The timeworn pebbles, each carved with a holy symbol, tumbled onto a round silver plate. The wizened priestess peered at the stones, studying the pattern they made as they fell. “What do you see in the temple’s future, Sister Sendara?” Anton asked softly. The two were alone in a small candlelit antechamber off the temple’s main hall. “A moment, Anton,” Sendara scolded. “Fate cannot be rushed.” Anton smiled at this gentle rebuke. Of all the clerics left in Phlan’s temple of Tyr, only Sendara was older than he was, and only she spoke to him in such a familiar manner. If sometimes she was not as respectful to the patriarch as custom dictated, Anton took no offense. After all, Sendara had been a full cleric of the faith when he could do little more than coo and slumber in his mother’s arms. “These are ill-tidings,” she said finally in a cracked voice. “What is it?” Anton glowered at the stones scattered across the silver platter. They meant nothing to his untrained eyes.
