With a supple spring, Hettie launched herself up the rope. She pulled with her arms and also pushed with her legs, twining herself up the vast length with easy grace. The quiet stretching of the rope mixed with little bursts of breath, which fogged out of her mouth and joined the vapors shrouding the land. But those sounds were tiny compared with the colossal crash of the waves against the rocks beneath her. The outer wall of the temple was covered with lichen, but it had been crafted of enormous stones and seemed determine to endure through the ages. Up she went, one pull at a time, gliding her way up to the tower.

The fog boiled around her, obscuring the encroaching sunlight. Her fingers burned with pain but she persevered, feeling the steady grip of the leather shooting gloves accepting the strands of rope snugly. Each pull was flawless. She ascended quickly. The light became more pronounced as the mist thinned. She emerged from its folds and found the dawn sky above her, bright and blue with traces of lavender. She reached the top of the wall but the tower continued up. Sounds reached her, reminding her of the training yard of the Bhikhu temple in Kenatos. Vivid memories of that place stung her mind—its life as well as its death. She heard grunts and the sound of fighting and bodies colliding. She wondered where Paedrin was, hidden in the mist somewhere near the main gates. As she continued up the rope, she listened for sounds from him. Her arm muscles throbbed with the effort, but she was strong and had only grown stronger with Paedrin’s training.

Scaling the tower wall, hand over hand, she paused for a moment and stared at the buttresses above. There were no stairs or ledges leading to it. There were no windows in the tower itself. She wondered, with it being a Vaettir stronghold originally, if there were even any stairs within it. An enemy would be hard-pressed to attack a place that could not be breached without tall ladders. She heard a voice coming from the training yard, but it was too distant to recognize the words or the identity of the speaker. With a smirk, Hettie was suddenly grateful for Paedrin’s bombastic side. She would have no trouble hearing him.

Hettie reached the lower edge of the buttress and grabbed the stone, admiring the quality of the knots Paedrin used to fasten it. She debated with herself on whether she should untie it, but decided that it would be best to leave it as a possible way to escape. She gripped the stone and pulled herself up to the buttress, which curved out, supporting the weight of the balcony. She paused for several moments, listening for any sound other than the crash and foam of the sea, the training yard, or anything else. The balcony faced away from the temple and so it would not give her a good view of the grounds below. Comfortable with her decision to wait, she then crept along the edge of the buttress and gripped the bottom edge of the balcony. Holding her weight with her hands, she peered up between the thin stone columns of the balcony rail. There were two stone urns, one on each side of a wooden door. The balcony was tiled with intricate stone chips of different colors. The balcony was small. The rail was wide enough to form a stone seat in a semicircle. There were no windows.

The roof was similar to what she had witnessed in Silvandom, steep and sloping. The crown of the roof had an iron cage. There was some sort of metal contrivance inside the cage and a large bracket of some kind. The wind whipped against her suddenly, causing her grip to strain. She pulled herself up on the balcony ledge and then waited, watching and listening. She was too high up to hear the training yard. The wind was all she could hear and it was as cold as winter.

Hettie stared at the door, examining the hinges and how it was made. She studied the mosaic of stone chips, admiring the pattern, but searching for cracks or grooves that would reveal the presence of a trap. The urns were slightly green with moss on one side. Her eyes went up to the strange cage at the top of the roof. It looked tall enough for a man to stand inside. The edge of the roof was low enough that she believed she could jump and reach it and pull herself up. But the stone shingles looked noisy and loose and she dared not risk it.

Now that she was at the top of the balcony, Hettie felt her mind come alive with all the years of Romani training. She assessed the shapes and structures, looking for anything out of place. She was carefully tuned to her feelings, seeking that telltale jolt of apprehension that would warn her of danger. As much as she hated the life, there was a certain degree of thrill in what she was doing. She caught herself smiling and then scowled. How long would her loyalties be divided? The mixture of feelings was difficult. She was grateful to have the skills she needed at this moment—skills that Paedrin lacked. Her plan was simple. Start with the highest tower, usually the place of power. Probe the edges to test its defenses. Then break past the defenses and search for the missing Sword of Winds. It was either on Cruw Reon’s body or it was likely hidden in the tower. Determining which was crucially important.