Arn pushed the charm into his pocket. His jaw tightly clenched. She was reading him, judging him. What conclusion would she reach? And then her questions assaulted him, one after the other.

“Was it a gift, or was it taken?”

He gave no answer.

“Does the deity still live?”

He gave no answer.

“Or did you kill them, Arn Bastell?”

A memory flashed before him, unbidden. Of a city under siege, thousands of homes burning, the surrounding muddy fields choked with corpses. He said nothing. Silence stretched between them. Those red eyes, seeing into him in an unnatural way. She was a god-whisperer of Miquo. What powers did they possess he did not know? Could she read his memories? His soul?

“Will you block my entrance?” he asked, surprised by the awkwardness in his own voice. It couldn’t… he wasn’t actually afraid of this woman, was he?

Mari let the question hang in the air. A faint smile tugged at the right corner of her mouth.

“Good night, Arn,” she said, turned, and stepped inside. The door shut. He heard the rattle of a lock.

Arn patted the charm in his pocket.

“I probably deserve that,” he said.

While paragons were often spoiled beyond measure by the Everlorn Empire, battle did not always afford such luxuries. Arn had long learned to make do with what was available. He curled around the home into a dark alcove for privacy, laid his heavy jacket down, and slept on it as a bed.

Halfway through the night he awoke to find his body covered with a blanket.

“Mari?” he asked, glancing about, but there was no one. He fell back asleep within moments, and come morning, no one said a word of what happened, or asked where he had been.

CHAPTER 35

MAGUS

Magus shifted for the hundredth time in his seat, his discomfort growing by the minute. It wasn’t the fault of the auditorium’s architects, for when they’d built the rows of wooden chairs and goose feather pillow seats, they had no concept of the size and might of a paragon. Mild discomfort greeted him every time his hips brushed the armrests. Not helping matters was the tediousness of the play, an imperial staple carried overseas and taught to the native actors. Magus had watched The Handing of the Rose be performed by the Eldrid Acting Troupe, the finest in all of Gadir. These neophyte islanders were a pale shadow compared to such talent.

The approach of Signifer Weiss down the aisle pulled his attention from the four performers on the stage.

“Forgive me, Imperator,” Weiss whispered. His military garb stood out among the fancy dress of the scattered crowd. “Once I finished the translation, I thought it best to deliver this immediately.”

“Another message from our mysterious informant?” he asked, trying to hide his excitement.

“It would seem so.”