BECAUSE IT WAS the month of the Kraljica's Jubilee, the fiftieth anniversary of her rule, the sky was a perfection of deepest azure, decorated tastefully with pillows of white clouds. Because it was the month of the Kraljica's Jubilee, spring deigned to arrive a few weeks early: flowers bloomed in a determined barrage of unadulterated hues from the boxes below nearly every window and in the dozens of great and small public gardens of Nessantico. Because it was the month of the Kraljica's Jubilee, the sun, which until the last week had been a pale apparition easily overcome by the cold winds and snow off the Strettosei, girded its celestial loins and beamed renewed warmth down on the city. Because it was the month of the Kraljica's Jubilee, the days were full of ceremonies and rituals, all of which were occasions for those whose family names were prefaced with a ca' or cu' to attend and be seen, to mingle and gossip and at least pretend that they were universally joyous at this milestone in the current Kraljica's long reign over the Holdings.

    Because it was the month of the Kraljica's Jubilee, nothing would be allowed to mar the perfection.

    Ana cu'Seranta made certain that she wore yellow for her afternoon's appointment at the temple, since the Kraljica had appointed the trumpet flower with its sun-tinted petals as the official flower of the celebration, and one never knew when the Kraljica might deign to take her carriage for a turn around the Avi a'Parete. Besides, yellow enhanced the golden-brown tones of her skin and contrasted nicely with the nightfall black of her hair. When the Kraljica had declared the trumpet flower as her symbol, there'd been an immediate rush on the last harvest's stock of sapnuts, from which the richest golden dyes were derived. Sapnut-dyed cloth had become difficult to find and expensive to buy, but when the invitation had come from the Archigos' own office requesting Ana to view the Archigos' afternoon blessing, Ana's vatarh had managed to find a small bolt at Oldtown Market.

    "No, Vatarh, you don't need to do that."

    "But it's what I want, Ana," he'd said to her. "You're going to see the Archigos, and I want you to look beautiful."

    He'd reached out to her then, and she'd turned quickly away. She kept her face averted until he dropped his hand back to his side. When he returned that afternoon, he'd given the bolt to the upstairs servant Sala, not to Ana. He'd left the house again without another word.

    The hue of the cloth was perhaps more subdued than the optimum, the dye diluted or mixed with less expensive dyes, but the shade was acceptable. Ana had fashioned a robelike tashta from the cloth, the folds drawn tight just under her bosom and then falling free to the sandals on her feet, a Magyarian fashion that had been adopted for the last several years in Nessantico.

    "They're here, Vajica Ana. They've sent an open carriage for you." Tari, one of the two remaining lower-floor servants, was bowing at the door to Ana's dressing room. "It's being driven by a téni," she added. Ana glanced a final time at the mirror, waving off Sala, who was wielding a brush as she arranged Ana's hair and tied it with ribbons.

    "Tell them I'll be down directly," Ana told Tari, who inclined her head once more. They could hear her footsteps on the stairs.

    "An open carriage," Sala said quietly. Sala had been Ana's wet nurse, and had stayed on in the family's employ to become an upperfloor servant. She still seemed to consider Ana her special charge, and had stayed on even as the family's fortunes had declined and the staff that had formerly kept the house was reduced. "The Archigos wants you to be seen. As you should be."

    "Or he wants the wind to tangle my hair," Ana replied, and managed to laugh despite her nervousness. "In any case, it's not the Archigos I'll be meeting, just one of the lesser téni."

    "But they're going to give you your Marque, then," Sala said. "They wouldn't be sending for you if you hadn't passed. You're to be a téni yourself."

    Ana didn't dare to hope that was true; she wasn't going to think it. If anything, she feared that she'd be given worse than a Note. "We've learned how you've abused your gift. We know what you've done with your matarh . . ." If that was why she'd been summoned, she would not be returning here, not as a whole person.

    She shuddered. "Are you cold?" Sala asked. "I can get a shawl . . ."

    "No. I'm fine." It can't be that. Please, Cénzi, don't let it be that. They wouldn't have sent a carriage to take me to the Bastida, certainly. Maybe Sala's right. . . .

    She forced the image away. Ana desired her Marque more than she could admit—because of the work and tears; because of the expense to her family; because of the way the wealthier acolytes had treated her, or the way the téni who staffed the school had done nothing but criticize her. Three years ago, there had been over seventy students accepted in her class; only twenty remained in the final year. Three of the twenty of her class had received their Marques on Cénzidi last week, giving them the rank of e'téni and placing them in the service of the Concénzia Faith. The gossip among the acolytes was that the rest had received their Notes of Severance, though none of them admitted such—Ana feared the way her vatarh would respond if she were given a Note. It would be worse than anything he'd done yet.

