There was no reply. They sat listening to the wind and rain on the grassy roof and low conversations punctuated by the occasional laugh and clink of ceramic cups.

“Are you aware you’re being watched?” Royce asked. “The Tenkin on the dais, the one Dilladrum called Joqdan, the warlord. He’s been staring at you since we entered. Do you know him?”

Hadrian looked at the bald, muscular man wreathed in a dozen bone necklaces. “Never seen him before. The woman next to him—she looks oddly familiar.”

“She looks like Gwen.”

“That’s it. You’re right. She does look just like her. Is Gwen from—”

“I don’t know.”

“I just assumed she was from Wesbaden. Everyone in Avryn who’s from Calis is from there, but she could be from a village like this, huh?” Hadrian chuckled. “What an odd pairing you two make. Maybe Gwen’s from this very village. That could be her sister up there, or cousin. You might be meeting the bride’s family before the wedding, just like a proper suitor. You should brush your hair and take a bath. Make a good enough impression, and the two of you could settle down here. You’d look good bare-chested in one of those kilts.”

Hadrian expected a cutting retort. All he heard from his friend was a harsh series of breaths. Looking over, he noticed the hood was drooping.

“Hey, you’re really not doing too good, are you?”

The hood shook.

Hadrian placed a hand on Royce’s back. His cloak was soaked and hot. “Damn it. I’ll convince Wesley to extend our stay. In the meantime, let’s get you dry and in a bed.”

With a flaming brand, the oberdaza led Thranic and Levy toward a cliff wall at the edge of the village, where the great waterfall thundered. Somehow even the plunging water felt foul as it splattered against rocks, casting a damp mist. Thranic continually wiped the tainted wet from his face. Everything about the village was evil. Everywhere stood signs that these humans had turned their backs on Novron and embraced his enemy—the hideous feathers they wore, the symbolic designs in the pillows, the tattoos on their bodies. They did not whisper, but rather shouted, their allegiance to Uberlin. Thranic could not imagine a greater blasphemy, and yet the others were blind to their transgressions. Given the opportunity, Thranic would burn the whole village to ash and scatter the remains. He had tried to prepare himself for what to expect even before the Emerald Storm set sail, but now, surrounded by their poison, he longed to strike a blow for Novron. While he could not safely put a torch to this nest of vipers, there was another profanation he could rectify, one that these worshipers of Uberlin might even assist him with.