IN A SMALL, isolated garden within the Dragonway temple’s compound stood a white marble fountain depicting a dragon caught gazing to the sky about to take flight. Despite the glaze of ice that coated the smooth stone, water bubbled out of its mouth into the pool at its feet.

Tiwaz sat on a bench beneath the delicate branches of an ornamental tree, the sun glittering off the coating of ice. Despite the clear sky and brilliant sun, the bitter cold refused to lift, keeping the ice sheath coating each branch and twig from melting.

Bura’an joined the young gladiator, sitting beside her at a respectful, nonintrusive, but still intimate distance. He regarded the flowing water for a time before he broke the silence. “It warms my heart that you have joined your pack in coming here, Daughter. But I am surprised you do not join Thrahx Vaug for lessons in literacy.”

“What good would it do me?” she responded tonelessly. “Do you think I should write my opponents to death in the arena? Perhaps read them into a coma. That would be more effective. Those scrolls Doom practices reading aloud are painful to listen to.”

The high priest smiled, shaking his head. “It is not all so bad. Besides, it might help you someday.” She looked at him sidelong, expression skeptical. “Would you trust someone else to read or write for you if your friends were not there?”

“Gareth,” she stated pointedly, “is not my friend. I don’t know what he is to me. But I do not know him well enough to trust him and call him friend. The wolflen do not read nor write save for Shaman and Pack Leader. They do well enough without it.”

“Give Bard Tavarius a chance to earn your trust, Daughter,” the high priest requested, keeping his tone mild. “You might be pleasantly surprised to discover that you are not as alone with your challenges as you believe yourself to be. I am sure he would be happy to tutor you himself in the art of reading and writing.”

“I can’t.” Barely audible, she whispered, “Writing confuses me. I see things twisted, backwards, upside down…or all three ways!” She sighed, looking away. “I am too stupid to read.”

“On the contrary,” Bura’an countered gently. “What you describe happens to many people, of many races. Often, it is those most intelligent who suffer this. Tavarius is well known to keep the confidence of all those who request it. He would not allow anyone to know how…challenging it is for you.” Noting the reluctance on her expression, he said, “At least, keep your options open.”

She relaxed ever so slightly. “I will do that,” she relented. “Keep my options open.” She looked down at the dragon coin in her palm, her leather glove hiding it from the priest. “Have you ever spoken to your gods, Father Bura’an?”

“Of course,” he replied. “I came to the Dragonway as a young boy and had prayed to them every day. Sometimes, I believed I heard them whispering back. Not everyone did.” He tilted his head when she shook her head sharply. “You mean, as though they were in the room with me?” He chuckled. “I think everyone does now and then. I do when I am thinking aloud.”

“Do they ever answer you?” she wondered.

Bura’an stared at her for several moments. “You do not seem the sort to ask frivolous questions, Daughter,” he said slowly. He paled when she held out her hand, the coin gleaming in her palm. He brushed his fingers across it, closing his eyes. “Where did you find this, child?”

“In my hand,” she replied. He frowned at her with the disappointment of a father for a child’s flippant answer. “When Doom and I were traveling north, I got very sick. A wound I had turned bad because I neglected myself. Doom had to leave me to find herbs to help break my fever and stop the infection. While he was gone, I dreamed that a man that sounded like a dragon I met in Dragons Gate came to watch over me.” Bura’an’s eyes grew wider as she spoke. “When I was talking to the dragon in man form, he said he was a god, but I thought he was just being arrogant. Dragons are like that…I think. That’s what I heard, anyway. I’d found a red crystal when he left in Dragons Gate, but this was in my hand when I woke up from my fever.”

She confessed with a mild sense of guilt, “I tried to throw the medallion you gave me into the waterfall. But I found it in my room again and Sulnar spoke to me. I…think. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t fevered that often, but—”

“Child,” he interrupted, a tenor of urgency in his voice as he took her hand in both of his. “This is not a normal medallion. But… You could not know.” He took out his own medallion, a little larger than the one she wore. He pointed out the elegant curls that decorated the left and right edges of the disk. “The coins and medallions are symbols of their temples of origin, made by the hand of its high priest. Each temple has its own design. If you look at Bard Tavarius’ medallion, you will see his looks different from mine, because he became a follower at a different temple. But this one.” He touched the edges. “It has none.”

She drew out her medallion, comparing the two. “Maybe the smith who created it forgot to put it on?” she hypothesized. “Doom has two that are like this,” she stated, emphasizing the coin in her hand, “but the dragon eyes are different. One is diamond, one is emerald.”

He shook his head. “You do not understand. Even the central temple had a design that identified it. You see, when a high priest is named, they do not only inherit the memories of all those who came before them, but the imprint to make these. The process is…well. It is complicated, but while a goldsmith might be able to mimic the appearances of the temple emblems, they cannot recreate their essences. Any who accept a temple medallion will know if there is another temple medallion near because they resonate when they are displayed in close proximity to each other, so each bearer knows the other is a true member.”

“That is all they are for then?” she wondered, meeting his eyes without her usual hostility. “If a goldsmith can make something that looks like them, why would you need to make them at all?”

He smiled. “No, they are for much more.” He looked to the statue in the fountain a moment. “Before the cataclysm that broke the connections between the temples, each devotee chose a single god to dedicate themselves to. Unless the god made it known they were claiming someone for their own, of course. After the cataclysm, and then the war with the high elves that broke the world, it became…” He frowned, searching for the words so she could comprehend. “The reason any temple is considered holy ground is they have been blessed by the god they serve. You can pray anywhere, but it is most strong within their domain. It is the difference between speaking to someone standing next to you versus speaking to someone across a field. The fractures between the lands make prayer away from holy grounds or items like trying to speak to someone on the other side of the mountain.”

She looked back to the medallion and coin. “This allows you to speak to the gods as if you were in the temple, no matter what,” she stated more than asked. She rubbed her thumb across the ruby-eyed dragon lightly. “What does it mean if there are no markings besides the dragons?”

“Those without any marking came from the hand of the god they represent.” He indicated the coin. “Veridian the Ruby-Eyed himself placed that in your hand. That is the only way you could have received it.” He added in a quiet voice, “Keth and Sulnar occasionally give their coins to those they consider special. I have never heard of Veridian doing so before you.”

Tiwaz looked from Bura’an to the coin. “Oh.”