It had been easy for Therin to steal a horse, having known the stables perfectly well in the dark. Alira wondered how often he had done this exact thing: stealing into the night, flying away from his stuffy, lush summer home.

As they rode in the rising moonlight, Therin hummed distractedly to himself. It occurred to Alira finally that she had no idea where they were going.

“We never discussed where we’re going.”

“Directly east of the Lightholde is where my mother’s people are from.” He adjusted in the saddle and cleared his throat. “I’ve kept in touch with them through the years.” He fell silent and didn’t elaborate. Alira waited a few minutes before sighing in frustration.

“And?” she prompted.

“And my great aunt’s husband was a scribe at the monastery when your mother came. I think we should talk to him and find out what he remembers.”

“Did he see her? Speak with her?”

“I don’t know.” He fell silent and Alira couldn’t think of any better plan so she agreed.

Any ideas? She asked Henry.

We need the book and her soulstones. Either would be useful at this juncture and who knows? Maybe looking for the book will lead us to the stones.

They rode in silence and a slow, seeping dread filled her as the miles were left behind and the moon rose and then began its descent. They rode all night, barely talking, and took turns drifting lazily into fitful sleep in their saddles.

Alira woke when her horse slowed to a stop, grabbing bits of dew-kissed grass on the edge of the road. She had not spent so much time in a saddle in her life and she ached as she stretched, rubbing her neck which was twinging from her having dozed off.

“We’re just outside the village,” Therin said as he swung from his horse and held a hand out to her to help her down. “There’s a small meadow just behind this copse of trees. I thought we could stretch, wash up and maybe have a little picnic for breakfast.”

They led the horses through the trees and eventually entered a small clearing, wildflowers dotting the grassy area. She could hear a small stream close by and stumbled to it, rubbing the stiffness out of her shoulders. The water was fresh, cold and felt very good on her dirty face. It was a beautiful early summer morning, the southern climes so much milder than the northern. The sunshine, when the sun crested the horizon, was less humid, the breeze was almost a touch chilly, but promised a lovely day.

Alira sat on the bank of the small stream and watched tiny minnows dart around the shadows of the trees. She thought of fishing when she was little and smiled sadly. She wondered if she’d ever be free to do those kinds of small things again: fishing, napping in the shade, reading in the sunshine.

Without your silent audience inside your mind, you mean?

Cognizant of Therin’s presence beside her washing his own travel-stained face, Alira kept her expression still as she shook her head and sighed.

The two people sat at the edge of the small brook for a while, Alira soaking her feet in the cold water, Therin reading the small book he had brought with him from his cell at the monastery. She heard him muttering, whispering things, and she felt hair raising on her arms sometimes, chills racing down her spine. He sketched a prayer above himself occasionally.

While he studied the book, she studied him. The light was behind them, warming their backs and Alira imagined Mara drawing him as he was now. She wondered if she’d capture the way his curls drifted in the breeze. Maybe the High Inquisitor would see something in the image of Therin that Alira could not, something tinted by the haze of past experience.

As Alira stared at him, she noted his long lashes, darker than his hair, and noted that he had taken the time to shave before they had left. In profile, his brow was proud, the bridge of his nose high. It gave his look a noble air. His lips weren’t full but they suited his face, complimenting his defined jaw and pointed chin. She wondered if he’d look good with a beard.

It would make him look older, more rakish. Henry purred and she jumped and then blushed. Oh, don’t be like that. He chided. He isn’t a bad looking man. He’s stupid but sometimes stupid can have its own allure. Alira shut him down and pulled her stockings on and laced up her boots.

I don’t find him attractive. She said to Henry. I’m just curious about him and Mara.

Not conventionally attractive, no. But his desire to be needed, to be trusted is…endearing in its own pathetic way. Like a little lost boy who needs a mother.

I don’t have time to mother broken boys right now. She hissed and Henry fell silent.

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Shortly after, they spread their cloaks out on the grass, dumping their combined food together and sharing the bread and cheese, both finishing their skins of water. They ate and Therin told her about growing up in the area, how his summers usually were, who he spent his time with. Conspicuously absent from his tales were both Noran and Mara.

After they had finished their meal, Therin surprised Alira by taking out a small lemon cake glazed with honey and carefully wrapped in waxed linen. He grinned at her and split it in half. It had been so long since she’d had something so decadent and sweet. She beamed while she ate it in tiny, nibbling bites, savouring the entire thing. Therin watched her with piqued interest. As she licked her fingers clean, Therin laughed at her innocent enjoyment and handed over his own half, missing only a single bite. She greedily accepted and stuffed half of it in her mouth.

