A CIRCLE OF RED-HAIRED CHILDREN DANCE, HAND IN HAND, REVOLVING AROUND A BLINDFOLDED GIRL. SHE FEELS THE HANDS OF THE CHILDREN NEXT TO HER IN HER OWN. BUT SHE IS ALSO THE BLINDFOLDED CHILD. THIS MUST BE JUST A DREAM, SHE THINKS, AS SHE HUMS THE TUNE. BUT THEN…

A TALL, THIN MAN WITH CLOSE-CROPPED HAIR THE COLOR OF WHEAT STRAW, EYES THE BLUE OF OLD ICE, DEEP ICE, SITS READING A BOUND BOOK LARGER THAN ANY SHE HAS EVER SEEN. HIS CHEEKBONES SEEM CHISELED FROM GRANITE, YET THERE IS HUMOR IN THE SET OF HIS LIPS, AND LAUGHTER IN THE FAINT LINES AROUND HIS EYES. DHULYN FEELS SHE WOULD LIKE THE MAN IF SHE MET HIM, AND THAT SHE HAS SEEN HIM BEFORE, THOUGH THERE IS NO BEFORE, NO AFTER, IN THE PLACE SHE IS NOW.

THE MAN TRACES A LINE ON THE PAGE WITH HIS FINGER, HIS LIPS MOVING AS HE CONFIRMS THE WORDS. HE NODS, AND, STANDING, TAKES UP A HIGHLY POLISHED TWO-HANDED SWORD. DHULYN OWNS ONE LIKE IT, THOUGH SHE DOES NOT USE IT OFTEN. IT IS NOT THE SWORD OF A HORSEMAN. SHE CAN SEE NOW THAT HIS CLOTHES ARE BRIGHTLY COLORED, AND FIT HIM CLOSELY EXCEPT FOR THE SLEEVES WHICH FALL FROM HIS SHOULDERS LIKE INVERTED

LILIES.

HE TURNS AWAY FROM THE STRANGELY TIDY WORKTABLE AND TOWARD A CIRCULAR MIRROR, AS TALL AS HE IS HIMSELF. THE MIRROR DOES NOT REFLECT THE ROOM, HOWEVER, BUT SHOWS A NIGHT SKY FULL OF STARS. HIS LIPS MOVE, AND DHULYN KNOWS HE IS SAYING THE WORDS FROM THE BOOK. HE MAKES A MOVE LIKE ONE OF THE CRANE SHORA, AND SLASHES DOWNWARD THROUGH THE MIRROR, AS IF SPLITTING IT IN HALF. BUT NOW SHE SEES IT IS NOT A MIRROR, BUT A WINDOW, AND IT IS THE SKY ITSELF AND NOT A REFLECTION THAT THE MAN SPLITS WITH HIS CHARMED SWORD AND THROUGH THE OPENING COMES

SPILLING LIKE FOG A GREEN-TINTED SHADOW, SHIVERING AND JERKY, AS THOUGH IT IS AFRAID. THE MAN STEPS BACK, HOLDING THE SWORD UP BEFORE HIM BUT IT IS NO DEFENSE, AND THE FOG SUCKS INTO HIS EYES, HIS NOSTRILS, HIS MOUTH, HIS EARS…

A YOUNG MAN WITH DARK BLOND HAIR AND A SCAR ON HIS LEFT CHEEK SITS AT A SCARRED TABLETOP AND WRITES ON LOOSE SHEETS OF PARCHMENT BY THE

LIGHT OF A CANDLE. HIS EYES ARE GRAY, AND HE IS SMILING…

Dhulyn woke to the sound of steel on stone and forced her eyes open. A cot had been brought up and squeezed into the only empty corner of their small whitewashed room. A shaft of late afternoon sunlight slanted across it, and in that spear of light Parno sat cross-legged, the sun picking up the golden hair on his forearms and the backs of his hands. He held his sword in his right hand, his left rhythmically stroking the blade with a honing stone. Her honing stone. Dhulyn grimaced. Only the certainty that Parno would have sharpened her sword first prevented her from objecting to his taking things from her pack. He would never learn. To a person who had owned nothing-not even her own person-even the smallest possessions had value.

She cleared her throat. “How long have I slept?”

