“I know one called Sweeping Man,” Mar said.

“Do you know other variations?” Dhulyn said. “We sang one when I was very young and I’ve been trying to remember the words.”

Late in the night, while Mar slept, Parno and Dhulyn lay wrapped in their bedrolls. They spoke so softly, lips to ear, that had Mar been awake, she would have been ready to swear they made no sound.

“It is a scrying bowl,” Dhulyn breathed into Parno’s ear.

“To See?” Parno asked.

“More likely to Find,” she said. “Did you not see how, though the outside is patterned with people and scenes, the inside of the bowl is a plain pure white? Like the bowl Grenwen Finder used in Navra? Only this one is much more costly.”

“Does the little one know?” Thus Parno avoided even the chance that Mar’s sleeping ears might hear and register her own name.

“There have been Marked in the family, Finders most likely, and someone knew it, for it to have passed so carefully, mother to daughter.”

“The Dove herself?”

“Not likely. She lost her parents early, but she would have noticed the signs when she grew old enough, as I did myself.”

Parno drew in a cautious breath. “Do we tell her or no? With things the way they are, it may be dangerous for her to have it. You won’t be the only one who can recognize it.”

“She’ll need it to show her family, if what she says of proof is true.”

Dhulyn felt Parno’s muscles tighten and then relax once more. “We might do her a great favor if we broke it for her,” he said finally.

Dhulyn pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

“But it’s so beautiful,” she finally said.

THESE ARE HER OWN HANDS. THERE’S THE PUCKER OF SCAR ON THE BACK OF THE RIGHT HAND, WHERE A SMOOTH TARGET ARROW WENT THROUGH DURING TRAINING. SHE IS NOT STANDING OFF TO ONE SIDE, A WATCHER. SHE SEES HER HANDS AS IF SHE WERE SITTING AT A TABLE LOOKING DOWN AT THEM, LAYING OUT A GAME OF VERA, THE TILES SMOOTH AND COLD IN HER FINGERS. THIS IS NOT THE USUAL SOLITARY HAND SHE LIKES, COMPLICATED AND DIFFICULT TO WIN. THIS ARRANGEMENT IS QUITE SIMPLE, A CROSS, WITH A COLUMN DOWN ONE SIDE. “WHAT DO YOU SEE?” A VOICE SAYS AND WHEN SHE LOOKS UP, SHE SEES A MAN WITH A LONG FACE, DARK HAIR, AND ONE EYE. NO, TWO EYES. NO, ONLY ONE. “WHAT DO YOU SEE?” HE SAYS AGAIN, AND SHE LOOKS BACK AT THE TILES.

“I SEE A FIRE,” SHE TELLS HIM. “SEAS AND MOUNTAINS ARE BURNING, SHORES AND RIVERS… ”

A BOY CHILD RUNS ACROSS THE COBBLES OF A COURTYARD IN THE AFTERNOON SUN, A PRACTICE SWORD IN HIS HANDS. SHE KNOWS THE SHAPE OF HIS SMILE, AND HIS EYES. HE’S GOLD BLOND ALL OVER, EVEN HIS EYES ARE AMBER, WARM. HE TURNS AND PACES OUT A REASONABLE VERSION OF THE STRIKING CAT SHORA, GIVEN HIS YOUTH AND SIZE. HE LOOKS UP, SEEMINGLY INTO HER EYES, AND SMILES AGAIN…

Dhulyn blinked awake, lying on her left side, her right arm around Mar, Parno’s right arm around her. The banked fire was hardly a glow in the darkness. What had she Seen? A golden child with Parno’s familiar smile and eyes. Was this Parno’s child? Is that where traveling to Imrion would lead? Was this Parno’s future?

Dhulyn squeezed her eyes shut, tried to slow her breathing before it woke the others. Where was the courtyard? And who the child’s mother?

The next day’s warmth brought on a fog so thick that Dhulyn decided they should stay where they were until it cleared, using the time to rest and pamper themselves a little more. The horses could be left to luxuriate in the absence of riders and packs. The fog was a good sign, she judged; the weather would be getting warmer from now on.

