“Perhaps I misspoke. The letter mentioned a mark of trust. Where is it?”

            The Whitehair didn’t reply, but held forth his right arm, his hand fisted. It was a strange response and one Elymas was quick to interpret. “Anger seems out of place for one so cool in battle. A leader of men wouldn’t be so quick to lose his temper, I think.”

            “You misspeak again,” said Oren, and opened his fist. 

            There, plain for all to see, was the image of the Outer Flower, its rounded blooms changed to sharpened swords.

            “May I show the crowd?” asked Oren. 

            The King nodded. 

            Once again, Oren mounted the dais and showed his palm. Lest the crowd scoff or scream, the King lifted his specter in an impaling gesture. Oren moved his open palm from right to left. Odd, some would recall later, that everyone saw clearly, those in the rear as well as the front.

            “I was marked by Jah when I placed my hand on the white rock outside the Eld Forest.”

            “I must have another look,” said Ranald.

            Oren turned, palm opened and knelt.

            “Amazing.” The King stared, mesmerized.

            “The scar itself seems a living thing,” remarked Fulcruchen, and gently touched the tip of his finger to the raised skin.