    "Don't expect more than a bare few of you to receive the Marque," U'Téni cu'Dosteau, in charge of the acolytes, had told them when they'd started their studies. "Of the seventy here, it will be five at most, and likely fewer. The majority of you will leave early and receive neither Marque nor Note. For those of you who manage to stay, nearly all of you will fail to go any further in your instruction with the Ilmodo."

    Ana had heard nothing from the temple or U'Téni cu'Dosteau. Still, if impossibly Sala was right, Ana could leave this house and forge her own life.

    That was what she wanted most of all. To be away from here.

    To be away from Vatarh. No matter how guilty it might make her feel for abandoning Matarh.

    "Thank you, Sala," Ana said, moving her head away from Sala's brush. "If you brush it any more, you'll pull the hair right from my head. I should be back to take evening supper to Matarh, and I'm still planning on attending the lighting ceremony tonight with her and Vatarh, so make certain her carry-chair is ready and the help hired for the evening."

    Ana walked slowly from her rooms to the main stairs, forcing herself to keep a leisurely pace even though she wanted nothing more than to hurry. Tari was at the front doors with an acolyte in pale green robes, the broken-world crest of the Archigos on the boy's left shoulder. He lowered his head as Ana came down the steps, lifting his eyes up to her only after she stopped before him, but there was no subservience in his eyes, only a penetrating regard. She'd seen that attitude before, many times. His unconscious bearing told her that he was probably the younger son of one of the ca'-and-cu' families placed into the temple's service, too new to Concénzia to be someone she would know by sight. She wondered whether he noticed how few servants there were in their house, or how the hall needed to be repainted and that there were cobwebs in the high corners, wondered whether he knew that she had once been like him. Whatever he might be thinking, it never reached his impassive face.

    "If you'd follow me, Vajica . . ." he said, gesturing to the carriage waiting on the street.

    She followed behind him, into the air that still held a faint kiss of winter in its embrace despite the sun. She shivered and wished, briefly, that she'd brought the shawl Sala had offered with her, though that would have spoiled the effect of the tashta. She could see a few of their neighbors standing outside in their front gardens, pointedly not staring at the carriage adorned with an ornate gold-and-enamel fractured globe, the sign of Cénzi and the Concénzia Faith. She lifted her hand to them; they nodded back, as if happening to notice her and the carriage for the first time. "Why, good morning, Vajica Ana. How is your matarh today? When does Vajiki cu'Seranta return from Prajnoli . . . ?"

    "Matarh is still very weak from the Fever and still can't talk or move on her own, but she is beginning to recover, thank you for asking. We expect Vatarh back later today or this evening," she answered as the acolyte opened the door of the carriage for her and helped her inside, then closed the door and took his place standing on the step outside. The driver was indeed one of the téni, and as he turned to nod to Ana, she glanced at the doubled white slashes on the shoulders of his green, cowled robes. "E'Téni," she said, addressing him by the rank denoted by the slashes, the lowest of the téni positions. "I'm ready."

    He nodded again, turning. She heard him muttering softly—the sibilant chanting that she'd heard many times over the years, his hands gestured—and the wheels of the carriage began to turn in response to the incantation. They moved off onto the street.

    The carriage proceeded at the stately pace of a person walking energetically, with the acolyte ringing a small bell occasionally to warn the pedestrians: out from the Rue Maitré-Albert onto the wide, landscaped expanse of the Avi a'Parete at the Sutegate. Two immense stone heads of past Kralji flanked the city gates there, rotating slowly so that they always faced the sun; below each of the sculptures, in an open room carved from the pillars of the ancient city wall, was an e'téni whose task it was to chant the spell that allowed the heads to turn—quickly exhausted by their task, each would be relieved on the turn of the glass with a new e'téni.

    Ana had always wondered if one day she might be there, chanting as the stone groaned and grumbled overhead on its daily rotation.

    Just past midday, the Avi was crowded: throngs of strolling couples and families near the central, tree-lined divider; buyers gathered around the stalls set up against the government buildings to the north side of the boulevard; crowds moving past the street entertainers on the south side; the occasional carriages, all of those horse-drawn except for hers. Most were moving slowly in the direction of the Archigos' temple, the sextet of domes radiant in the sunlight. Ana sat in the carriage, trying to pretend that she didn't notice the attention she was receiving. The sun glinting from the fractured globe mounted by the door, the lack of horses, the téni chanting on the driver's seat, the tenor clatter of the acolyte's bell—all brought eyes around to their carriage. Some stared— mostly those of the lower classes—but the families in their finery would only wave, as if it were altogether a common occurrence that one of the Concenzia's téni-driven carriages was sent out to convey someone. Ana could see them peering squint-eyed even as they inclined their heads politely, and she could nearly hear the whispered conversations as she passed.

