Cyrus smacked him playfully on the shoulder.

“If you insist,” he said, and departed for the front door. Arn watched him go, and it wasn’t until he was certain the young man was gone that he reached into his pocket and pulled out his charm. He twirled it in his fingers, feeling the fur against his fingertips as the red and orange he’d long ago memorized turned in kind.

“Feathers,” he whispered, put the foxtail away, and reached for another bottle.

To possess any religious symbol of Lycaena and Endarius risked public floggings, imprisonment, or worst of all, hanging from the end of a rope at the Dead Flags. Rayan’s small stone altar of rising butterfly wings would certainly earn him the worst of the three punishments. He kept it hidden in the closet of his home, behind a false board. In preparation for tomorrow’s mission, he retrieved it and set it in the center of his modest living room, along with a bag of incense. He put his back to the hearth so its warmth would wash over him while he prayed. When he loosened the bag’s tie string, his nose was greeted with a welcome burst of rose and sandalwood.

“Your kindness and mercy be upon me,” he whispered as he prepared for his meditation.

Rayan sat with his sword drawn, its naked blade resting atop his legs. The incense burned in the little bowl at the base of the butterfly wings. The bright smoke filled his house with the welcome aroma. Eyes closed, he lifted his hands heavenward, and he pretended he wasn’t hiding in a closet. Instead he imagined himself in the great fields west of Vallessau. He imagined tall grass swaying against his legs when the breeze blew. He imagined shining stars above, and a choir of the Twin Sanctuary singing hymns to Lycaena to hasten the arrival of the coming spring.

A knock came from his door, interrupting the meditation.

“Uncle?” Keles asked from outside. “May I come in?”

He’d not locked it, foolish in hindsight.

“Enter,” he said.

His niece stepped inside and, upon seeing the altar, quickly shut and locked the door.

“I was with Pilus when we were told our part in Thorda’s plan,” she said. She’d wrapped an orange scarf around her hair to protect it from the nighttime chill, but Rayan’s home was always warm (too warm, his wife used to complain). She removed the scarf, stuffed it into her pocket, and crossed the room to join him at the tiny altar.

“Our part?” he asked.

“I would like to fight alongside your group instead of Pilus’s… if you’ll have me.”

“Of course I’d have you,” Rayan said. “Why wouldn’t I?”