Grevail rocked on the floor of the cage as the wagon thumped across the bridge timbers over the Lukraesh river. The buzzing in his head had gone, as he feared it might, but the stench of spoiled wine still hung in the air—almost undetectable. The countryside beyond the bars of the cage brimmed with the bright growth of early spring.

Joszi’s maroon hat bobbed up and down with every stride of his mount at the front of the formation. Lyphon rode at his side now, though the Purifier would sometimes disappear for days at a time. The Thavan soldiers marching in loose ranks behind the Arbiter divided their time between singing and ribbing each other with crude jokes. The procession moved at a crawl since Grevail’s capture and he worried that the stableman, whoever he really was, had gained a considerable lead. Joszi had not pushed for more speed, despite all of his talk about pursuing the relic.

Thyma took a deep breath. “I love the smell of the river.” She cast a look back at him from the wagon seat, white hair swirling around her head on a breeze.

“I do too,” he said. Thyma talked to him as if he were an old friend since he came to be in the cage. She talked to him even when he didn’t respond, while the other Thavans in the caravan offered him little more than disgusted looks.

“Where did you say you were from?” she asked. “I think Joszi said you were from the capital…yes, that’s right. I’ve been there a handful of times. What a wonderful city! Is that where you got that green thing in your ear? Is that the fashion there? What is that? Some kind of emerald?”

Grevail turned his eyes over the river, wondering what his friends were doing when they crossed this bridge. He knew they had. “It’s an opal.”

“Of course, an opal! Beautiful!” She chuckled and fingered her own ear with a wrinkled hand. “I wouldn’t have the courage to put a hole in my ear that big. I’ve been to the Spindle islands! I saw a man hauling every color of opal you could imagine.” She mimed carrying a wheelbarrow. “Some were as big as a cabbage! They weren’t polished like the ones you see at the jewelers. Those ones were still rough and dirty. Hard to imagine they would be worth thousands of ess once cleaned up!”

Amma trotted past the cage toward the head of the caravan. The woman watched him like a hawk with probing black eyes whenever he was in her sight, and questioned him more than Joszi did. There were questions Grevail wanted to ask her too—things only a Conveyor might know about that cube, and things he didn’t dare ask Joszi. What did the stableman, or anyone else for that matter, want with his friends? What was this thing and why did it give him visions?

“That was a long time ago,” Thyma said, hooking stark white hair behind her ears. “Long before I heard the call of the Paragons to cleanse my spirit. I was a much different person back then…a young girl looking for adventure.” She scoffed. “I thought I knew everything! I went to look for Badhalf’s treasure.” She turned and winked at him. “Everybody thinks the treasure is in Badhalf’s hills, but those hills have been combed over countless times for hundreds of years. Badhalf was a pirate, surely he buried it somewhere beside the sea? That’s what I thought at the time anyway.”

Badhalf, the Paragon of luck, was one of the few taboo Paragons the Thava tolerated but would never truly celebrate. After all, it was the Thava who raised an alliance of nations to hunt Badhalf and his pirate gang down hundreds of years ago, though they failed, but nobody really knew what happened for sure. Every sprout in Voxetta grew up on tales of Badhalf and his treasure, even those in Lowtown. Grevail would be a liar if he said he never dreamt of finding it himself. “Where else did you look?”

“All over the south! I looked in the delta…in the Cappomaches…even explored the caves of Rivella. I went to Oronis and the islands but I never found so much as a single clue. All of that searching got me to thinking…maybe Badhalf escaped to Matara and buried it there?”

Oronis. Grevail’s favorite book, Ajaanraari and the Seawind was about Oronis. They wore silks there and worshiped the ocean. Giant storms around the island would sometimes surge onto land, carrying the sea with them. Raela taught him to read with that book. “Matara? Nobody can go there, not even Badhalf.”

Thyma nodded. “Yes! Which is why it is the perfect place to hide a treasure isn’t it? I’ve heard the people there do not consider gold and jewels valuable. Think about it! If you were ever going to bury a treasure, there could be nowhere better!”

