A tent waited pitched upon the sacred foundations of the First Temple. On all sides temple guards stood at attention. Some were sent by the Ecclesiastics of Helyg Derwyddon, others were volunteers there of their own volition. Per Turin's instructions all of the guards were either women or eunuchs. Their helms and mail made them seem almost as steel statues. Nothing stirred them to move, not even the occasional cry of pain from within the tent.
Turin had tried to meditate, but he could not. For all his years of discipline he could not contain his impatience for the birth of the second prophet. Unable to sit still he paced back and forth across the paving stones just in front of the tent.
At last the cry of a babe rang out through the night. Turin stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the tent flap in anticipation. A few moments passed, but it felt like a lifetime. At last a midwife, clad in white, her wrists soaked in blood emerged from the tent and rolled back its flaps. There lay Illyria, propped up on a birthing couch draped in blankets. Sweat soaked her hair and brow in spite of the cool night air, and her lips were bent in the gentlest smile. In her arms lay the child, swaddled in cloth and fast asleep.
Turin approached tentatively, then knelt down and put his ear near Illyria's lips, so she could whisper to him the infant's name.