That morning she and Parno practiced the lengthy Bear Cub Shora while Mar watched wide-eyed from the entrance of their shelter. By midmorning the fog lifted enough that their campsite seemed to be in the midst of a clearing in the clouds. The midday meal, eaten outside of the shelter, where an outcropping-no doubt another piece of wall-provided dry seats, was accompanied by debate on whether it was worth continuing their journey, trusting to find another good shelter before nightfall, or to wait until the following day.

“It’s only been seven days since we left the inn at the crossroads,” Dhulyn was saying. “We won’t lose any time by waiting until tomorrow.”

“I didn’t say we should go on,” Parno said, sitting up to better make his point. “I only said that it’s been eight-”

Dhulyn held up her hand, the gesture sharply cutting through the Lionsmane’s lazy iteration of his point of view. He put his hand on the sword resting by his right side, and without the slightest sound drew it from its scabbard.

Mar opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Dhulyn efficiently gagged her with the hand that did not have a sword in it.

“Can’t shoot at us if they can’t see us or hear us,” Parno mouthed in a voice that barely carried to Mar’s ears. “Stay between.” Both Mercenaries stood now, facing away into the fog, crouched slightly forward, knees flexed. Mar slowly stood and looked between them, clearly not knowing what to do.

“Dhulyn?” Parno bared his teeth though his murmur could not support a snarl. “What say you, my heart?”

Dhulyn glanced over her shoulder at him. “Cloud People,” she said. “Victory or death, I’ll wager. And the choice won’t be ours.” She reached behind her, pulled a knife out of the back of her vest, and held it out to Mar; watched the Dove take it gingerly in her hand, and then grip it with more determination. Dhulyn gave the girl an encouraging nod.

“We’ll earn our pay. Don’t you worry, Dove.”

Parno had his own long dagger in his right hand, sword in his left. Dhulyn pulled her short sword from where her harness sat draped over a rock and, straightening, held it ready. Back to back with Mar between them they began to circle, Dhulyn twirling her two blades at random intervals. The silence was thick and so complete that she began to wonder whether her ears still worked, or indeed, whether there was anything out there that could make a sound.

And then movement-a shadow in the surrounding fog, became an arrow knocked aside by Parno’s sword, startling Mar into dropping her dagger.

A woman’s voice rang out. “Hold. Put up your swords. You wear the Mercenary badge. Tell your history.”

Dhulyn stopped circling, though her swords stayed poised. “I am Dhulyn Wolfshead. Called the Scholar. I was Schooled by Dorian the Black Traveler. I have fought with my Brothers at sea in the battle of Sadron, at Arcosa in Imrion, and at Bhexyllia in the far west with the Great King.”

Parno called out, “I am Parno Lionsmane. Called the Chanter. Schooled by Nerysa of Tourin the Warhammer. I, too, have fought at Arcosa, and at Bhexyllia, and I fight with my Brother, Dhulyn Wolfshead.” Parno’s history would tell their questioner that he was junior to Dhulyn, Arcosa being his first battle as a Brother, and that since he fought with her specifically, they were Partnered. Would the Cloudwoman understand?

The voice called out again. “I have heard of you, Dhulyn Wolfshead, daughter of the Red Horsemen. I am Yaro of Trevel, once called Hawkwing. I, too, have fought with my Brothers. Now I fight with my Clan.” Parno glanced at Dhulyn and she gave him the smallest of nods. Both Mercenaries lowered their weapons.

Dhulyn remained alert as a handful of people, most carrying spears or bows, but with a few swordsmen to season them, stepped into the clearing. It was hard to tell exactly how many there were, and many seemed to have no heads, no faces, until Dhulyn realized they were wearing scarves or strips of cloth wrapped around their heads. Thick leather vests, worn with the fur or wool side next to the skin, left either arms bare to the foggy chill, or long-sleeved tunics of undyed homespun. Dhulyn grinned. She had learned the art of camouflage from an expert, but this impressed her.