Vencian stayed still, pressed against the rock. The words echoed faintly from the chamber ahead. Foreigners. That means us. He could hear two voices now, one tense and the other cautious.
"The foreigners that came yesterday," the first man said again, "they don't look like a good sign for the festival."
Another voice answered, deeper and strained. "Elder Barath's nephew, what do you think?"
There was a pause before the reply came. "I can't say for certain," the man said. "But that woman came asking too many questions." His voice carried unease. "Maybe she suspects."
The air filled with soft murmurs. A third person asked, "Should we start early?"
"No," the man called Harin said firmly. "The appointed hour begins in two hours and will last twelve. My son and I will perform the ritual this time. My granduncle— the Seer is ill."
Vencian leaned his shoulder against the wall. Four voices, maybe five. The faint scrape of sandals against stone confirmed it.
