IF THIS STORY IS to be something resembling my book of deeds, we must begin at the beginning. At the heart of who I truly am. To do this, you must remember that before I was anything else, I was one of the miners of Minos

Contrary to popular belief, not all Delvers are of the Shendi, my clan was not some poor batch of miners, trawling the shallow underground tunnels for mana crystals, we were titled delvers the elite of the elite.

Our arrival in most towns was more of an event than the summer games and the naming rolled together. Our guild had over three dozen delvers: miners and grunts, apprentices and drillers as well as our environmental coordinator: My family

My father was a better Delver and driller than any you have ever seen. My mother had a natural gift for music. They were both beautiful with blond hair and easy laughter. They were Shendi down to their bones, and that, really, is all that needs to be said.

Save perhaps that my father was a noble before he was a Delver. He had told me that my mother lured him away from a “miserable hell” with her zest for life and her love for adventure.

My parents were never really married, by which I mean they never bothered making their relationship official with any church. I’m not embarrassed by the fact. They considered themselves married and didn’t see much point in announcing it to any government or God. I respect that. In truth, they seemed more content and faithful than many officially married couples I have seen since

We were on permanent retainer to the city of Allele, and the writ of the city opened many doors that would ordinarily be closed to the Shendi Delvers. In return, we wore the town colors, green and grey, and added the reputation of the town wherever we went. Once a year we spent two span at the city, clearing the mines of any dangerous creatures and getting more crystals than any novice miner had ever seen in one place.

It was a happy childhood, growing up in the center of my family. My father would read to me from the holy books during the long wagon rides between towns. Reciting mostly from memory, his voice would roll down the road for a quarter mile. I remember reading along, coming in on the secondary parts. My father would encourage me to try particularly good sections myself, and I learned to love the feel of good words.

My mother and I would make up songs together. Other times my parents would act out romantic dialogues. They seemed like games at the time. Little did I know how cunningly I was being taught.

I was a curious child: quick with questions and eager to learn. With delvers and miners as my teachers, it is little wonder that I never grew to dread lessons as most children do.

And when they came for him, I did as he asked. I did not cry. Not when I was forced to stand in front of the crowd. Not when the jurors tried him. Not when the wardens hanged him. Mother hit me for that. My brother Duran was supposed to be the stoic one. He was the elder, I the younger. I was supposed to cry. Instead, Duran bawled like a girl when little Cynthia tucked a rose into father’s left pocket and ran back to her own father’s side. My sister Phoebe murmured a lament beside me. I just watched and thought it a shame that he died dancing but without his dancing shoes.