Fregero Val Potsi's wings had thinned again in the night. He held one out against the morning light and saw the swamp through it, brown scales gone pale as old paper. A year ago the tyrant took a golden disc from his family, no bigger than a palm, wings carved around its edge. A year ago his kin scattered into the reeds and did not come back. Every day the disc stayed gone, the color drained further from what the disc had once fed. Soon he would not be able to fly at all. He crouched at the water's edge and drank from his cupped hand. He had followed rumors for months. A trader said the tyrant sold the relic to a priest. A boatman said a priest drowned in a swamp east of here. That was all Fregero had. He did not know where the disc was hidden. He only knew he had to find it before his wings finished fading. "You've been staring at that water an hour," a voice said behind him. He turned. A red-haired dwarf stood on the bank, robe muddy to the knees, staff leaning forward in her grip like a dog on a leash. Her mouth was mostly gum. She looked at his wings without surprise. "Phistinia Martothen," she said. "The stick wants that way." She pointed the staff across the shallow water. It tugged her wrist when she did. "It's wanted that way for six years. You're going the same direction." "I'm looking for something a priest took," Fregero said. "A gold disc." Phistinia thought about this. "There's a temple in the swamp. My order stopped believing in it. The staff didn't." She shrugged. "Priests hide things in temples. Come or don't." They waded together for two days. A striped indohyus followed them a while and left. A fat purple bird-thing watched from a branch and did not move as they passed. On the third morning the trees opened and the temple stood in front of them, stone tiers green with moss, vines hanging from the doorway. Phistinia's staff pulled so hard she stumbled forward into the mud. She laughed once, short, and did not get up right away. Inside, the air was cold. Fregero found the disc in the second chamber, resting in the open palm of a broken statue, exactly where someone had wanted it forgotten. He lifted it. The wings on its rim were the same shape as his own. He waited to feel his color return. Nothing came. The metal was cold and stayed cold. Around the disc's edge, small holes had been drilled where stones should sit. Five holes. All empty. Phistinia leaned in and looked. "It's not finished," she said. "Someone took it apart." Fregero closed his hand around the disc. His wings were still pale.