last recalcitrants； his hands brushed against a small； cold bundle of feathers that lay just out of sight in the shadows at the far end
Suddenly full of worry； he closed his hand around the object and lifted it out。 It was one of his birds； he saw immediately； and it was dead。 Eyes wide； he examined it closely。 It was Ink…daub； one of the pigeons he had dispatched to Nabban several days ago。 Ink…daub had apparently been injured by some animal； many of his feathers were missing and he was spotted with dried blood。 Tiamak was sure the bird hadn't been there yesterday； so he must have arrived during the night； flying with his last strength despite his wounds； reaching his home only to die。
Tiamak found the world swimming before his eyes as the tears came。 Poor Ink…daub。 He was a fine bird； one of the fastest fliers。 He had been very brave； too。 Everywhere on the bird's body that Tiamak looked； blood showed beneath the tattered feathers。 Poor； brave Ink…daub。 A slender strip of parchment was curled around the pigeon's twighke ankle。 Tiamak placed the silent bundle aside for a moment and coaxed out the last two birds； then wedged the small door closed with a notched stick。 With Ink…daub's body curled in a gentle hand； Tiamak climbed down to the window and into the house。 He set down the pigeon's body and carefully removed the parchment spreading it out on the floor between his fingertips； squinting at the tiny characters。 The message was from his wise friend in Nabban； whose hand Tiamak recognized even in bird…writing； but was inexplicably unsigned。
The time has e； it read； and you are sorely needed。 Morgenes cannot ask you； but I ask for him。 Go to Kwanitupul； stay at the inn we have spoken of； and wait there until I can tell you more Go there immediately and do not stray。 More than lives may depend on you。
At the bottom was scribbled a drawing of a feather in a circle…the symbol of the League of the Scroll。
Tiamak sat dumbstruck； staring at the message。 He read it two more times； hoping it would miraculously say something different； but the words remained unchanged。 Go to Kwanitupul！ But the elders had or… dered him to Nabban！ There was no one else in his tribe who could speak the drylander languages well enough to serve as an emissary。 And what would he tell his tribesmen…that some drylander they didn't know had told him to go wait for instructions at Kwanitupul； that this was reason enough to turn his back on his people's wishes？ What did the League of the Scroll mean to Wrannamen？ A circle of drylander scholars who talked of old books and older events？ His people would never understand。
But how could he ignore the gravity of the summons？ His friend in Nabban had been explicit…had even said that this was what Morgenes wanted him to do。 Without Morgenes； Tiamak would never have sur… vived his year m Perdruin； let alone gained the wonderful fellowship to which the doctor had introduced him。 How could he not do this one thing…this； the only favor Morgenes had ever asked of him？
The hot air was pushing in at the windows like a hungry beast。 Tiamak folded the note and slipped it into his sheath。 He must attend to Ink…daub。 Then he would think。 Perhaps it would be cooler as evening drew closer。 Surely he could wait one more day before leaving； wherever he was to go？ Surely？ Tiamak wrapped the bird's small body in oil palm leaves； then wound it in a length of thin cord。 He stilted through the shallows to a sandbar behind his house； where he set the bundle of leaves on a rock and surrounded it with bark and precious strips of old parchment。 After uttering a prayer for Ink…daub's spirit to She Who Waits to Take All Back； he used his flint and steel to set the tiny pyre aflame。
As the smoke coiled upward； Tiamak reflected that there was something to be said for the old ways after all。 If nothing else； they provided something to do at a time when the mind was weary and hurting。 For a moment； he was even able to push aside the troubling thoughts of duty； feeling instead a strange sort of peace as he watched Ink…daub's smoke take flight； rising slowly into the feverish gray sky。
Soon； though； the smoke was gone and the ashes were scattered across the green water。
When Miriamele and her two panions came down off the hill path onto the North Coast Road； Cadrach jogged his mount ahead； putting several lengths between himself and Dinivan and the princess。 The morning sun was at their backs。 The horses Dinivan had brought trotted along with heads waving； nostrils wide to catch the scents on the early breeze。
〃Ho； Padreic！〃 Dinivan shouted； but the monk did not reply。 His round shoulders bounced up and down。 His hood was lowered as if he hung his head in thought。 〃Very well； then…Cadrach！〃 the priest called； 〃why do you not ride with us？〃
Cadrach； a graceful horseman despite his bulk and short legs； reined up。 When the other two had nearly caught him； he turned。
〃It is a problem with names； brother；〃 he said； showing his teeth in an angry smile。 〃You call me by one that belongs to a dead man。 The princess； well now； she's given me a new one…〃traitor〃…and baptized me with it in Emettin Bay to seal the bargain。 So you see； don't you； it would be all too confusing； this…one might say…multiplicity of names。〃
With an ironic bow of the head； he dug his heels into his horse's ribs and forged ahead； slowing again to match their pace when he had extended his lead to a dozen ells or so。
〃He is very bitter；〃 Dinivan said as he watched Cadrach's hunched shoulders。
〃What does he have to be bitter about？〃 Miriamele demanded。
The priest shook his head。 〃God knows。〃
ing from a priest； she decided； it was hard to tell exactly what that phrase might signify。
Nabban's North Coast Road meandered along between the ridge of hills and Emettin Bay； sometimes jogging inland so that the hills' tan flanks rose on the right； blocking all view of the water。 Farther on； the hills fell away again for a short time and the rocky coastline appeared once more。 As the trio approached Teligure； the road began to fill with other traffic： farm wains shedding streams of loose hay； foot peddlers carrying their wares hung on poles； small troops of local guardsmen marching officiously from one place to another。 Many travelers； seeing the golden Tree that hung on Dinivan's black…robed chest and the monkish robes of his panions； bowed their heads or made the Tree…sign across their breasts。 Beggars ran alongside the priest's horse； crying； 〃Father； Father！ Aedon's mercy； Father！〃 If they seemed truly crippled in some way； Dinivan reached into his robes and produced a cintis…piece； which he tossed down to them。 Miriamele noticed that few of the beggars； no matter how hobbled or deformed； ever let the coin strike the ground。
They stopped at midday in Teligure itself； a sprawling market town set in the lap of the hills； where they refreshed themselves with fruit and hard bread bought from stalls in the town square。 Here； in the crush of merce； three religious travelers drew little notice。
Miriamele was basking in the bright sun； hood pushed back so that she could feel the warmth on her forehead。 All around her echoed the cries of the hawkers and the outraged shrieks of swindled buyers。 Cadrach and Dinivan stood nearby； the priest bargaining with a seller of boiled eggs while his sullen panion eyed a wine…merchant's booth next door。 Miriamele realized with some surprise that she felt happy。
Just like that？ she chided herself； but the sun felt too nice for self… vilification。 She had been fed； had ridden all morning free as the wind； and nobody around was paying the slightest attention to her。 At the same time； she felt strangely protected。
She thought suddenly of the kitchen boy Simon and her contented mood expanded to touch the memory of him as well。 He had a nice smile； Simon had…not practiced； like one other father's courtiers。 Father Dinivan had a good smile； too； but it never looked surprised at itself； as Simon's almost always did。
In a strange way； she realized； the days spent traveling to Naglimund with Simon and Binabik the troll had been some of the best of her life。 S