The shadow on Elder Sterling’s brass sundial touched the tenth minute before noon.
A gust of icy wind whipped through the canyon, carrying the smell of snow and frozen pine needles. Across the gorge, hundreds of disciples stood on the sheer cliff edges, their colorful cloaks fluttering against the gray sky.
Kaelen Vance sat in his wicker sedan chair, finishing his lukewarm tea.
Barnaby Holt hurried over, holding a small copper flask with his single hand.
“Drink this, boy,” Barnaby muttered, his whiskers quivering with nervousness. “It is warm red-date and ginseng broth. If you must walk into a slaughterhouse, do not do it on an empty stomach.”
Kaelen took a small sip and made a face.
“Elder,” Kaelen sighed. “You boiled this three minutes too long. The red dates taste like stewed oak bark.”
“You’re facing thirty-six killing blades and you complain about date skins!” Barnaby barked, waving his wooden ladle. “Go! Before Sterling dies of a stroke!”
