyara stepped inside again, her hand lingering on the door handle.

“I’m sorry, Auraya. Spend the rest of the day as you wish. I will come and see you this evening when I am free.”

“Thank you,” Auraya replied softly.

Dyara looked at Danjin then nodded toward the door. He rose and followed her out of the room.

“Bad news?” he asked when the door had closed.

“Her mother has died.” Dyara grimaced. “It is unfortunate timing. Go home, Danjin Spear. Come back tomorrow at the usual time.”

Danjin nodded and made the sign of the circle. Dyara strode away. He looked down the corridor toward the staircase, then back at the door of the room he had just left. A free afternoon. He hadn’t had a moment to himself for several days. He could visit the Grand Market and spend some of the money he was earning on gifts for his wife and daughters. He could do some reading.

A memory of Auraya’s pale face slipped into his mind. She will be grieving, he thought. Is there anyone here to comfort her? A friend? Maybe one of the priests?

All ideas of visiting markets and reading evaporated. He sighed and knocked on the door. After a pause, the door opened. Auraya looked at him questioningly, then smiled wanly as she read his mind.

“I’ll be fine, Danjin.”

“Is there anything I can do? Someone I can fetch?”

She shook her head, then frowned. “Perhaps there is. Not to fetch, but to locate. Find out where the man who delivered the message to the Temple is staying. The initiate, Rimo, should be able to describe him. If he is who I suspect he is, his name is Leiard.”

Danjin nodded. “If he’s still in the city, I’ll find him.”

Not far to his left, three women were standing at a table preparing the night’s meal. They were barely aware of their hands deftly kneading, stirring or slicing as they chatted among themselves, discussing the coming marriage of their employer’s daughter.

Behind, and farther away, a man had reached an almost meditative state of mind as he shaped the clay between his hands into a bowl. Satisfied, he cut it from the wheel with a length of wire and set it down among the others he had made, then reached for some more clay.