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Something far to the southeast.”
    “Disrupted currents of the earth? I’ve heard you yammer too much over the years not to learn a little—disrupting the flow would take a massive event, right? Another volcano? I hate those.” Kiril fingered an ugly burn scar on the back of her left hand as she spoke.
    “No.” Thormud shook his head. “For all their fury, volcanoes are natural disturbances, and as such would only modify telluric currents, adding their voice to the flow of the earth. I’m experiencing outright interruption. Only something inherently unnatural, large, and powerful could disrupt my work.”
    Kiril grunted.
    The dwarf gazed into the headpiece of his selenite rod, his mouth muttering in time to some internal debate. The elf studied her employer, reading signs she recognized. A trip was in the offing, no doubt about it.
    Thormud loved sight-seeing, especially when strange rock formations, lost canyons, earthquakes, and volcanoes were part of the expedition. The dwarf didn’t care for cities, or any of the artificial stonework or engineering of which his kin were so fond.
    Neither did Kiril. Too damned many people.
    The elf swordswoman glanced away, out over the wide lands visible from their lonely mesa top. Mulhorand was an empty land, especially east of the southern range of the Dragonsword Mountains. Kiril knew the dwarf had selected his stronghold, carved into the heart of a mesa, precisely for its isolation. Disruptions were few, and visitors unlikely. Thormud was able to devote all his time to his “delving meditations.” On occasion, his findings spurred a trip to confirm some theory the geomancer had cooked up. Kiril rarely appreciated the reason behind the trip, but she had to admit she enjoyed resting her eyes on new horizons every so often.
    Kiril asked, “When do we leave?”
     

     
    The lonely mesa was much tunneled and hollowed from Thormud’s long years of occupancy—the dwarf was a master geomancer. Libraries, halls, storerooms, galleries, and even balconies lay within the otherwise natural tower. Thormud hadn’t named his home, referring to it simply as “the mesa,” but soon after arriving, Kiril started calling the place “the Finger Defiant.” In his philosophical way, Thormud picked up the name and used it himself.
    Ensconced within her own personal suite in the Finger Defiant, Kiril pondered whether she should actually go to the trouble of making up a pack. It wasn’t like her to err on the side of preparation. However, if they were headed toward Durpar, as Thormud hinted, not north or west across the Alamber Sea as in the past, they might be away long enough to require more than a single change of wardrobe.
    She selected three outfits, all of which would fit comfortably over her mail of fine chain links. And an extra pair of gloves, of course. Not smart to be abroad without those. She always kept a pair folded into her belt. Midnight black and woven of fine Chessentan silk, her gloves were sometimes all that stood between her and folly.
    Kiril had never been south of the Finger Defiant. She wondered what the wines, beers, meads, and harder varieties of spirit in Durpar might be like. Not that she was ever in danger of doing without. Kiril pulled forth her one constant friend during the last many years and heard the familiar sound of liquid sloshing within its metallic body.
    The flask was forged of bronze, probably by elves outside her lineage. The greenish blue patina of verdigris obfuscated the deranged face carved into one side of the flask—some ancient god of the vine. She could never recall the god’s name—had she ever known it? In all the years she’d carried it, it had never failed to produce its potent drink. A bottomless flask to assuage her infinite shame.
    Kiril took a sip for the road and stowed the container. The vitriolic taste wasn’t enough to deter her preparations, though, and she retrieved a well-handled skull from her shelf.
    The skull was that of