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Ferda strode back into the dining chamber in a very few minutes, his hands full of folded papers. “Here . . . no, here is Baocia, and the provinces to the west as far as Ibra.” He spread a stained and travel-worn paper out on the table between the divine and Ista. Dy Ferrej peered anxiously over dy Cabon’s shoulder.

The divine frowned at the map for a few minutes, then cleared his throat and looked across at Ista. “We are taught that the route of a pilgrimage should serve its spiritual goal. Which may be simple or manifold, but which will partake of at least one of five aims: service, supplication, gratitude, divination, and atonement.”

Atonement. Apology to the gods. Dy Lutez, she could not help thinking. The chill memory of that dark hour still clouded her heart, on this bright evening. Yet who owed Whom the apology for that disaster? We were all in it together, the gods and dy Lutez and Ias and I. And if abasing herself on the altar of the gods was the cure for that old wound, she had eaten dirt enough already for a dozen dy Lutezes. Yet the scar still bled, in the deep dark, if pressed.

“I once saw a man pray for mules,” Foix remarked agreeably.

Dy Cabon blinked. After a moment he asked, “Did he get any?”

“Yes, excellent ones.”

“The gods’ ways are . . . mysterious, sometimes,” murmured dy Cabon, apparently digesting this. “Ahem. Yours—Royina—is a pilgrimage of supplication, for a grandson as I understand it. Is it not?” He paused invitingly.

It is not. But dy Ferrej and Lady dy Hueltar both made noises of assent, and Ista let it pass.

Dy Cabon ran his finger over the intricately drawn chart, thick with place names, seamed with little rivers, and decorated with rather more trees than actually stood on Baocia’s high plains. He pointed out this or that shrine devoted to the Mother or the Father within striking distance of Valenda, describing the merits of each. Ista forced herself to look at the map.

To the far south, beyond the map’s margins, lay Cardegoss, and the great castle and fortress of the Zangre of evil memory. No. To the east lay Taryoon. No. West and north, then. She trailed her finger across the map toward the spine of the Bastard’s Teeth, the high range that marked the long north–south border of Ibra, so recently united with Chalion in her daughter’s marriage bed. North along the mountains’ edge, some easy road. “This way.”

Dy Cabon’s brow wrinkled as he squinted at the map. “I’m not just sure what . . .”

“About a day’s ride west of Palma is a town where the Daughter’s Order has a modest hostel, rather pleasant,” remarked Ferda. “We’ve stayed there before.”

Dy Cabon licked his lips. “Hm. I know of an inn near Palma that we might reach before nightfall, if we do not tarry on the road. It has a most excellent table. Oh, and a sacred well, very old. A minor holy place, but as Sera Ista dy Ajelo desires a pilgrimage in humility, perhaps a small start will serve her best. And the great shrines tend to be crowded, this time of year.”

“Then by all means, Learned, let us avoid the crowds and seek humility, and pray at this well. Or table, as the case may be.” Ista’s lips twitched.

“I see no need to weigh out prayer by the grain, as though it were dubious coin,” replied dy Cabon cheerily, encouraged by her fleeting smile. “Let us do both, and return abundance for abundance.” The divine’s thick fingers made calipers of themselves and stepped from Valenda to Palma to the spot Ferda had tapped. He hesitated, then his hand turned once more. “A day’s ride from there, if we arise early enough, is Casilchas. Sleepy little place, but my order has a school there. Some of my old teachers are still there. And it has a fine library, considering the small size of the place, for many teaching divines who have died have left it their books. I grant a seminary of the Bastard is not exactly . . . exactly apropos to the purpose of this pilgrimage, but I confess I should like to consult the library.”

Ista wondered,