6
“It is good to see you again, Rythe Witherbone,” Sheantris said, a smile forming on her lips. It faded into a frown almost as quickly as it had appeared. “But I must say that you that you do not look well. You’re shivering.”
“It is nothing,” he replied. “I am simply feeling the effects of a long journey.”
Rythe had only been an apprentice to a local mage when she last saw him, but she had known him since he was a child. He left Forrenwake a year ago to face the trials given to every novice of magic upon reaching adulthood and returned just in time for Harvest Day as he had promised he would. The ritual tests performed by the Council of Mages were guarded closely by the three orders of magic; only those youths ready to prove their worth were allowed to gain that knowledge. Even Sheantris knew very little of such things.
“I have seen men shiver similarly in my presence for other reasons. The seal given to those permitted to enter this temple does not ward off certain consequences some must face when standing on holy ground.”
Rythe scowled. “As I have already stated, I am simply tired from my journey. That is all.”
“I have no reason to distrust you,” Sheantris replied. “May I ask why you are still in those mouse-colored robes? What order have you chosen?”
“I am not permitted to speak of my decision until my robes are ready. They must first be blessed by high-ranking members of my newly acquired order before I don them. This process takes time, and until then, I am afraid my lips are sealed. I trust you understand.”
Her frown deepened. “Of course.”
She walked the halls of the temple’s sleeping quarters with the young mage—he still wore the robes of an initiate, but he had paid his dues and was now among the ranks of those who could weave the elements unimpeded. Tapestries and paintings telling of Enichar’s history hung from the walls; there were also carvings and small statues situated throughout the grand hall. Though this was a lesser-decorated section of the temple, it still held much wonder for those with a curious eye.
“You do know that war is coming?” Rythe paused. “Bloodshed is imminent.”
“Oh? Does this information come with a source, or have you gained powers of foretelling to accompany your abilities with magic?” Sheantris lowered her gaze slightly. “I am sorry. I do not mean to offend. Yes, I am aware of what the people of this land face.”
“Then why not do something about it? What of the great respect the people have always given to disciples of Valathinea? Surely there is something that can be done to prepare us?”
“There is something I have not told you,” Sheantris whispered. “Something my order rarely speaks of.”
“What is this great secret?” Rythe asked.
The priestess hesitated, and then slowly raised her head, her eyes level with the mage’s. “I believe the Goddess has gone from Enichar.”
“I would call you a fool for saying such a thing, but it is not the first time I have heard such a claim since leaving the Golden Citadel, the place of my tests. There has been talk of healers experiencing a waning of their powers. I have also heard talk of armies gathering in the fabled Northern Islands.”
“The Northern Islands?” Sheantris asked. “Are you sure? I was under the impression that references to the North spoke of the Raike Kingdom. My eyes and ears in that region have reported nothing.”
“Your informants do not have the resources of the Council of Mages. While my kind cannot penetrate the great fog barrier enshrouding the Northern Islands, they have seen activity on the outside of its borders.”
