Although Loric Ashall’s dismissal of Iridni from the Kinship and Zephyr’s release of her from their betrothal had freed her to chart her own course (as well as liberated her from much odious paperwork and administration), life only grew in complexity. Perhaps a cloistered existence could be simple, but as long as she must minister to the conflicting needs of so many others, the dream of being a singular lens through which Pelor could focus His divine power—His will indistinct from her own—felt elusive, myriad shadows and clouds passing between her and the brilliant omnipotence of her adoration.
Yue. Syndra. Mishandra. Their faces and the faces of all she feared to fail appeared before her.
Alone in the Tenements, she examined the magnificent blade with sadness, her own slender fingers scarcely able to encircle its hilt. Her labor would restore its dulled gleam to its former glory; for too long had it remained unused since dropped from the more valiant hand of its dying wielder. For a moment she saw in her mind's eye that tragic morning in the Lodge when she had shown it to Trentor Atriens, envisioning that the Ilmateri might one day raise it as the proud champion and defender of the Wayfarers, a most worthy successor in the Kinship’s tradition of holy knights.
Trentor had proved himself to her in honor, trust, and sacrifice—above all, humility—but long prayer had revealed another way of choosing who was to take up this singular blade. She would not pass it from her healing touch to Trentor’s scarred grasp unconditionally, though that would have been her fondest wish. No, this storied prize, like any of such singular value, ought be won.
She placed the sword down with gentleness, its massive size filling the entire length of her snug cot, and prepared to clean and polish it. But then her violet eyes focused on the now empty bottom shelf of her bookcase. Those books were gone. Should Monsieur Anatole de la Rochenoire once more breach the threshold of her sleeping room, his invasive curiosity would have to satisfy itself with less titillating insights into the priestess’s bedtime reading.
She did, however, have to see the nobleman again. As embarrassed as she would feel when next they met, she could not trust to a letter the information that she had promised to convey. It was, after all, a matter of life and death.