Adjusting the flap of his trousers, he turned to face the Gibbor, glancing at the scrub oak on his right. She wasn’t there. Nor was there any reason for her to be, though it didn’t stop him from peering among the branches. Was that a foot? A strand of hair? She was good at hiding. No, he could find no trace. 

      She was a girl from the Shivelite camp who’d been watching him during the Spring Calling for the last several years. She’d been hard to detect, but the smell of lavender and soap had given her away. For reasons unknown to himself, Oren had never flushed her out, but allowed her to stay. Every year she climbed higher, though she’d never ventured out on a limb. He knew nothing of her, save that she was young and clothed in what appeared to be an old-fashioned night- rail. Oren smiled. The widow wore nothing at all.

            The Gibbor cleared his throat. Oren focused.

            “This arrived last night.”

            The Seer dug in the pocket of his robe and produced a feather. It was a feather from the three- spotted falcon turned blue by means Oren could only imagine. The brown was blue as the morning sky. Rand the Rash had a path in the Deep. 

            The Gibbor lifted the feather, parting the tufts with his breath.