    "Is that one of the ca'Faromi daughters? Or one of the Kraljica's grandnieces? Perhaps Safina ca'Millac, the Archigos' niece; I hear she's a favorite for the A'Kralj's hand. What? Abini cu'Seranta's daughter? Truly? Oh, yes, I've seen her before; wasn't she at the A'Kralj's Winter Ball? Why, her family is just barely cu', I hear. My cousin is on the Gardes a'Liste, and he says that the family might become just ci'Seranta next year. What is she doing being taken to the temple, I wonder?"

    Ana wondered herself, and hope and fear battled inside her.

THERE WAS A KNOCK, then the door slowly opened. "Kraljica?

The painter ci'Recroix is here . . ."

    Marguerite—Kraljica Marguerite I of Nessantico, born of the royal ca'Ludovici line which had produced the Kralji for the last century and a half—looked away from her son and nodded to the hall servant whose head peered from behind the massive doors of her outer parlor. "Set the water clock," she told the servant. "When it empties, bring Vajiki ci'Recroix to me here." He touched clasped hands to forehead, glanced quickly at the Kraljica's son, and vanished, the door clicking shut behind him.

    Her son—the A'Kralj Justi, who might one day, upon her death, become the Kraljiki Justi III—had not moved. Usually the Kraljica's parlor was crowded with supplicants, courtiers, and chevarittai: the ca'-and-cu' of Nessantico. Today, they were alone. Justi was standing before a painting set on an easel near the west wall, bathed in sunlight. The A'Kralj's appearance was regal: a gray-flecked beard carefully trimmed in the current fashion, like a thin band glued to his chin; straight hair combed and oiled and arranged to minimize the alarming thinness at the crown of his skull; a long nose, deep-set dark eyes, and a nearly geometrically squared and jutting jaw, all features he'd inherited from his long-dead father. The resemblance still made Marguerite occasionally startle when she looked at him. His body, molded by days spent hunting in the saddle, was that of an aging warrior—in his youth, the A'Kralj had ridden in the Garde Civile along with the other chevarittai of Nessantico. Despite the long decades of order under the Kraljica, despite her popular title as "Généra a'Pace," the Creator of Peace, there were still the occasional border skirmishes and squabbles, and Justi fancied himself quite the military man. Marguerite, who had seen the reports from the Garde Civile, had an entirely different opinion of her son's prowess.

    Justi's head canted slowly as he regarded the painting.

    "This is truly marvelous, Matarh," he said. His voice belied his appearance; it was reedy and unfortunately high. That was another trait he'd inherited from his long-dead father. "He's a handsome thing to look at," Marguerite's own matarh had said long decades ago when she'd informed her daughter that a marriage had been arranged for her. "Just keep him from talking too much, or he'll completely destroy the illusion . . ." She wondered if other matarhs elsewhere said the same of Justi to their daughters.

    "I'd heard that this ci'Recroix was the master among masters," Justi continued, "but this . . ." He reached out with a thin index finger that stopped just short of the surface of the canvas. "I feel that if I touched the figures I would feel warm flesh and not cold brush strokes. It's easy to see how some say that he uses sorcery to create his paintings." He paced in front of the canvas. "Look, their eyes seem to follow me. I almost expect their heads to move."

    She had to agree with him that the painting was superbly crafted, so lifelike as to be startling. Three strides long, half that high, caught in an exquisite, filigreed gold frame as wide as two hands, the painting depicted a peasant family: a couple with their two daughters and a son. The wife and husband, dressed in stained linen with plain overcoats, sat behind a rough-hewn table laden with a simple dinner, a cloth dusted with bread crumbs covering the planks. An infant daughter sat on the matarh's lap, a son on the vatarh's, while a female toddler played with a puppy underneath the table. Marguerite had seen paintings that appeared realistic from a distance, but the ci'Recroix . . . No matter how closely she approached it, no matter how she leaned in and peered at the surface, nowhere could she see the mark of a brush. The only texture was that of the canvas on which the pigments rested: it was as if the painting were indeed a window into another world. More details within the scene revealed themselves as you came closer and closer, until the varnished surface of the painting itself stopped you. Marguerite knew (because she had looked) that if you examined the wimple on the matarh's head, that you could not only see the texture of the blue cloth and how it had been wrapped and folded, but you could also note where a rent had been repaired and sewn shut with thread of a slightly different hue. You could see how she was just beginning to glance down at her daughter in her lap, her attention beginning to move away from the viewer as her daughter's hand clutched at the hem of her blouse. The way the blouse bunched around the infant's pudgy, fragile fingers, the acne scars dimpling the young matarh's cheeks . . .

