The small metal plate was copper, but it had oxidized with age, its edges framed in an antique patina of green. Upon it were four words stamped into the metal in simple block letters.

DEPARTMENT FOR MILITARY RESEARCH.

His fingertip traced the letters in the final two words, and he remembered the oddly spaced signage on the front of the building. He ticked off letters in the plaque—the t and the r in military and the two e’s in research. He spoke the word aloud.

“Tree.”

Everson shook his head wryly. This culture had devised an entire mythology based upon what it could read, yet the truth lay in the spaces between.

He rose to his feet, gathered his resolve, then crept cautiously into the corridor outside the room, sword cocked at his shoulder. The encounter with the verms had left him more than a little skittish.

For no other reason than it felt right, he turned left and followed the corridor into the interior of the building. He soon came upon the gaping entrance to an elevator shaft. He peered down into the endless blackness.

“The bottom level?” he groaned. “Oh, for the love of Light…”

* * *

Birdun and rider detached themselves from the glow of the suns’ halos and descended into the Tree ruins near Front Tier. Before his beast had fully stopped, Chancellor Olaf dismounted and quickly strode to The Which. Her two guards were slouched in boredom, but quickly jerked upright at the sight of the nobleman. The Leftist stood nearby as well, staring blankly.

Olaf paid them no mind. His attention was firmly focused on The Which.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he said.

“Is the palace aware of your absence?” asked The Which, mindful that her message could have made its way to unintended ears.

“I told the king that I had to officially confirm the death count from the Inflammation. He won’t ponder it much. The only death Xander gives any consideration is his own.”

Olaf glanced cautiously at the two guards. He moved closer and lowered his voice. “What is the reason for such secrecy?”

“I have another champion in the Tree,” The Which replied.

The chancellor’s brow furrowed. “How? We’ve not had another selection challenge.”

The Which savored the news for a moment, basking in Olaf’s intense anticipation.

“He is an Indiran soldier,” she said finally.

The look of unadulterated shock on Olaf’s face eclipsed every other emotion that had come before. “You’ve harbored an Indiran! Do you not think that places us in peril?”

“On the contrary, I believe that Fate has led him to us. Do you remember what General Bahn said? Perhaps the prophesied soldier is not a Manolith at all.”

Olaf seemed to forget the entourage and countered at an indiscreet volume, “But an Indiran? How could the Prophecy ever come to pass? How could we possibly arrange such a marriage? It’s impossible!”

The Which smiled and resisted the urge to caress the concern from his face.