“So why did you stop looking?”

An unusual, solemn note entered Thyma’s voice. “I met a man who said another Little Dark would soon arrive.” She glanced toward the sky as if the ash was just about to fall. “Hasn’t come yet, but it will one day. I knew then it was time to end my adventuring. I had never been Sacar, so I visited a Spiritkeep the first time. I even went to Volera and saw the most beautiful Spiritkeeps in all of Voxetta.”

Sacar. That was what the Thava called those who followed the Accord—the rules the Thava claimed everyone must follow to make up for the Emberfolk’s supposed misdeeds. Otherwise, they said, another Long Dark will come. Grevail never paid the Accord much mind, and to him, some of those rules were ridiculous—like not consuming food or drink when the Parents were on the horizon. Only the most dedicated Thava ever seemed to follow all of the Accord all the time. He glanced at the maroon and gold clad soldiers marching along with the wagon, wondering how many of them followed the Accord as it was written.

Thyma chuckled, a rueful grin pulling at her lips. “In Volera is where I met Joszi. He needed someone to drive his wagons—oh that was…five summers ago? I jumped at the opportunity—there isn’t much else for an old woman to do after all. I never developed a trade or had any skill but wandering around, if you call that a skill. I wanted to help in any way I could to make up for my ignorance. We must show Otash and Seren we have changed so there will never be another dark, long or little.”

Grevail shook his head at the assuredness in her voice. It was said that the ancestors, the Emberfolk, were allowed to live on Voxetta by the Parents, Otash and Seren, on the condition that they would protect the Great Tree. When the Emberfolk failed and the tree was burned down by the first Stricken, Otash and Seren covered the world in ash as punishment. The last Emberfolk, a pregnant woman named Vibrin, cried for days in the pit left behind by the Great Tree, creating Vibrin’s lake. Vibrin died then, but not before giving birth, and the Parents, upon witnessing her remorse, decided humanity may be worthy of salvation after all. To prove themselves better than the Emberfolk, Vibrin’s children would have to rid the world of the Stricken and never commit the same misdeeds the Emberfolk did.

Grevail never understood how anyone believed what the Thava said…well, not all of it. Nobody seemed to doubt the Long Dark happened, he didn’t anyway, but how could the Thava know why it happened? Lots of people had theories of what happened before the Long Dark. He knew better than to ask Thyma these questions, and if Joszi heard, he might command the Keepers to cut wood for a pyre immediately. As the Arbiter already told him, there were only two ways a Cythraul could be purified—in forswearance, or in flames.

The wagon trundled southward on the highway—a thin strip of civilization winding through the boundless wilderness like a stream down a mountain. Grevail found it intimidating. Raela read them many stories about wolves, bears, and Stricken, but Grevail never thought he would have to worry about such things. Those creatures were made up tales told to scare children—maybe not the wolves and bears, but the Stricken certainly were…or had been. It was quiet out here, especially at night. He was accustomed to the raucous streets of Lowtown or the calls of hawkers on Merchant Row.

A while later, and much to Grevail’s disappointment, the caravan stopped to water the horses at a stream. Amma came by his cage to ask more questions about the Emberstone. When was the last time he felt the itch? Had he felt anything else? Was he sure there isn’t anything else she should know? She was convinced he was withholding information, and he was, but he still wouldn’t tell her about the dream. He was tempted, if only for the slim chance she might know something about Emberstones and visions.

After the respite, the caravan rolled onward, entering a thick forest. Near dusk, over the droning creak of Thyma’s wagon, Grevail realized he heard singing. A disjointed and boisterous singing—the kind produced from too much drink. A gaggle of riders rounded a bend in the road ahead, swaying in their saddles and belting notes of a tune Grevail did not recognize, though some of the Keepers joined in. As the riders passed, they greeted the caravan with flush faces and inebriated smiles.

Soon, even more people shared the road with them, until what began as a few turned into tens if not hundreds. Grevail stared at them streaming by in bewilderment. The handful that paid him any mind scowled at the cage, uttering a few choice words about Cythraul.