    This was a true moment frozen and captured. It was difficult to be in the same room as this painting and not have it dominate your attention, not demand that you stare at it in hopeless fascination and examine its endless wealth of detail, to be drawn into its spell.

Sorcery indeed.

    "Yes, Justi," Marguerite said impatiently. "I can see why you would have recommended ci'Recroix to me. He certainly has talent, even if the rumors about him are disturbing." Neither the painting nor the painter were why she'd asked Justi to come to her. She wanted to tell him what she'd just learned: Hïrzg Jan ca'Vörl of Firenzcia, alone of all the leaders of the countries that made up the Holdings, had declined Marguerite's invitation to her Jubilee Celebration: a decided breach of etiquette, certainly, and knowing ca'Vörl, a deliberate affront. More worrisome, he had placed the Firenzcian army on maneuvers at the same time—not near the eastern borders by Tennshah, but close to the River Clario and Nessantico. She'd already sent a sharply-worded communique to Greta ca'Vörl, her niece and the Hïrzgin of Firenzcia. She knew Greta would pass along her displeasure to her husband. After the incident with the Numetodo in Brezno, two months ago now, this was a disturbing development.

    And there was the other, pressing matter that seemed to be an eternal subject between the two of them. But Justi, as was his wont, seemed uninterested in state affairs and politics. He was already talking before she'd finished.

    "Indeed, Matarh. I can't wait to see what he does. It will be a fine official portrait for your Jubilee—"

    "Justi," Marguerite interrupted sharply, and her son's chiseled, handsome jaw shut with an abrupt snap of strong white teeth—good teeth were another, and luckier, family trait. "There will be another announcement before the end of the Jubilee."

    "What, Matarh?" he asked, but she knew that he had guessed, knew from the way his lips twisted below the crisp black line of his mustache. Her son might be pampered, indolent, and perhaps somewhat dissolute, but he was not stupid.

    "It's been seven years now since Hannah died," she said. "It's time. Time for you to marry again." His features scrunched as if he'd bitten into a sour marshberry, but she ignored the look. She'd seen it too many times. "Marriage is a stronger and more permanent weapon than a sword," she told him.

    A barely-stifled sigh escaped him. "I know, Matarh. You've said that often enough. I thought of having the aphorism engraved on my saber." He sniffed, looking away from her and back to the painting.

    "Then show me you understand," she answered tartly, pressing her own lips together in annoyance at his tone.

    "Do I have a choice?" he asked, but didn't give her a chance to answer. "I take it you have candidates in mind? Someone appropriately connected, no doubt. Someone whose children might actually live."

    Marguerite sucked in her breath. "It wasn't your wife's fault that your children died. Why, little Henri was five and thriving when the Red Pox took him, and poor Margu . . ." Her eyes filled with tears, as they often did when she thought of the granddaughter who'd been her namesake. Hannah might have been of the fertile ca'Mazzak line, whose descendants governed Sesemora, but she'd not had the luck of her matarh, who had nine children survive into adulthood. No, Marguerite was fairly certain that the fault lay in the ca'Ludovici seed. In Justi. Stout and plain herself, Hannah had nonetheless performed her spousal obligations, giving birth to eight children over the decade of her marriage to Justi, but only two of those had survived past the second year: Henri, the eighth and last, whose long and difficult birth Hannah had survived by less than a month; and Marguerite, secondborn, who had been eleven and the Kraljica's favorite when the horse drawing her carriage had bolted unexpectedly and the careening vehicle had struck a tree. Marguerite herself had nursed the terribly injured girl and the Archigos had sent over—surreptitiously, since such a thing was heresy and specifically forbidden by the Divolonté—a téni skilled with healing chants, but still little Margu had not survived the night.

    Marguerite had gone to the stables afterward and killed the horse herself.

    "I know, Matarh," Justi said. "It was Cénzi's will that they died. And what is the Kraljica's will, which is second only to Cénzi's? Who am I to marry, some cowled waif from Magyaria? Someone of those half-wild families from Hellin? Which of the provinces are causing problems? Have them send their daughters for your inspection so they may be subdued by marriage. Once more, rather than out-warring your adversaries, you will out-marry them. Tell me—who have you picked?"

    "I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Justi."

