"Maker, hear me."
A soft, lilting brogue, rising gently from the central mezzanine of Kirkwall's chantry, caused Grand Cleric Elthina to pause her steps and turn. She let her eyes move sadly toward the kneeling boy she had raised as her own; the boy who was now a man, she reminded herself with a soft shake of her head. Sebastian seemed to spend so many hours on his knees these days that she wondered how he was able to keep up with the lifestyle Cortland Hawke's companionship demanded of him. When would the lad see that his service to the Maker shone through in his every action, his every word? Elthina knew as well as anyone that a holy duty can take many forms and, for someone such as the Vael Prince, that duty could be performed as admirably on his feet as on his knees.
But he would not hear her.
He had ever been a stubborn child. At the whim of the winds of change, but ready to fling himself body and soul in whichever direction they took him. She prayed each day that the winds tearin