Hettie leaned forward and hugged him, shaking her head in disbelief at the unexpected source of help. A twin brother.

She felt his hand tentatively pat her back, as if the show of friendship had embarrassed him. She leaned back, gripping her boot cuffs and rocking slightly. “You grew up in Wayland then? Tell me more.”

Annon was grateful for the fat candle that Master Shivu had brought hours before. It had burned down to a little pool of wax, which he and Hettie continued to coax further to provide light. Without being able to see the stars through the slats above, he did not know how close to dawn it was, but it did not matter. They had stayed up all night, talking.

From the dull light of the candle, he could see little edges of color in Hettie’s hair that matched his own. When she turned her head and he could see the earring, part of him wanted to snap it off in anger.

“What would the Romani do if you just ran away?” he asked her softly. She was deft at getting him to answer her questions, and he noticed that she always replied in as few words as possible before turning things back to him. He could tell it was a way she protected herself. She drew the focus away from herself.

“There are stories,” she said, staring down at her hands. “But they do not teach us what happens. I’m not sure how old you must be before you are trusted with that secret. They do not want me to know.” She picked something from the reed mat and flicked it away with her finger. “But where do you hide from the Romani?” she asked, smiling sadly. “Silvandom? No Romani is welcome there. Boeotia? They would probably just as well kill me as help me. Where else does it leave?”

Annon nodded. “The Scourgelands it is.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Are you mocking me?”

Annon shook his head. “No, I’m just reminded of something. My mentor warned me about coming to Kenatos. He said that Tyrus might try to persuade me to go to the Scourgelands. I was not expecting this adventure. Have you been to Havenrook?”

Hettie shrugged and made an obscure gesture. “Long ago, before I was sold. The caravans go back and forth through there. I was a child, so I do not know very much about the place. I have heard the road can be dangerous. Have you ever had to use…?” She wiggled her fingers.

Annon shook his head. “If the road goes through a forest, I should be able to help. I do not wish to use the flames if we can avoid it. I would try to talk our way past first.”

She gave him an enigmatic look. He could tell she was cautious of her words and slow to reveal her opinions. There was something in her eyes—something that showed the depth of damage the lack of freedom had taken on her mind. Winning her trust would not be easy, even though they were siblings. But Annon was patient and felt that in time she would learn to open up to him more. He hoped so.

“You don’t agree with my approach,” he said simply.

“The least said, the soonest mended,” she said.

“Which means?”

“It’s often a man’s mouth that broke his nose. We will see how good you are at talking, brother Annon.”

A rooster crowed, and they both looked up at the slat on the roof, seeing the shift in the darkness that had come slowly and gradually. Hettie shook her head and chuckled softly to herself.

“What is so funny?” he asked her.

“Another Romani saying. I’m sorry, but I heard so many as a child, I cannot shake them loose from my head. It was a favorite of mine. A cock that crows too early gets a twisted neck.”

Annon smiled at that one and rose, wincing at the stiffness in his legs and back. “I am ready to leave this city forever. You?”

She gave him a knowing look. “I have a feeling that we may not have seen the last of Tyrus.”

“Many are frightened to travel the roads linking the great cities. There are stories that monsters roam the land, devouring travelers and leaving nothing but their bones. Others say that it is not monsters to fear, but bandits who prey on the weak. I have found in my journeys as a younger man that the road less traveled is often the safest.”

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

Paedrin stood motionless by the enormous metal doors of the temple, gripping a beaten-up staff with both hands; he waited. And waited. Dawn appeared as a flush in the sky, followed by cocks crowing and a flock of ravens heading east. He stood solidly, hands clenching the rugged wood, his stance firm and respectful. A bag with a single strap bulged against the small of his back, full of foodstuffs gathered from the kitchens, a small pot to boil water, two thin eating sticks, and a spoon carved from bossem wood. It also contained a few small pouches of spices, one of rice, and one of pepper-corns. He brought no change of Bhikhu robes, and he wore sandals only because he knew he’d be crossing miles of mucky sewage before leaving Kenatos. After taking mental inventory of his bag for the fiftieth time, he waited. And waited more for his companions to arrive.