The smell of woodsmoke and food was soon competing with the spoiled wine in his nose. Music and the murmur of crowds reached his ears through the trees. He stood to study the road, gripping the bars of the cage to stay upright in the swaying wagon. The caravan rounded a corner and ahead, the main street of a village stretched before them, writhing with revelers like an eel pit.

Women corralled children amongst modest village homes while men wearing feathers in short conical hats toasted each other with foaming mugs and laughter. A man at the roadside chewing on a turkey leg watched the Thavan procession plod by in confusion. Two small boys darted into the Thavan ranks, both with buckets in one hand and a long ladle in the other. One boy stuck his ladle into the bucket and used it to sling water at the other. They laughed as if it were the funniest thing and ran after each other down the street.

A pretty young woman with short brown hair smiled at Joszi and Lyphon before turning a grimace on Grevail. The infant in her arms wore a pair of wooden antlers and paint covered the child’s face. Not far away, a man painted the face of another sprout to resemble a bear. They appeared unperturbed at the column of Thava marching into the village, in fact, most people seemed welcoming. He could only imagine what would happen if Joszi took his caravan into Lowtown. Grevail’s cage seemed to draw every eye.

“I wonder what’s going on?” he wondered.

Thyma raised an eyebrow at him over her shoulder. “You’ve never seen the Sprouting before?”

“Don’t have them often in the capital,” he said. “I’ve never seen anyone paint their faces.”

Thyma laughed. “City folk don’t celebrate it is as much…or in the same way, from my experience.” The old woman smiled at a girl, who recoiled at the sight of Thyma’s white eye and ran to hide behind her mother’s dress. Thyma appeared not to notice and tapped her foot to the sound of a lute, jiggling the reins in time to the music. “It is one of my favorite celebrations…not the most favorite mind you, but maybe in my top five,” she said.

“Cythraul!”

The shout took Grevail by surprise.

A man beside the wagon raised a fist at the cage. “Cythraul scum! The Thava will teach you, Stricken!” A woman at his shoulder pulled on the tall man’s arm, hauling him from the wagon with a frown for Grevail, but other townsfolk were giving him dark looks too, some holding more than just disdain.

“No Cythraul in our town!” came another voice over the din of celebration.

Joszi turned in the saddle, frowning at the wagon, but only motioned for Thyma to pick up the pace.

Grevail crouched to huddle against the bars as more angry shouts were directed his way. Thyma flicked the reins to hurry the wagon along, and after another volley of curses from the townsfolk, Grevail breathed a sigh of relief when they were left behind. Thyma looked a bit ruffled, and her eyes looked sympathetic when they met his as she hurried the wagon along by snapping the reins. Grevail shook his head. It would be just his luck to be torn apart by a mob before he could even find his friends, though it might be a better end than whatever Joszi had planned for him.

The thick crowd parted around the wagon and Grevail kept his head down, even while he searched for any clues to his friends in the passersby, however futile it seemed. Lyphon had tracked the stableman on the way south, confirming for Joszi the direction Grevail gave by gathering information in villages they passed. With this many people in town it would be a miracle if anyone remembered his friends.

At the front of the column, Joszi waved at the throng of village people like a noble inspecting his lands. Some townsfolk asked if he would accept words for Aurin, the Paragon of the Sprouting festival, spring, motherhood, and rivers, among other things. The Arbiter declined the requests and continued winding down the main street of the village. The Keepers following him watched the festivities with obvious excitement, and some even took the opportunity to scamper from the formation toward stalls bearing festival food. Garlands and banners hung across buildings and ribbons were twirled around lamp posts in garish displays. The women wore necklaces of flowers while the men tucked feathers in hats or behind an ear.

Grevail realized that the feeling in the air wasn’t all celebration. He could sense that the cube turned right at the highway here and down a shady dirt street flanked by trees, but it must have come back. The sickly sweet odor still hovered in the air, but it was…newer, like a loaf of fresh bread next to a stale one. Yes, they turned off the highway, went down that street, then came back to go south again. What if the stableman did something to his friends here? What if they were still here?

