As the sun cleared the horizon, she bowed to it, then began her morning exercises. Her years of training as a monk had made her an expert in a variety of combat arts. Primarily unarmed, but she was not unacquainted with a bow or a knife. While she recognized them as useful tools, and diligently studied until she had mastered their uses, she preferred unarmed forms. Knives and arrows, after all, could do serious harm even without the intention to do so. As the saying went, “a falling knife has no handle.” Arms and legs, however, feet and fists, could be used to help even more easily than they could be used to hurt.

So, in the early morning, Tamara’s slender body moved from one form to another. Her flowing robes easily accommodated her movements. Her long hair had been gathered back and tied with a band. It delicately brushed her shoulders as her exercises continued. As she did each morning, she battled a succession of shadow warriors, turning their attacks back on themselves, using their force and hatred to destroy them.

The simple flowing motion rooted her in the world. Life itself was energy. She recognized it, moved with it. Just as she would use another’s energy against them, so she used the world’s energy to help her. This was, after all, her role. By doing what she did, she established order in what would otherwise be a chaotic world, fostering peace where there would otherwise be an ocean of misery.

A young novitiate paused at the head of the stairs, then dropped to her knees. She bowed her head, not looking up, unmoving, while Tamara’s exercises continued. Tamara had noticed her immediately, more because she had disrupted her routine than because of any inherent interest the girl may have possessed. She hastened to complete her exercises—an action that left her slightly unsettled.

“Yes, sister, of what assistance may I be?”

The novitiate kept her eyes downcast. “Master Fassir, he has summoned you.”

“Where?”

“The Pool of Visions.”

A thrill ran through Tamara. Master Fassir opened the pool chamber on an irregular schedule. He and his advisers regularly consulted charts of the heavens, drawing lines between planets and stars. They measured the angles and performed complex calculations, which they then compared to horoscopes and prophecies. Most often Fassir walked the chamber’s precincts alone, but on rare occasions other monks would be summoned to hear a pronouncement of grave import.

“Thank you, sister.” Tamara bowed to her, then flew down the stairs and to the cell she shared with another monk. From a chest in the corner she drew a clean white robe. She fitted a square cap on her head, then draped a gauzy veil over her head and shoulders. Keeping her eyes modestly downcast and steps hobbled by humility, she made all allowable haste to the chamber.

Several other monks, all female and similarly attired, knelt at the long sides of a rectangular granite basin. Sunlight streamed into the room from an open eastern door, but the pool’s rippling water reflected none of the light on the opposite wall. At one short end sat Master Fassir, hooded in a white robe, drawing slowly on a pipe. He exhaled fragrant smoke slowly, so it drifted upward like a curtain that further hid his face.

Tamara knelt opposite him and stared down into the shallow pool. She could see nothing but golden tile work at the bottom. She had not expected to see anything, for the pool shared its wisdom with those far older and wiser than she—yet she dared hope that, someday, she would be in Fassir’s place.

She felt Fassir’s gaze upon her. She looked up into her mentor’s face. He had always been old in her sight, but aside from the deepening of lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, he had not changed much. True, time had leached his hair and beard of all color, but his eyes retained their kindness. He smiled as he was wont to do, then glanced down into the pool and exhaled more smoke.

“There comes a man, Tamara. I do not see him clearly—he is not yet close enough. There is a journey, sea and sand to be crossed.”

“His journey, Master, or mine?”

The old man smiled. “Yes and yes. Two journeys become one. This man . . .”

“Is he a knight?”

Fassir’s eyes tightened. “A warrior. A man of destiny. As with your journeys, so shall your destinies merge.”

Tamara frowned. My destiny is to be here. Am I to seek this man and bring him among us? “What destiny, Master?”

Fassir shook his head, his brow furrowing. “Not what, but which, Tamara. Often there is so little to be seen, but here there is so much, one does not know what to ignore.”

Tamara studied him. “Is that all, Master?”

Fassir set the pipe down and rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I fear it is. Things shift faster than expected.” He clapped his hands. “Off with you all, to your duties. All save you, Tamara.”

The other monks rose and noiselessly exited the dimly lit chamber. Fassir stood and wordlessly led Tamara out through the eastern door. They came out onto a veranda overlooking the monastery’s courtyard and gate beyond. The other monks moved about, carefree, attending to their duties.

“You will walk with me, Tamara.”

She took up her position two steps behind him and one to the left, as befit her position and his, but he beckoned her forward. “You know well how people come to join us, don’t you, Tamara?”

“Of course, Master. Some are born here. Some we seek out as we travel in the world. Some, the most innocent, are able to wander through the wards which keep us hidden. We bring them here and teach them, keeping them safe.” She cocked her head slightly. “Is that it, Master? Do you wish me to seek out this man from your vision and bring him hence?”

The older man laughed. “No. Such a man as I saw would not take well to our life. As much as we seek order, he is chaos incarnate. Or, barring that, one who establishes a different kind of order. I doubt you could bring him here, and I am certain he could never find his way on his own.”

