“A stunted arm?” Wintrow asked in surprise.

“It was. I'd fallen on it when I was small, and it was a long time healing, and when it did heal, it was never as strong as it should have been. But the priests cured me. They put me with the watering crew on the orchard, and the priest in charge of us gave me mismatched buckets. He made me carry the heavier one with my weaker arm. I thought he was a madman at first; my parents had always taught me to use my stronger arm for everything. It was my earliest introduction to Sa's precepts.”

Wintrow frowned to himself for a moment, then grinned. “ ‘For the weakest has but to try his strength to find it, and then he shall be strong.’ “

“Exactly.” The priest gestured at the long low building before them. The acolyte's cells had been their destination. “The messenger was delayed getting here. You will have to pack swiftly and set out right away if you are to reach port before your ship sails. It's a long walk.”

“A ship!” The desolation that had faded briefly from Wintrow's face flooded back. “I hadn't thought of that. I hate traveling by sea. But when one must go from Jamaillia to Bingtown, there is no other choice.” His frowned deepened. “Walk to port? Didn't they arrange a man and a horse for me?”

“Do you so quickly revive to the comforts of wealth, Wintrow?” Berandol chided him. When the boy hung his head, abashed, he went on, “No, the message said that a friend had offered you passage across and the family had been glad to accept it.” More gently he added, “I suspect that money is not so plentiful for your family as it once was. The Northern War has hurt many of the trading families, both in the goods that never came down the Buck River and those that never were sold there.” More pensively, he went on, “And our young Satrap does not favor Bingtown as his father and grandfathers did. They seemed to feel that those brave enough to settle the Cursed Shores should share generously in the treasures they found there.