SPICED SMOKE DRIFTED in curling wisps from the censer that hung above the prayer stone. The House of Eight Plums was always quiet at this time of night, and quieter still, for the rains had come to mark the beginning of winter. Few pilgrims had the desire to climb the unforgiving shoulder of Mount Irusu, which even now was slicked with pearly ice on its northern face. The priestesses who kept the temple were all asleep, except for the youngest of their order, the ankan girl who had been sent up with the mute penitents earlier in the spring. She had not earned her full name yet, and so they called her Drifting Lilac, for she was prone to dreaming during the day, and her eyes had a curious pale shade of violet. Those eyes were rare among the Hinoni tribes, and highly prized. That such a specimen was sent to a remote temple spoke of strange dealings indeed, for a girl of such beauty as hers should have been purchased by the Emperor’s men and sent to train amongst the imperial concubines.

No such fate for Drifting Lilac, who knelt at the prayer stone in the quiet temple hall. She was too young yet to understand the pain she had avoided or to rue the luxuries she might have been afforded as one the Emperor’s women. She could have borne princes, but instead, she watched a prayer script burn in the copper bowl, its edges traced with bright cherry as the paper faded to ash. The ink rune she had drawn, which read, Remember us, disappeared as distant thunder rolled like wordless poetry off the nearby peaks.

Drifting Lilac closed her eyes and began to intone a prayer, a low humming chant that resonated through the silent temple hall. She could hear rain through the shuttered windows, the slow, sleepy patter of sober winter. She filled herself with the incense, the sharp tang keeping her awake and alert. She kept the midnight vigil, for the other priestesses were old now, and Great Zanakanda had decreed that the prayer stone be ever watched, even in the dark of night, for that was when prayer was most needful.

She heard a whisper behind her, no more than the rasp of a snake over leaves. She stiffened, and the prayer faltered. Another noise. Someone was out of bed. Perhaps a dream had disturbed their peace, and they had come to ask for a prayer. She had the writing board at hand, in case such a one sought her services. True, some of the pilgrims could write, but most paid for the priestesses to inscribe their prayer. The women who kept the House of Eight Plums were renowned for the beauty of their writing, and the pilgrims hoped, as Drifting Lilac did, that the Golden One would hear a beautifully written prayer and smile upon it.

Or, perhaps it was one of the grandmothers, as she thought of the other priestesses, searching for something to eat. She had caught them before, always with a mischievous grin and a raised brow as they snuck back from the kitchens. As severe as they were, devoted to their worship, they were but children at heart, as Great Zanakanda taught, deserving of her love even in shame.

Careful but not silent, those footsteps came closer still. The kitchens lay further along in the House. Someone had come for a prayer. Drifting Lilac tried not to be disappointed that her meditations were to be interrupted; this was her duty after all, and she shouldered it willingly.

It was Inkpots who warned her that something was wrong. One of the temple cats, Inkpots was white all over except for her four black paws. The cat was standing in the middle of the temple floor, her back arched and tail fluffed out with agitation. Inkpots hissed at a man who stood a few steps past the door. He was one of the dozen ronijar, the fighting men that had come up the mountain a week past with their master, Lord Hurecho, and another man whom she did not like to think about. The ronijar pretended to be a party of pilgrims, but the season was too late, and she had heard the grandmothers talking about Lord Hurecho coming to settle an old bet. From what Drifting Lilac had seen, the men didn’t seem terribly interested in proving anything. Mostly they fought, ate, and drank of the temple stores.

Drifting Lilac did not know this one’s name. The priestesses had seemed adamant that she keep away from the hardworn men. This one wore only his thin sleeping robe, which bared most of his bronze legs as well as his thick arms. Drifting Lilac’s father was a farmer, and she had grown up around strong men. These fighters were built differently though, long years of training and fighting chiseling deep lines into their taught limbs. His black hair fell down around his shoulders, unbound from its knot for the night. She blushed, seeing the man in a state she ought not. Anyone could see that he was indecent. Why had he come to the temple without donning more presentable garb?

“You’ve caught my eye, girl,” the ronijar said, voice rough and low like a common man. Like a thug. He came forward again, heedless of Inkpots, who hissed at him and took a few bounding steps to the side. “You and those violet eyes. Where did you get such jewels?”

The room grew very still. The incense wafted behind her, suddenly less comforting. Drifting Lilac became very aware of the chill on her skin, the wet cold seeping in from the constant rain. Something made a sharp sound outside, but she was too preoccupied to fully notice it. The ronijar took another step forward.

“I can write you a prayer,” Drifting Lilac said, finding her voice. She touched the writing board. “My letters are not as beautiful as—” she caught herself, “as the other priestesses’, but I will do my best for you.”

“Oh,” the man said, leering like a devil. “I think you’ll do well enough.” He came a little nearer. The front of his robe pulled open, exposing a chest mapped with tattoos. Two snakes writhed around one another in strange intimacy, conjoined at the mouths. They sprouted angular dragonfly wings along their backs, each of which was marked with a name-rune. In the half-light, they were hard to make out. Despite his wolfish grin, Drifting Lilac found she wanted to read them, had to read them, as if it might help her understand what this stranger wanted.

“You should return to bed, sir,” she said, drawing her knees up under her as he edged closer. Inkpots ran to the wall, fur stuck out at odd angles, light shimmering in her green eyes.

