Gazing up at it, Tamír felt a thrill of anticipation. “Isn’t there some sort of ceremony?” Nikides asked as the other Companions and wizards gathered by the spring. Wythnir was clinging to Arkoniel’s hand again, as if he feared he’d be left behind. Ralinus smiled. “No, my lord. There is no need, as you will see if you choose to descend.” A linkboy hoisted his lantern pole and led the way from the square up to a well-worn path that continued into the deeper darkness of the narrow cleft beyond. The way grew steeper almost at once, and the path soon dwindled to a faint track winding up between boulders. Ahead of them, the lantern bobbed and swayed, making shadows dance in crazy patterns. The way was surprisingly even underfoot, and slick in places, worn by the feet of thousands of pilgrims over the centuries. The cliffs closed in around them, and the way ended in a small cul-de-sac where the shrine lay. A low stone well stood beside a small open-fronted shack, just as Arkoniel had described.
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