After the cake Therin launched into a story about how he used to steal similar lemon cakes and other things from the kitchen on his way out the servant’s door.

“Mrs. Jones always had an extra pastry or cake set aside, carelessly left on the edge of her work table. She would turn her back with a smile when I came in, letting me think I stole it. But I knew she knew and that was the best part for me. How poorly I could sneak the treat and still have her pretend I had stolen it with her unaware.” Alira laughed and imagined that teenaged Therin, growing into his gangliness, unruly hair always in his eyes, his blue eyes sparkling with mischievousness.

Therin paused in his storytelling to refill their water skins and when he came back, Alira looked up at him, his shadow falling on her. Shading her eyes she leaned back on a hand and took a calculated risk.

“Tell me about Noran.”

The sun slid behind a cloud, the timing impeccably accurate. The glade dimmed as the light left Therin’s face.

“There’s not a lot to tell.”

“Really? I’d argue that’s not true. He’s a witch and that’s got to be a pretty interesting story.”

“Not really.” He shrugged and picked up his cloak, shaking the grass off it as he rolled it up and put it in his pack.

“Well the one page in his diary I read says that he wasn’t going to tell Devan about his baptism. That implies that maybe Devan knew some of what he was up to. I’m just wondering how that came about.”

“Let’s get back on the road and I’ll tell you.”

They packed in mutual silence, Therin’s heavy and Alira worried he was trying to find the easy, simple things he could tell her and leave out the details she wanted to know.

When they had restarted their journey, Alira prodded again.

“Noran?”

“He approached Devan with his idea to infiltrate the Morinn.” Therin paused and then said, frowning. “And Devan was alright with it, almost immediately. I don’t think he even took a day to think it over.” They rode for a moment and Alira waited.

“I think Devan didn’t believe Noran could do it, or if he did that he’d survive very long. Noran had been a disappointment, in a lot of ways.”

“Did you love Noran?” Alira asked brazenly. Therin started and turned to her.

“What?” he demanded, his tone slightly defensive.

“When you were younger perhaps?”

“Oh, I guess so,” he grumbled. He looked away and clenched his jaw. “Maybe when we were younger I did. But he was never like an older brother should be.”

She thought of the letters he had written his brother and remembered that Noran was the elder of the two. Something about the way his letters were worded gave Alira the impression that Therin was the one taking care of Noran, though.

“You took care of him, not the other way around?” Alira guessed. He threw her a look and smiled ruefully.

“Yes, actually. That’s exactly how it was.”

“I imagine that wasn’t easy,” she remarked. “Were you both adopted at the same time?”

“He had been with Devan since he was three or four. I came along when I was about seven.”

“You didn’t get along with Noran immediately?”

“Oh, no, I did. We were great friends when we were very young. But I quickly learned he was…dependent upon me.” Therin dropped his gaze and toyed with the reins in his hands. Alira waited.

“He relied on me to get us out of trouble with Devan and Mrs. Jones, he relied on me to make the decisions when we played. He wanted my approval with everything.”

“Was Mrs. Jones the only female figure you had growing up?”

“Yes, aside from the housemaids, but they weren’t much older than us boys, usually. Sally’s been there since we were both about twelve.” A smile bled onto his face as he mentioned the lovely, plump, pink-cheek maidservant.

“Devan didn’t have a wife?” Alira asked and then blushed. “Oh, of course not. Celibate.” Therin grinned at her embarrassment and nudged his horse closer to her.

“The only woman he was ever with was your mother. I guess you could have been my step-sister.” Alira glared at him, disgusted.

“I don't want to discuss my mother’s relationships with men.”

“Doesn’t that fascinate you, though? That my adopted father and your mother once slept together?”

“No!” she snarled and made a face.

“It’s like we’re siblings, or, I don’t know. Meant to find each other at the very least.” His words made her pause, her face slack.

Had they been meant to meet that day on the steps of the monastery?

Henry’s images played in her mind, the celestial bodies moving with purpose, colliding and destroying each other, some missing narrowly.

Wouldn’t that book be a useful tool right about now? Henry asked. To be able to look into the pages and see what his role in this could be? He laughed and mocked her wonder. No, pet. He’s just a moron with an itch to prove himself.

But what if I can see him in those pages? What if he is part of what I’m meant to do? It would make trusting him so much easier.

I’d trust him about as far as this horse can throw him. And we have the oldest nag in Devan’s stable.

But something inside Alira was comforted by the idea that Therin would be a valuable addition to her journey. Something was assuaged by that spark of hope and peace and Alira fanned the flames of that hope, letting it bloom inside her, chasing back the darkness. Her burden felt lighter as they climbed a small hill and a village lay before them.