    "I'm certain you don't. And I'm certain that I care about your appreciation as much as you care about my feelings concerning this. When are you marrying, Matarh? How long has Vatarh been dead now? Twenty-three years? Twenty-four? What has kept you from marrying all these years?"

    For a moment, Marguerite feared that Justi knew about Renard, but the slackness in his face told her that it was simple irritation in his voice. "You know why I don't marry."

    "Yes, I know. 'The sword in the scabbard still threatens . . .' I've heard that one often enough, too." Justi gave a sigh. His hands lifted and dropped back to his sides. "So who is it to be, Matarh? When will you make the grand announcement of my engagement, and when do I get to at least see a painting of this person?"

    "I've selected no one as yet," Marguerite told him. "I thought that perhaps you would like some input in this as the A'Kralj." She saw the new grimace and could nearly hear the thought that no doubt accompanied it: You became Kraljica at eighteen, Matarh; I'm forty-seven and still the A'Kralj, still waiting patiently for you to die. . . . "But I do have a few prospects you should consider. The ca'Mulliae family, for instance, might be a good choice given their connections with the northern provinces, especially with the Numetodo heresy spreading there. Or even someone with a strong connection to the Faith, such as the Archigos' niece Safina, who you've already met a few times."

    She was trying to placate him, knowing how strongly he believed in the tenets of Concénzia, but she saw that Justi was either no longer listening or disinterested. He was studying ci'Recroix's painting as if answers might be hidden there. "You may make the decision, Justi, if that's what you want," she continued. "Find someone who appeals to you or not, as you prefer. Find someone who will understand that they need to look away from your . . . indiscretions with half the grandes horizontales of Nessantico. All I require is that the person you choose also provide us some political advantage and you an heir or two, and that you make your decision by the end of my Jubilee. Otherwise, I will make the announcement for you. Do we understand each other?"

    Justi sniffed, his nose almost touching the painting. "Yes, Matarh," he answered. "Perfectly. As always." As he spoke, there was a quiet knock on the doors. Justi straightened, taking a long breath, as Marguerite scowled at him. "And perfectly timed as well. Matarh, I'll leave you."

    "There is more I need to discuss with you, Justi."

    "I've no doubt of that. But it will have to wait. Your painter awaits."

    Justi started toward the door. "Justi," Marguerite called out and he stopped. "I am your Matarh and you are my son, my only child. I am also the Kraljica, and you are the A'Kralj. You will always be my son. As to the other . . . some of your cousins would love nothing better than to see me change my decision as to my heir. And I can."

    Justi didn't reply, but went to the door and opened it. Marguerite caught a glimpse of a tall man standing just outside: black robe, black hair, black beard, black pupils—a fragment of night walking in the daylight. Justi nodded to the man, who clasped hands to forehead as he bowed. "Vajiki ci'Recroix," Justi said. "I must say I admire your talent very much. The Kraljica is waiting just inside. I hope you can capture all the complexities she hides so well. . . ."

A S THEY APPROACHED the temple, the crowds became more dense and the acolyte's bell ringing was a constant din too near Ana's ear for comfort. For the month of the Kraljica's Jubilee, the population of Nessantico swelled with tourists and visitors hoping to meet the Kraljica and mingle with the ca'-and-cu'. Every day, the Archigos emerged from the temple to bless the crowds promptly at Second Call, then proceeded along the Avi a'Parete and over the River A'Sele via the Pontica a'Brezi Nippoli. There, at the Old Temple on the Isle A'Kralji, he offered up prayers of thanksgiving for the Kraljica's continued health.

    Near the temple plaza, a line of Garde Kralji, the city guards, held back the crowds from the doors through which the Archigos would appear. The gardai's brass-tipped staffs jutted above the heads of the onlookers like the posts of a fence, and Ana could glimpse the midnight blue of their uniforms through the less somber colors of those waiting for the Archigos to appear. The acolyte standing at the door to Ana's carriage produced a whistle from under his robes and blew a piercing note. The gardai responded, opening a gap in the crowd for the carriage to pass through. They rode into the plaza, the wheels of the carriage chattering against the marble flags set there, the téni-driver's chant ending as the carriage came to a halt to the east of the main doors. The acolyte hopped down from his perch and opened the door, assisting Ana to the ground.

    "Who am I supposed to see?" she asked the acolyte, glancing around. She saw no one obviously waiting for them. "U'Téni cu'Dosteau?"

    "Wait here," the acolyte answered. "That's all I was told. After the Archigos' blessing . . ."