“You missed the midday meal,” he said, without pausing or looking up. “Though they’ve kept a plate for you by the kitchen fire. Are the stones still warm?”

She wiggled her hand down until she could touch the padded stone against her belly, and the one at the small of her back. The weight of her coverings-both their winter cloaks if she was any judge-made her nest warm enough that she had to rest her hand directly on the cloth-wrapped stones for a moment before she could detect a faint warmth. “Well, they’re not cold.”

“Not so bad then. You talked a bit at first, but you dropped off as soon as the stones began to warm you.” He stopped honing, but still avoided her eyes, testing the edge of the blade against the back of his thumbnail. “What do you remember of this morning?”

She shrugged. A most unsatisfactory movement when lying down. She shut her eyes again.

“Do you recall the man who said he was from the House of Sogenso?” Parno prompted. “The man you threw out the door?”

Dhulyn shut her eyes, wrinkling her nose. “Was it open?”

“As luck would have it.” The rhythmic sound stopped. “He said he was setting up a pilgrimage to the Mesticha Stone.”

“To steal it,” she murmured.

“So you told him.”

Dhulyn could hear his smile. “What else did I tell him?”

“You told him we were Mercenaries, not thieves.” Parno paused. Dhulyn waited. “He thought you were trying to raise the price, so he went on talking. You broke his wine cup. Over his head.”

She winced again, squeezing open one eye. “One of the clay cups?” She seemed to remember a glass goblet on the table, and almost made the luck sign with the fingers of her left hand.

Parno shook his head, grinning. “Don’t worry, Linkon took the damages from the Sogenso boy.”

She opened her eyes. Parno sat relaxed, ankle over one knee, sword across his lap, his face in shadow. He had put the honing stone down on the floor next to his feet. She would have to make sure he did not leave it there.

“Did I… tell him anything else?”

“I was afraid you might, seeing how it was with you. There’s something to tell, then.”

“He shouldn’t have touched me,” she said, halfway to an apology. “He’ll go to the Stone anyway, and he’ll die there. It will be quick,” she added. “And relatively painless.”

Parno swung his head slowly from side to side, lips pressed to a thin line. “Even if you’d said so, people would have taken it for a threat, not a Vision. As I might have done, once.” He released a deep breath and slid his blade into its sheath. “I got you upstairs, and Linkon had the kitchen heat stones for your pains, when they came.”

“And gave me valerian-don’t deny it, I can taste it in the back of my throat. You know it always makes me sick to my stomach.” Dhulyn rolled over on her back, pulled her knees up tight against her chest then released them, resting her feet flat against the mattress. “When did all this happen?”

“An hour or so after breakfast.” He rose and stretched, coming full into the shaft of sunlight. A golden man, tall, with warm eyes the color of amber. He had let his beard grow the last few weeks, and it had come in a shade darker than his sunbleached hair. His summer tan had faded over the long moons it had taken them to come from the Great King’s court, but he was still much browner than she would ever be.

Dhulyn rubbed at her temples and her eyes with the heels of her hands. Parno had taken off her shoes, her sword belts and sashes, but left her otherwise clothed. Long familiarity-they Partnered shortly after meeting on the battlefield of Arcosa-had taught him to touch her as little as possible during her time. In the beginning, coming as he did from the decadent north, he had seen nothing wrong with love-making during her woman’s time. A single experience had taught him that her people did not refrain merely from Outlander fastidiousness. It was then she had Seen the manner of his dying.

“Who else knows?” Parno said, tapping the side of his face next to his eyes when she looked at him with raised brows.

“You’re the only one I’ve told.” Dhulyn answered the question he’d really asked. She’d only told Parno himself when they talked of Partnering-not fair to him otherwise. And she’d only been able to tell him because she had Seen the manner of his death. Knowing the one thing that she must never tell him had left her free to tell him everything else.

At first he’d been delighted, thinking they’d soon be the richest Mercenaries in the Brotherhood. They’d know which jobs would be successful, and which would end in disaster, who would pay up promptly and honestly, and who try to cheat. He’d soon learned that she couldn’t use her Mark to answer specific questions, and when it did work, it wasn’t reliable and steady like the Finders or Menders he’d known, but so chancy and sporadic as to be more liability than asset.