“I would do all I could, Master.”

“This I do not doubt, Tamara. But I did not begin this line of inquiry to elicit a pledge of fidelity to any task I might give you.”

“Then why?”

Fassir opened his arms to take in the whole of the monastery. “Why is it that you, of all the monks here, have never inquired about how you came to be here? We all do it. I was but twelve when I did. Others have discussed this with you, of this I am certain. But why have you never asked?”

Tamara frowned. “I have never felt the need to know, Master. I have always felt I was meant to be here. I supposed I must have come from elsewhere, but it did not matter to me. Should it have? Should I have asked?”

“That it is your sense that you belong here speaks great volumes on the propriety of the actions which brought you here.”

She looked at him curiously. “You make it sound as if I was stolen from my parents.”

Fassir stopped. “You know our purpose here, the purpose of our sister monastery in Hyrkania.”

“To maintain order in the world so it does not fall completely to chaos.”

“Which we do admirably. And you know that there are times when we send some of our number into the world beyond the wards to further this mission.” He sighed, clasping his hands at the small of his back. “I know some of the other monks suggest you are my favorite. It’s true, of course, because you are the most dedicated and intelligent of my students. But there is more and here is the razored edge I must walk. Were I to reveal all to you, I could trigger a disaster. And yet, to reveal nothing could guarantee disaster. So, I shall tell you as much as I think you need to know. I ask that you trust me, and trust even more in your training and your heart. Between the two, you will find the means and wherewithal to continue your mission.”

Tamara shivered. “You are scaring me, Master.”

Fassir laughed easily. “It’s not a faery tale to frighten children, Tamara. Out there in the world, chaos warps many minds. Men see patterns where none exist. They seek power which is illusory, and their frustration causes them to do things which would curdle a normal man’s soul. Just as we might see the first buds on a branch as an augury of spring’s arrival, so another man might see a redheaded child as the herald of a dynasty, or a crooked scar twisting flesh as some secret sign of an ancient god’s favor. Delusions, all, certainly; but delusions that make men act in ways that do incalculable damage to the world.”

He sat the edge of a low wall and bid her to settle beside him. “So you were born into a madman’s delusions. You were then and are now quite innocent of any connection with him, but my master had a vision, much as I did today. He sent me forth to find you. The man who sought you had sent agents far and wide. Some found you and stole you from your parents. Before they could place you in their master’s hands, I intervened. I brought you here.”

She blinked. “And of my parents?”

“I do not know.”

“Did you not seek them out? Did you not tell them I lived?”

Fassir glanced down at his empty hands. “For your sake, it was believed best that they and any who knew you believed you had perished. Yes, I am certain that if your parents lived, this meant great anguish to them—but how much greater the anguish to know that you had become a pawn in the schemes of a madman? And if it were known that you lived, they and any kinsmen you had known could be used as a weapon against you. Here, in the monastery, here with training, we could protect you and prepare you to protect yourself.”

Cold trickled down her spine. Part of her knew she should feel anger and outrage, but years of training held an emotional reaction at bay. She had been, and felt as if she always had been, part of this world. If she were to hold that belief as valid, then everything leading up to it likewise became valid. Her place here, her purpose, was to prevent whatever havoc the madman intended.

“This man you saw in your vision . . . Is he the madman who is searching for me?”

“No, little Tamara, he is not. He has been touched by the madman, of that I know.” Fassir reached out and took her hand. “And I do not see how this will end. What I do know is that your safety is the safety of countless people.”

She smiled. “And this is why you have trained me to defend myself and to defend others.”

He patted her hand, then let it drop as he stood. Fassir looked out at the courtyard. “Decisions will have to be made, Tamara. Part of me wishes to send you this very moment to Hyrkania. I do feel this is a journey you shall make soon. You must promise me that when I send you forth, you will make it.”

“Of course, Master.” Tamara nodded solemnly. “I shall even guide this warrior there if that is your desire.”

“I fear it is not my desire which will determine the direction of his footsteps, Tamara. It would be fascinating to see which wins out: his will or yours.” The older man shook his head. “You will find him a most challenging companion, my dear.”

Tamara nodded, then looked up. “And of the madman, Master?”

Fassir shook his head. “As the wards hide you from him, so they obscure him from me. Were he dead, I would know. He is not, so danger still lurks.”

“And the paths of my warrior and this madman, they will cross?”

Fassir hesitated for a moment, then looked at her with joy blossoming on his face. With a finger he traced invisible sigils in the air. “You are brilliant, child.”

“Yes, Master?”

“Yes. I can see your warrior’s path clearly, save in two places. One, in the past, where the madman’s path overlays it, hiding it.”

“And the other . . . the future?”

Fassir nodded. “I see nothing beyond where they might intersect.”

Tamara stood. “You must see something.”

“I wish I did, Tamara.” The old man, his eyes glistening, reached up and stroked her hair. “I wish I did.”