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advisor. The Magister will be sure to attend his
remembrance ceremony.”
    “Thank you. It’s been a difficult day. This
box, who sent it?”
    “Salvor Thelios, over a season ago. The
troubles in Yaren Fel had it gathering dust in a warehouse for
several weeks, but now that the guilds have renegotiated their
power structure, trade is resuming.”
    “The expedition got out of there before the
volcano erupted, then.”
    “Barely. The halt on trans-oceanic trade
didn’t help matters in Yaren Fel, either. I hear Eirant lost most
every harbor on its eastern shores to some massive quake ripples.
Luckily, the ripples at Yaren Fel were far smaller.”
    Godric frowned. “I hope the ripples haven’t
affected the expedition.”
    Imorlar gave him a wry smile. “Aside from
interrupting their mail, you mean. I’d hoped to receive news from
Salience by now as well.” He looked to Ghant. “Give us a moment,
please.”
    Ghant nodded and ushered out the delivery men,
closing the door behind them.
    Godric waited. Imorlar stepped closer. “You
are aware that the Magister sent members from both factions in the
Dictat on the expedition to Shanal in order to stymie what he
perceived as moves against him.”
    “I recall. I understand that his action has
succeeded in breaking the collusion between the remaining
dissenters here in the palace, but no one has yet figured out their
ultimate goal, and they’ve been clever enough to leave no evidence
to accuse them with.”
    “Indeed.” Imorlar shifted to rest a lean thigh
against the edge of Godric’s desk. He unfolded the letter and
handed it over.
    Salvor’s brief message to Imorlar, penned in
Ha’Lakkon, painted a grumpy picture of a man forced to spend time
with a fool who happened to be Prince Geret. Godric handed it back.
“May I presume that young Salvor’s commentary on our beloved prince
was more frustration than arrogance?”
    “I took it as such. What I came to discuss
with you was the comment he made about your newest Archivist.
Salvor’s nearly incapable of giving compliments. Considering that
the situation out there may get vehemently political, or may have
suffered a setback from destructive waves, I wanted your opinion on
Sanych’s mental fortitude.”
    Godric sucked in part of his lower lip,
gnawing on it. “She’s eager to please, but she also has a solid
core of idealism, and it rides close to the surface. As long as
she’s in Salvor’s good company, I have no worries for her ability
to withstand and properly advise the prince. Geret, though, I don’t
know much about. If he’s as politically clumsy as Salvor intimates,
there could be trouble with the dissenting faction. Either way,
there’s nothing we can do about it until we receive further
news.”
    “A practical assessment. If you receive any
correspondence from Sanych, or anyone in the expedition, let me
know, please. I’ll do the same.”
    “I will.”
    Imorlar stood from the desk, preparing to
leave. “You know, that’s a rather large box. And all the way from
Ha’Hril.”
    Godric smiled. “I’ll open it, then. I’m
curious as well.”
    He sent for an acolyte to fetch him a pry bar.
Once he had it in hand, Godric levered up the wooden lid. It
squeaked along the square nails until they popped free, releasing a
small cloud of pale dirt. Indeed, the box was filled with it. On
top lay a small square of oiled leather and what appeared to be a
dried white root with little brown hairs sprouting from
it.
    Imorlar raised an eyebrow. “Salvor sent
her…dirt.”
    “A lot of dirt,” Godric agreed, reaching for
the oiled square. Unfolding it, he found a short note, detailing
instructions for the dirt and the root. Reading them, his eyebrows
shot up.
    “What is it?”
    Godric took a moment to digest the note’s
contents before replying. “That volcano, Heren Garil Sa. It nearly
blew Ha’Hril off the map.”
    “Yes, it did.”
    “Destroyed the entire toothspice trade. Every
last plant, buried