A cool, wet wind blew from the north and east, and against the western mountains piled stormclouds. The sky hung low and dark and menacing over the Face of God. The rains were coming.

"I do not believe it. I cannot," said Shra.

Trals's lips parted. His eyes narrowed. He allowed himself a moment to smirk at the thunderheads before he schooled his features, took in a great lungful of fragrant air, and turned to confront the Sayer of the Uppalitch Ethlek.

"Mree," ...