Joszi and Lyphon had halted in the road ahead, talking to each other amongst the swirling crowd from atop their mounts. The Arbiter rubbed at his mustache. “Set up camp outside town,” he said. “Everyone is welcome to take part in the festivities tonight. Then, come find me.”

“If the Paragons will it, Arbiter,” Lyphon said in a stoic voice, though his lips turned up at the order.

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Grevail considered his options. What could he do if his friends were still here? He’d need Joszi’s help to free them. On the other hand, Joszi may simply send them all off to a work camp in the swamp without a second thought, and everyone knew that was as good as a cell in the Refuge. If either happened, they would probably never be seen again. He swallowed the urge to call the Arbiter’s name.

Thyma murmured polite greetings to those who stepped aside to let the wagon pass as the caravan pushed further into town. They continued until they were just outside the village on the other side and the throng had thinned to a trickle of excited festival goers. The head of the caravan snaked off the road and into a pasture of tall grass.

After finding a spot for her wagon among the flurry of Keepers erecting tents, Thyma hopped down and set up her own. Grevail sat silently in the cage with little else to do but watch as the Keepers left camp for town. Eventually, Thyma finished with her own tent and straightened, rubbing at her back with a smile for Grevail. “I’m too old to be getting drunk, but I always have a mug during the Sprouting. Even so, I can’t leave you starving now can I? I’ll get you something to eat before I leave,” she said and wasted no time, disappearing among the tents.

While waiting for her to return, night fell over Grevail’s cage as the camp emptied further. The sound of celebration from the village came on a cool breeze across the field, now flowering with Thavan tents. That same breeze grew into a brief gust, rocking the padlock on the cage door. He turned to look at it. It was a rusty old thing. If he had something strong enough to fit in the keyhole he could probably break the mechanisms inside. It would be far from the first time he’d done something like that, but did he dare attempt escape after what Joszi claimed would happen to his friends? He scoffed. He couldn’t leave it up to a Thavan to help his friends.

His stomach grumbled at the smell of food in the air. He watched the glowing lanterns and windows in the distance, wondering if his friends were really there. They could be scared, or hurt, or…he rubbed at the tears welling in his eyes. He’d been such a fool. Raela’s plea to leave the cube behind echoed in his mind.

“It gets better with time.” Thyma had appeared beside the wagon with a steaming bowl in each hand, pearly white hair bright even in the darkness. She stepped up to the cage and shoved them between the bars. “You’ve done the right thing in coming here.”

He took them from her, mouth already watering at the aroma they emanated. One bowl contained beans and bits of cabbage in a tart brown sauce. The other, chunks of roast chicken. He began to eat as if it were as necessary and urgent as breathing. His mouth felt rough and dry around the moist food, but a comforting warmth spread through his body with every bite.

“It is tiring, bouncing along in this old wagon all day.” Thyma said, then drank from a mug, watching him over the rim.

He paused while shoveling the spoon into his mouth. “Thank you for the food, Thyma.”

She shrugged and put a hand through the bars of the cage, placing it atop his knee. “Don’t worry,” she said in heartfelt tones. “When I came to serve the Paragons, I didn’t have so much as one vita to my name. I might have been where you are now had things gone differently.”

Grevail murmured his thanks again, unable to stop stuffing his mouth.

Thyma took another long drink from her mug. “So, what was it that brought you to our caravan? What made you decide to change? I know Joszi said that you were in the process of forswearing…your old ways…but it isn’t right to let you go hungry. He’s a good man, even if he doesn’t think about much else other than rooting out Emberfolk relics and Breakers.”

Did she think he was here of his own will? If she found out later that he wasn’t, and for having the relic at that, would she have such compassion? He was already surprised she didn’t despise him for being Cythraul as the other Thavans in the caravan seemed to. “I thought it was my time,” he said. “I hoped the Paragons could guide me…to…find something.”