    The great wind-horns, one in each of the six domes of the temple, sounded at that moment: low, sonorous notes that throbbed and moaned like giants in distress, the wail clawing at the stones of the buildings bordering the plaza and driving clouds of pigeons up from the rooftops. The crowd went silent under the assault, pressing clasped hands to foreheads as the huge temple doors—carved into intertwined trees—swung open. Ana made the same gesture of obeisance alongside the carriage. A phalanx of acolyte celebrants in simple white robes emerged first, each with an incense brazier clanking and swaying on the end of brass chains, the fragrant smoke curling and drifting in the slight breeze. As they entered the sunlight they began to sing, their melodious, youthful voices dancing with the intricate harmonies of Darkmavis' well-known hymn Cénzi Eternal. A dozen green-robed a'téni of the Archigos' Council followed them—the highest of the téni, elderly men and women blinking at the assault of daylight after the dimness within the temple's basilica. Then, finally, came the Archigos' open carriage, wrought in the shape of Cénzi's fractured globe, the blue of the seas a pure lapis lazuli, the green and gold of the continents a matrix of emeralds and gold, the crack that rent the world bright with tiny blood-red rubies. A téni chanted alongside each of the four wheels of the carriage and the wheels turned in response, while the green-robed Archigos himself stood atop the globe, pressing his own clasped hands to forehead as if he were no more than any of the people in the crowd. Four acolytes in white robes carried long poles, over which was draped an awning of gold-and-green silk, sheltering the Archigos from the elements.

    Archigos Dhosti ca'Millac, despite his standing as head of the Concénzia Faith, hardly cut a magnificent figure. The dwarf was old—nearly as old as the Kraljica herself. His liver-spotted scalp was bordered by a short hedge of white hair just above the ears and low around the back of his skull. His already-shrunken stature was further diminished by the bowing of his spine, which forced his chin down onto his chest, and the arms which emerged from the short, wide sleeves of his stately robes were thin, wobbling with loose, wrinkled skin. Yet the eyes were alert and bright, and the mouth smiled.

    Ana smiled in return, just seeing him; she had never been this close to the Archigos before, not even in the Temple during ceremonies. It was probably just coincidence, but he seemed to notice her as well, nodding once in her direction before turning back to the crowds. He lifted his hands, his voice—no doubt strengthened by his mastery of the Ilmodo—beginning to call the traditional blessing of Cénzi on the throngs.

    Ana heard the disturbance before she saw it: another voice striving against that of the Archigos. Turning her head from the Archigos toward the crowd, she caught a glimpse of someone standing in the midst of the kneeling throngs. The gardai saw the man at the same moment and began to move toward him, but they were already too late. The stranger—she saw a ruddy complexion and hair the color of summer straw—moved his hands in a pushing motion and the gardai between him and the Archigos went down as if struck by an invisible fist, as well as those in a circle around him.

    The acolyte next to Ana sucked in his breath; the téni in the driver's seat of her carriage grunted in alarm. The crowd was shouting now: "A Numetodo . . . ! The Archigos . . . !" Ana couldn't hear the magicchanting of the man, but his mouth still moved and a blue-white, sputtering glow had swallowed his right hand. Ana had seen similar effects, had performed them imperfectly herself, for that matter. She knew the set of words that could conjure up the heat of the air, could concentrate it into a ball—but the Numetodo performed the spell faster than any téni, with just a few words. . . .

    The gardai the man had struck down were starting to stagger up, but she knew none of them could reach him quickly enough to prevent the attack. Ana knew that the Archigos had seen the disturbance as well, but when she glanced at him he was still smiling, his hands still raised in blessing even though he'd stopped speaking. Otherwise, he had not reacted.

    The Numetodo—he had to be one of that shadowy group; who else would dare to do something like this?—swung his arm in a throwing motion and the spitting glare in his hand arced toward the Archigos.

    Ana, almost without realizing, had begun whispering a chant herself, and as the glow hissed in the air toward the Archigos—who still smiled—she cupped her hands before her and brought them together. The ball of blue fire fizzled, sputtered, and vanished long before it reached the Archigos. The Numetodo, standing stupefied in the plaza as his attack failed, went down under a rush of the Garde Kralji. She saw his capture as she staggered with the release of her spell and the inevitable weariness surged over her. For a moment, there was darkness at the edges of her vision and she thought she might faint entirely away, but the shadow passed, leaving her with only an immense fatigue.

    The disturbance was over almost as quickly as it had begun, the Garde Kralji re-forming their line as the attacker was hustled away from the plaza into one of the nearest buildings with his hands bound and his mouth gagged, as the Archigos—who seemed entirely unshaken and unperturbed by the incident—raised his voice over the noise of the crowd to finish the blessing. He gestured to the Garde Kralji, making obvious his intention to continue the procession, and the gardai formed an opening in the crowd for the Archigos to pass through in his carriage.

