But Cloras was not like him. If she doubted herself, she did not show it. Despite her air of frailty and diffidence, she was certain—and unafraid to speak her mind. When the clamor of riflemen outside the building had faded away, she startled him by saying, “We must find him.”

Mattwil regarded her with surprise. She sounded earnest. But that was her normal voice: she was always earnest. She had used the same tone when she had addressed Matt.

Your General sent him here. That was cruel.

To Mattwil’s mute question, she said, “He summons us.”

He could only stare. He did not know how to understand her. She seldom talked, and never about herself, or her desires, or what she wanted from him.

Frowning in vexation, she ducked her head. “I can feel him,” she told the floorboards. “A tug in my mind. We must find him.”

When the planks made no reply, she answered the questions he did not ask. “You heard him once. I heard the priests many times. In Maloresse, before I came here. I had no home. No family. No one who would spare a bed. Only a coin or two from men who used me. I went to the Church because it was warm. The priests made me welcome. They did not use me. Their voices entered my dreams while I slept.

“Now he needs us. We must not refuse.”

Her appeal swayed Mattwil. He rose to put on his winter gear: his rain-cape with a heavy blanket draped over it, a pair of woolen socks that served as mittens. He would have gone out into the snow alone if Cloras had wished it; but she readied herself to accompany him. While she chose an extra layer of clothing, he asked, “Why does he summon us?”

She cocked her head, apparently listening. Then she answered, “He will tell us when we find him.”

Mattwil started to ask again, Why? He meant, Why should we trust him? Do you believe in him?

The priest must have done something to offend Captain Flisk and Commander Forguile, who had been good to Mattwil.

But Cloras’ earnestness stopped him. She had given herself to him and asked for nothing. He wanted to be worthy of her. He held the door for her, then followed her out into the cold.

The snow was fading. After days of heavy weather, the storm began drifting westward. Still, the falling snow was enough to blunt the outlines of the nearest buildings.

Reflexively, Mattwil started down one of the gullies that served as paths. But Cloras called him back. “This way.” She pointed vaguely away from the camp across an expanse of undisturbed snow. When he joined her, she sent him ahead of her to force a way through the deep drifts. At his back, she dragged her extra garment over the snow to obscure their trail.