Thyma seemed to relate. “I understand,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’ve been all over Voxetta…experienced so many things, but still it seemed I was missing something too. Perhaps I should have had children.” She grimaced with a half hearted laugh. “Joszi doesn’t always keep your kind around, you know. He must see something in you.”

He sure does. “Does Joszi find many Breakers?” Grevail asked.

Thyma nodded. “Always…wherever we go. Seems there are more of them than ever before.”

Grevail was surprised by the worry wrinkling her face at the mention of Dawnbreakers, instead of the anger or disgust he expected. “What do you think of Dawnbreakers?”

She paused as if choosing her words. “I think they are lost, like I used to be,” she said finally. “Not that I was ever a Breaker, but I do think Joszi treats them harshly. Then again, it is important he does. If another Long Dark were to come…” she paused again. “I wasn’t completely honest with you earlier when I told you how I came to be here.” From her tone, it was obvious she was about to say something uncomfortable.

The sadness that crumpled Thyma’s face seemed such a foreign emotion for her to express. “My brother went missing many years ago…some time after I left home. My parents searched endlessly, but they never found any clues to his whereabouts. I returned to visit now and again, ending my travels to see how they were. The last time I saw them, my father’s spirit had passed on to the Shrove and mother wasn’t far behind.” The sadness dissipated as Thyma’s lips parted in a dry grin. “Everyone was surprised my dad’s ten days were uneventful.”

Grevail nodded, as if he understood. The Thava always guarded graves—dug them up sometimes too. They claimed graves had to be watched for ten days, otherwise the buried might rise, transformed into Stricken. If a grave remained undisturbed for ten days, that meant the buried had followed the Accord and their spirit was pure enough to pass on to the Shrove, an otherworldly place where everyone’s ancestors lived. Grevail would have scoffed if not for Thyma. People in Lowtown never watched the dead nor let the Thava do it, and he had never seen a Stricken before that night at the tomb.

Thyma’s mirth faded as she went on. “On one trip back home, I stumbled across my brother.” She shook her head and raised inward looking eyes to stare past Grevail. “He was hardly recognizable. Old Esh…they become scaly with lots of extra skin, but I knew it was him. It was the eyes…they change too, but not that much. Luckily for me, he was alone and I jumped in a river to escape, otherwise I may have been his next meal.”

“He left with me with this.” She motioned at her white eye. “He spit in my face. It burned like fire. Sometimes, I think whatever was left of him was cursing me for abandoning him. They say that’s how you become an Esh yourself—through the blood or spit, but it never happened to me. I stayed in the woods for days thinking the entire time I would become like he was.” Thyma exhaled with a shake of her head. “I told everyone I fell in a fire drunk when they asked about the eye. I’m surprised they believed it, but I doubt anyone would have believed the truth.”

Grevail shivered, imagining what it must be like to see someone he once knew become the tortured, horrible creature he saw that night at the tomb.

“The truth is, there wasn’t much left of my brother in that thing, but when I recovered, I knew I had to do something to help. If I hadn’t went off exploring the world and left him behind, perhaps he would still be alive today with a family of his own. If only I had done something.”

Her final words struck Grevail as if they were an accusation. If only he had done something. If only he had thrown the relic away like Raela wanted. If only he hadn’t pushed them into going to the tomb. If only…if only. Now, he was stuck in this cage, and his friends could be just down the road.

With a beleaguered sigh, he scraped the spoon at the bottom of the bowl, digging out the last of the beans hiding there. The wind picked up again, rattling the padlock against the cage as he brought the spoon to his face. He paused, glancing over his shoulder at the lock. He would bet all the ess in the world the handle of the spoon would fit in that keyhole. He gulped down the last of the beans, returning his gaze to Thyma.

She drank from her mug, then looked into it as if she could find some comfort inside.

Grevail slipped the spoon under his rump, then stacked the bowls atop one another and slid them toward her. “If I deserve a second chance, Thyma, then you do too.”