    The Archigos looked at Ana and gestured to her.

    For a breath, she thought she'd been mistaken, until the téni-driver spoke in a harsh, awed whisper. "Go on, Vajica. The Archigos asks for you." She forced herself to ignore the desire to do nothing more than lay down and close her eyes as the inevitable weariness of spell-casting washed over her. Hesitantly, her legs aching, she walked toward the carriage, glancing somewhat nervously at the a'téni who stared at her as she approached.

    She went to one knee alongside the globe and bowed her head, giving the Archigos the sign of Cénzi.

    "Get up, Vajica. Please," she heard the Archigos say, his voice amused. "And come up here with me. I'd like to speak with my new protector." She heard a few of the a'téni behind her snicker at that, and her face reddened. But the Archigos was extending a stubby arm toward her and one of the carriage-téni had opened a door in Cénzi's globe for her, revealing a set of short stairs that led to the platform on which the Archigos stood under his canopy of silk. She climbed up to him, going to a knee again as she reached the platform. Kneeling, she was as tall as the Archigos. She took the hand he extended to her and touched her lips to his palm. She felt him lifting her up and she rose. "Can you stand?" he whispered to her.

    "For a bit," she answered.

    "Then you should sit." He pulled down a seat built into the compartment of the carriage. "It's just as well, after all. Otherwise, you'd have to stand there," he told her, and she noticed that the platform to the Archigos' left was several inches lower. "Appearances," he told her with a gentle smile, and she gratefully sank down onto the hard wooden seat, her head no longer higher than his. "I see that you've learned how to reverse an incantation as well as to create one, Vajica cu'Seranta. Strange, I didn't think that was something that was generally taught to acolytes. Nor, I think, does U'Téni cu'Dosteau know of counter-spells that can be cast quite so quickly."

    Ana felt her cheeks flush again, but the fatigue made her response slow. "Archigos, I—"

    He waved off her protest with a gentle laugh. "I was never in any real danger. The Numetodo haven't the faith to truly use the Ilmodo. His attack would never have reached me, even if you'd done nothing, not with the a'téni here. And I have my own defenses if they'd failed." His grin tempered what might have been a rebuke.

    "I'm sorry for my presumption," she told him. "I should have realized . . ."

    "There's no need to apologize, Vajica. You've only shown me that what I was told about you was correct. Now, ride with me so we can talk—no matter what happens, it's important that the schedule isn't interrupted, after all. It's all about appearances."

    What does he mean, 'what I was told about you . . .'? Again, the Archigos' quick, genuine smile made Ana relax and cooled the flush in her cheeks. The téni alongside the carriage were chanting, the silk awning above them flapping in the breeze as the acolytes holding it began to move and the carriage rolled smoothly and slowly forward. The a'téni filed behind the carriage and behind them the u' and o'téni, and finally the acolyte choir, while the gardai with their long staffs moved into formation on either side of the street and the procession turned out from the plaza onto the Avi a'Parete. The Archigos waved to the crowds lining the boulevard even as he continued to speak to Ana. "Surely you wondered why I would ask to meet with you."

    "Yo u asked, Archigos?" she managed to blurt out. "I thought . . ."

    "I know what you thought," Archigos ca'Millac answered. "You were wrong."

HE LURKED AT THE FRINGES of the crowd, as he always did. Watching, as he always did.

    Even in the warmth of the sun, Mahri wrapped himself in several layers, his clothing rent with great tears and the hems all tattered, the patterns on the cloth smeared with filth and blackened where they dragged the ground. His hood was up, so that his scarred and ravaged face could only be glimpsed: the empty socket of his left eye, the smashed nose laying on the right cheek, the gaping darkness between his remaining teeth, the shiny white tracks of burns over the left side of his face, pulling and twisting at the flesh. Those who glanced at his face always quickly looked away—except sometimes the children who would point and stare.

    "That's just Mahri," the parents would tell them, pulling the children away with a brief glance at Mahri himself, talking as if Mahri weren't there, as if he couldn't see or hear them. Sometimes, they might toss a bronze d'folia in his direction in compensation for their son's or daughter's rudeness. He'd stare at the tiny coin on the pavement, not deigning to pick it up. Perhaps for that reason, or perhaps for others, he was sometimes called "Mad Mahri."