“How many young flowers do they leave up here on this shit heap?” the man said. He was close enough now that she had the scent of him. Hot, forceful. An iron stink like blood. She pressed her back to the prayer stone, and he laughed at her. It made her feel small, like a child scolded without understanding what it had done. He was close enough now to nearly touch her. “I think it’s a rotting shame. Did you know in the south, the priestesses warm the beds of their pilgrims? Even the young, beautiful ones, like you. Would you like to warm my bed tonight, little priestess? You look awful cold. We could make some heat together.”

Drifting Lilac opened her mouth to scream, but lightning flashed, brightening the room. Over the ronijar’s shoulder, she caught sight of a huge figure stood in the door, so large he filled it. The scream caught in her throat. Seeing her reaction, the man straightened and turned. He let out a startled gasp, his hand going to his belt, grabbing for a sword that was not there.

The figure in the door came forward. He was taller than any man Drifting Lilac had ever seen, wearing a great black cloak pinned at his throat with an iron ring. Beside him, the ronijar looked like no more than an adolescent boy. He was heavy with muscle, as if he had labored long years carrying stones. His features were alien to her, and webbed with old scars. He had suspicious gray eyes set apart by a broad, flat nose, which was crooked where it had healed poorly from a bad break. His mane of coarse black hair was tied back with a headband that lay over his temples, and though a beard masked his blunt jaw, it could not hide his smoldering disgust at the sight of the indecent ronijar standing over her. He seemed like a savage revenant from distant lands, wandering in out of the storm. The outlander grunted something, but Drifting Lilac did not know his barbarous words.

“Peace, Ulrem,” said a smaller man, stepping around the giant. He was a Hinoni, like her. He pushed his broad-brimmed hat back, revealing a face much like her own, though his eyes were a cool jade. The Hinoni man wore a deep blue senshaama robe, formally wrapped and pinned at the breast, though it was ragged and patched with long wear. Like his huge companion, the Hinoni wore a heavy rain cape, and a curved sword at his waist. His almond eyes took in the room in a single sweep. Both men were soaked to the core, though neither shivered with the chill.

“Who are you dogs?” the ronijar snarled, stepping away from Drifting Lilac. She scrambled to her feet and made for the far wall, huddling beside Inkpots.

“Penitents seeking a prayer,” said the Hinoni. He spoke gracefully, with a prince’s voice.

“Get out, you flea bitten strays!” the ronijar said. “We’re busy here.”

There was a soft click as the Hinoni’s sword slipped out of its sheath. Just a few inches of steel, but the threat changed the ronijar’s bearing in an instant.

“Tell your master that Kinro-zhi has returned with the winter’s rain,” the Hinoni man said. “Tell him I have come to keep my promise.”

The ronijar glared at him, trying to menace the small swordsman. The big outlander crossed his huge arms, impatience etched on his weathered face. Drifting Lilac caught sight of a ring glittering on his finger, a big golden thing that seemed to shine in the dark, almost like Inkpot’s eyes catching moonlight.

Courage suddenly breaking, the ronijar cut a short, impolite bow. “As you wish,” he said. Ducking, as diminutive now as a serving girl, the man rushed past the two figures and disappeared into the hall.

Kinro-zhi watched him go, and then shared a look with the big man. They said something in that crude tongue, and the big man rolled his shoulders. The Hinoni came forward slowly, one hand held out peaceably, palm up. He knelt before the prayer stone and bowed his head low. He held that position for a long time. Inkpots strolled over and rubbed against him, white tail curling up around the man’s arm, though he didn’t seem to notice.

Drifting Lilac realized that he was waiting for her. Slowly, much more uncertain than she had been before the uncouth ronijar intruded on her peace, she took a few steps forward, her hands folded before her. She shivered, though not from the chill. It was deeper, the echoes of fear in her breast. The silk robes she wore, bearing the careful artistry of her grandmothers’ stitching to show hummingbirds at play, seemed far too thin.

“Have you come for a prayer?” she asked in formal O-Hinoni.

The man, Kinro-zhi, rose from his genuflection. He smiled at her with an open, unthreatening regard. “I have, Holy Mother. Would you write for me?” His fingers produced a small chit of gold, though from where he had pulled it, she did not know. “It is a simple prayer, but I would burn it tonight.”

“Of course,” Drifting Lilac said. She lifted the skirts of her robe enough to kneel again before the prayer stone. She took in a steadying, calming breath of incense, and lifted her writing board. The round pot of ink shook only a little.

“Thank the Golden One for a safe return,” Kinro-zhi said. “And ask the winds to guide my hand.”

A simple, humble prayer. Her own father might have asked the priest at the ankan shrine for no different. Yet, he spoke so clearly, with the voice of an educated man. It was not her place to question a prayer, though. Dutifully, she wrote as he requested, bending herself to the task, forming each character with as much beauty as she could. She owed this man as much, Drifting Lilac knew in her heart, but her hands were shaky, and the product was less than she had hoped for. Less than he deserved.

Regretfully, she handed the narrow strip of paper to him and fetched a taper from one of the candles on the prayer stone. She waited for him to place it in the copper bowl, but when he didn’t, Drifting Lilac stole a look at him and found Kinro-zhi smiling down at the prayer.

“Beautiful,” he remarked, placing it carefully in the bowl. The young priestess laid the taper alongside it, and the paper caught in a puff of smoke. She watched it fade to ash, as all things do, mingling with the remains of her own prayer.