Thyma gave a start, as if she’d forgotten he was there. A smile curved her lips, revealing brown, stained teeth. “You’re right. Well, that’s enough sadness…tonight is a time of celebration,” she said, eyeing the night, “and forgiveness.” She reached into the cage and grabbed the bowls. “A shame you can’t come with us into town, but next year you’ll have made enough progress in your forswearance. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Grevail kept his eyes on hers, breathing a sigh of relief when she turned and headed further into camp. Hopefully she wouldn’t realize the spoon was missing and come back. After some time, when she did not return, he crawled to the cage door on his knees. Every Keeper was at the festival and the camp was empty as it would ever be. Sticking his arm through the bars, he grabbed the padlock and brought the spoon handle to it. Don’t drop it, Grevail. If that happened, there would be no hope of escape tonight, and he doubted there would be another chance, especially if they found the spoon in the grass below the wagon. The fires scattered around the tents provided enough faint light to insert the handle into the keyhole.

He wrenched the pewter spoon back and forth, careful not to break it. The lock creaked and groaned as he worked, and the spoon bent and twisted but remained in one piece. Every few moments he paused to scan the maroon and gold tents staked in loose rows and stretching into the night, but nothing moved. Eventually, after much wrangling, he got what he wanted. The spoon neck had become wedged into the lock, and he was sure that something would probably break if he applied enough force. He just hoped it was the lock instead of the spoon. He strained, putting all the strength he could muster into the handle from his awkward position. The spoon wavered, but he pressed on and then with a loud clang, it snapped in two, tumbling from his fingers.

Grevail looked for the spoon in the grass below wagon, though he had no hope of reaching it. Unable to spot it, he issued a curse and raised his eyes. The lock was hanging open. Recovering from his surprise, he spared a quick glance around before taking it from the door and dropping it into the grass. Pushing the door open, he slipped to the ground, and with no Thava in sight, scurried from the wagon toward the nearby cover of the tents. He sneaked down the row cautiously, freezing at every noise even if he spotted no guards patrolling the darkness. After all, there was little for them to guard against here at the Sprouting festival of a Eudan village. One tent emitted the loud snore of the Keeper inside, but no cry was raised as Grevail sneaked from the camp into the night.

When he reached the highway beyond the tents, he found a good number of festival-goers still walking into town, and scampering from the into the road, did his best to blend in as they walked toward the sound of celebrations. Ahead, the main street of the town glowed in the night.

The throng thickened as he entered the first houses, and he kept a careful eye out for any red and gold, though with so many people here, any Thava were unlikely to recognize him unless he walked right into one. Grevail had seen Sprouting festivals before, but none of those reminded him of what he saw here. Clumps of revelers danced in swirling eddies in the stream of people moving around them. A man in the seat of a carriage led by two fine horses stood and bellowed for people to move out of the way with little effect.

“Did you hear about what they found outside of town?” a nearby man asked another.

“My wife’s sister saw it. She said it was like a butcher’s shop.”

The other man gave a grim shake of his head. “My cousin saw it too. Who could do such a thing? You’d expect that sort to happen in Tamirra or Eudan, but not here!”

The sweet reeking smell of the relic led Grevail down the main street, past shops and festival games, right toward a wooden platform in the road atop which a musician troupe played. Women sent brightly colored dresses swirling and spinning, dancing to fast, whimsical music. One man played a flute while another struck some kind of dulcimer, and yet another woman plucked a guitar.

The road he thought his friends went down would be on the other side of the platform. Villagers were pressed shoulder to shoulder here and he briefly considered going around, but discarded the idea. Lots of people would be better to hide in, and if there were any clues to be found it would be along the scent of the relic. He pushed into the throng with apologies, but as he did, the music on the stage died, producing annoyed groans from the crowd.

A very tall man with a short black beard and a conical cap ascended the dais. He was followed by three figures covered head to toe in sheer green cloth so that none of their person was visible. The man turned to address the villagers.

"During Aurin’s sprouting…" he began, pausing for the crowd to quiet, “…we celebrate the spring and all that it brings. The growth of plants, animals, and the rains."

"Who are they, Marsham!" someone shouted, and a warm chuckle rippled through the audience.

