Dorian looked through Kylar again, as if there were a list inside him that he was reading. “The Nameless. Marati. Cwellar. Spex. Kylar. Even Kagé, not terribly original, that.”

“What?” Kylar asked. This was ridiculous. Who were these men?

“Sa’kagé means Lords of the Shadow,” Dorian said. “Thus Kagé means ‘Shadow,’ but I don’t suppose that one’s your fault. In any case, you ought to be more curious. Did it never occur to you to wonder why your peers had common names like Jarl, or Bim, or slave names like Doll Girl or Rat, and you were burdened with Azoth?”

Kylar went cold. He’d heard that wytches could read minds, but he’d never believed it. And those names. That wasn’t a random list. “You’re wytches. Both of you.”

Feir and Dorian looked at each other.

“Half right,” Dorian said.

“A little less than half, really,” Feir said.

“But I was a wytch,” Dorian said. “Or, more properly, a meister. If you ever have the misfortune of meeting one, you may not want to use a slur.”

“What are you?” Kylar asked.

“Friends,” Dorian said. “We’ve made a long journey to help you. Well, not only to help you, but to help you and—”

“And we’ve come at great personal cost and greater risk,” Feir interrupted, looking at Dorian sharply.

“We hope you have no doubt that we could kill you. That if we wished you harm, we could have already done it,” Dorian said.

“There are more types of harm than just killing. A wetboy knows that,” Kylar said.

Dorian smiled, but Feir still looked wary. Kylar felt the bonds release him. That unnerved him. They’d seen how fast he could move and yet they released him, armed.

“Allow me to introduce us,” Dorian said. “This is Feir Cousat, one day to be the most renowned swordsmith in all Midcyru. He is Vy’sana and a Blademaster of the Second Echelon.”

Great. “And you?” Kylar asked.

“You won’t believe me.” Dorian was enjoying this.

“Try me.”

“I am Sa’seuran and Hoth’salar, and once a Vürdmeister of the twelfth shu’ra.”

“Impressive.” Kylar had no idea what those were.

“What should be important to you is that I’m a prophet. My name is Dorian,” Dorian said with a native Khalidoran accent. “Dorian Ursuul.”

“You were right,” Feir said. “He doesn’t believe you.”

Aside from carelessness, the only things that could kill wetboys were other wetboys, mages, and wytches. In Blint’s estimation, wytches were the worst. He hadn’t neglected Kylar’s education. “Let me see your arms,” Kylar said.

“Ah, so you know about the vir,” Dorian said. “How much do you know about them?” Dorian bared his arms to the elbows. There were no marks on them.