The Red Robe who’d introduced himself as Strout prodded them forward, and they’d stumbled down the aisle. Hesitant steps, clumsy. The double oaken doors shut with a thud and from outside, the sound of the bar dropped.

            Elymas stood in the center of the dais, clad in a magnificent crimson robe, the silk rippling about him even as he stood still. A flat medallion hung from a finely worked chain about his neck. 

            Jessum had heard of the medallion from Sartone, who, as a lad, had been chosen by Euli to journey forth to try his hand in kingly service. Sartone had failed to make the cut, but what made him different from the other was this: he returned home. Most, having left home once, were afflicted with wanderlust. Home in Larnes, he eked out a living on his father’s farm and every few months, while in his cups, would hold forth on the dangers of city life. 

            Sartone had immediately taken Jessum aside to give him advice. 

            “Pack your coins in the soles of your shoes.”

            Jessum had stared pointedly at his bare feet.

            “Sew a double lining in your pocket, then. Anything to protect yourself from thieves. They’re thick as fleas along Market Way.”           

            Jessum had listened to Sartone’s descriptions of Casoria dozens of times, but only now did they seem real. Ursaulis Castle, the Bone Tree, Market Way, the taverns, the populace teaming with every tribe in the land, but overshadowing them all was the presence of Elyamas, the Earth Skyll.

            The more Sartone talked about Elymas, the more Jessum’s mind had fastened itself to physical details:  the color of his robe (in Sartone’s day, he’d worn green) the drag of his foot, the light -colored eyes that shredded confidence, and, of course, the medallion. Sartone had been careful to impress him with that. 

            “It’s made of pure gold,” he said, adding, “I could stare at the sun longer, I think.”