"Well...would you really like to know?" the man on stage asked.

“Tell us who!” screamed a woman.

Grevail didn’t care what this was all about. His friends could be here. Pushing forward, he made his way further into the press of villagers, coming closer to the stage and the people atop it.

A young woman stepped in his path and motioned toward the stage. “Would you like to dance?”

“Dance?” Grevail asked.

“Yes, dance.” she emphasized the word as if Grevail had never heard it before. Her deep brown eyes studied him over a wide, toothy grin. “Come on!”

“No…I’m sorry…I mean…thanks…no, I meant…no thanks,” Grevail said.

The young woman’s brows rose curiously over eyes that looked at Grevail as if there might be something wrong with him, but then gave a slight shrug of her shoulders and dove into the festival-goers where she found another young man who accepted her offer. Together, they headed toward the stage.

Marsham quieted the crowd again by flapping his arms. He built the anticipation with a few moments of silence. "The first daughter is...Belene Shirdi!" He ripped the sheet off the first figure, revealing a young woman with frizzy brown hair balling around her head. The girl’s brown eyes widened as the crowd loosed a thunderous roar at the sight of her. She looked at her feet, a shy smile creeping across her lips at the response.

Marsham did the same with the next two sheet wrapped figures, both young women, and both attained the same reaction from the crowd. "There are your daughters of Aurin. Now, might we have any dashing young Darunens in the crowd?" With that, young men bobbed up and down, some raising hands while others rushed toward the stage. Marsham picked three who went up on stage with the young women to stand beside them.

"Enjoy the night, dear residents of Esiphon! We’ve earned it!" He waved to the musicians and jumped off the stage. The troupe started up in a different, feverishly fast, fun song. The three pairs of young people began a quick flashing dance. The women’s skirts created vibrant explosions as they whirled in the men’s arms, kicking legs in beat to the song. The crowd roared back to life, cheering and doing dances of their own.

“Daughters of Aurin?” Grevail murmured to himself, searching for an easy path through the wall of bodies.

"The daughters of Aurin," a slurred voice said beside him. Grevail found a short and fat man swaying at his shoulder, bloodshot eyes on the stage. "Every year the Alderman...hic...picks out three of the most eligible...girls for marriage...and they dance in the street there with every unmarried man...hic…they can…until...until they are too tired to go on!"

The daughters of Aurin moved off the stage and into the crowd.

"Maybe we could get...hic...a drink?" The man edged closer until the ale on his breath was sour in Grevail’s nose. "I don't have any coin now...but I...hic..."

"Maybe some other time,” Grevail grumbled and shouldered his way toward the stage.

Ahead of him, the crowd flowed around knots of writhing dancers. He had never seen a dance like this before. People in Lowtown danced all the time, sometimes late into the night with drink to keep them going, but he was never one to join. That was the kind of thing for Tessyn and Adellus.

The acrid sweet scent led him forward and he followed, pushing through a ring of villagers surrounding several pairs of dancers. The men twirled the women, sometimes lifting them off the ground, much to the delight of the onlookers who cheered and egged the couples on. A pair of dancers circled toward Grevail as he moved along the edge of the crowd. He recognized the young woman who’d asked him to dance earlier, now in the arms of a man in a black, broad-brimmed hat with dark wavy hair to his shoulders and a—Iphik!

The Sifter’s eyes locked with Grevail’s and widened in recognition. Iphik stumbled with the girl in his arms and they both crashed to the ground in a heap. The crowd erupted in jeers and laughter with some villagers rushing to help get the Sifter and the young woman back on their feet. Grevail dove into the crowd, shoving anyone out of his way who didn’t move fast enough.

Shooting a glance over his shoulder, he saw Iphik’s black leather hat spinning over the heads of the townsfolk around him, but Grevail wasted no time in creating as much distance as he could between them. He kept an eye out for Grix, but saw no evidence of the tall Sifter who would stand at least a few hands above most everyone else. Spotting an alleyway ahead, he ducked out of the crowd into it.