It had been torturous watching Elymas humiliate the man named Milo, and Jessum remembered with discomfort how he himself had humiliated one of the Wabbers.  Jessum hadn’t been long in the city before he recognized the prejudice. Some even declared they carried a peculiar odor though he’d never noticed it. Along the Market Way, they moved aside. In crowds, they stood at the edge.

            King Ranald had brought them to help rebuild the city walls, but he’d fallen ill and until he got better, they’d floated around the city, finally settling in a portion of the town called the Bottom. But for a barn-like structure where plague victims went to die, the Bottom was comprised of shanties.

            Jessum leaned over and spat. 

            His rejection by the others still hurt because he came to the city expecting friends. Whether they’d been chosen by seers like Old Euli or passed a series of difficult tests, the twelve candidates all carried the same hopes and fears. As they’d stood outside the Great Throne Room waiting to be presented to the legendary Elymas, Jessum had seen himself reflected time and again. Same green colored tunic and wool leggings, some bowl hair-cut, same apprehensive stare. The fattest of the lot was sweating profusely, dark stains under his arms and across his back. Another relieved himself of an itch.

            Then the doors opened and their desperate kinship had come to an end. A huge, dim room loomed before them, at variance with the sunny autumn and oddly chilled, like a cellar. Sunlight had become unbearable to the ailing King, and though Ranald wasn’t present, Elymas hadn’t bothered to roll up the tapestries.