IMAGE: The misborn grown older. The green blotches had spread and joined until her skin was a light olive green. The darker blotch on her forehead was more cleanly defined, an oval eye-shape between her brows. Her hair was shorter, a cap of soft russet curls. She wore a time-rubbed leather tunic that hugged the meager curves of her slim torso like a second skin. The tip of a bow rose over one shoulder.

“Think that’s clever, Raiki janja?” Ser Noris touched the card with the toe of his boot. “I’ll teach the child. After that, try taking the woman.”

Raiki gazed at him sadly. “You don’t understand. By your nature, you can’t understand. Take your next card.”

IMAGE: a man in a loose black robe, a silver flame embroidered on the breast. His arms were held out from his sides, elbows bent, palms turned up. A fire burned on the right hand, a scourge was draped over the left.

Raiki shook her head. “Ah my friend, that’s bad. The Sons of the Flame. Tschah! You’re calling on the worst in man. I’m afraid I’ve got no place in that world you’re shaping. My stomach couldn’t take it. I’d be angry all the time and turn sour as an unripe quince.” She laid her second card down.

IMAGE: a short pudgy man, surplus flesh veiling the strong, elegant bone structure of his face and body. He looked lazy, sensual, intelligent and arrogant, a man who had everything he wanted without having to ask for it, who was saved from decay by an exuberant enjoyment of life, who yet was so indolent he didn’t bother to probe deeply into the things that excited his wonder or prodded his curiosity. A man with much promise, little of it realized.

“Hernof Oras. A flawed weapon, janja.”

“Perhaps.” She gathered in the cards. “Flaws can be useful.” Struggling to her feet, she moved past him to the cliff’s edge where she stood gazing down into the Biserica valley. “Ser Noris, my Noris, too many people are going to die