    He generally didn't attend the Archigos' blessing, but he'd heard the rumors flowing through the nether regions of Nessantico; he'd seen the whispers of possibilities in his vision-bowl, and so he'd come. The Numetodo had been stupid, so stupid that Mahri decided that the clumsy assassination attempt must have been carried out entirely through the man's own foolish impulse. Certainly Envoy ci'Vliomani wouldn't have condoned this. No, this person had to be a rogue within the Numetodo, and one that the Envoy would quickly renounce if only to save his own flesh. Mahri watched the Garde Kralji hustle the man roughly away, shoving him through the door of a neighboring government building. He shook his head; whoever the Numetodo was—and he was not one of those Mahri recognized, probably someone new to the city—he was destined for a slow, painful end.

    But what interested Mahri more than the doomed would-be assassin was the young woman the Archigos brought into his carriage afterward. Mahri had seen her téni-driven carriage near Sutegate and he'd wondered who the Archigos had sent for, so he'd followed her to the temple. He'd seen that it was her defense that had foiled the attack. He knew enough about the techniques of Ilmodo use by the téni that the speed and power with which the woman reacted had widened his remaining eye and made him scratch at the ruined skin of his chin.

    Now he knew why an image of a young woman had haunted the vision-bowl.

    This one . . . this one would bear watching. Obviously the Archigos felt the same, for the woman stayed with him as the téni around the dwarf's carriage began their chants and the carriage made its turn onto the Avi in its slow procession toward the Old Temple amid the renewed clamor of the wind-horns atop the temple domes and the cheers of the crowds—doubly pleased that their beloved religious leader had escaped unharmed.

    As the crowds closed in around the Archigos, Mahri watched them go, unsurprised that the Archigos would keep to his routine despite the attack. After all, ritual was important in Nessantico. The city was bound and fettered and choked with ritual, as ancient and unyielding as the walls that had once enclosed it. The carriage passed within a few dozen strides of where Mahri lurked at the corner of an apartment building. He stared not only at the Archigos, but at the woman who sat alongside him, looking uncomfortable at the attention, her face weary.

    Mahri would watch this young woman. He would know who she was.

    Mahri slunk back deeper into the shadows between the buildings. Silent, a shadow himself, he slid away from the Avi and the noise, finding his own hidden path through the city.

"YOU'RE BEGINNING TO RECOVER?" the Archigos asked, and Ana nodded. The Archigos had said nothing to her for several minutes, allowing her to gather herself. The fatigue was receding and she no longer felt as if she needed to sleep, though a deep ache still lingered in her muscles.

    "I'm feeling much better now," she told him. "Thank you."

    "So tell me, Vajica cu'Seranta, do you know why I wanted to speak with you?"

    Ana shook her head vigorously at the Archigos' question. "Certainly not, Archigos. In fact, I thought . . ." She shook her head again.

    The sound of the wind-horns faded as they moved away from the temple, but the crowds still hailed the Archigos as they passed, their clasped hands tight against their foreheads. The acolytes were still sing ing, another of Darkmavis' compositions. The Archigos nodded to the people lining the Avi as they approached the Pontica a'Brezi Nippoli. He raised his hand in greeting even as he spoke with Ana, not looking at her though she had the impression that he knew the expressions that twisted her lips and lowered her eyebrows. "Go on," he said quietly.

    "I thought that, if anything, I would hear only from U'Téni cu'Dosteau," Ana continued. "As often as he corrected me or told me that I wasn't trying hard enough or wasn't paying close enough attention in his classes, I thought that he would give me a Note of Severance. I knew all the Marques had already been signed. . . ." The Archigos had turned completely away from her, and she wondered whether she'd offended him. "I'm sorry, Archigos. I'm chattering on and I shouldn't speak so about U'Téni cu'Dosteau, who was entirely correct in his attitude toward me. I wasn't a good enough student for him, I'm afraid."

    "I have indeed signed the Marques that the Acolytes' Council gave me," the Archigos said. He waved to the crowds. He smiled. The sun danced on the silken field over his head. He didn't look at her at all. "Your name wasn't on any of them."

    Ana nodded in acceptance, not able to speak. Despite having steeled herself for the inevitability of her failure, the intensity of the disappointment that washed over her then told her how stubbornly she'd been grasping to hope that she was wrong. Three years . . . three years and all the solas that my family paid to Concénzia for the privilege, money Vatarh really didn't have, money they'd begged and borrowed . . . Three years, and now Vatarh will be angry, and that will be worst of all. . . .

    She'd told herself that she wouldn't cry, though she'd done so many nights in private since she'd heard about the Marques, but until the note she dreaded came from U'Téni cu'Dosteau she could dry the tears and pretend that she had confidence, at least during the day. The Archigos' words made her eyes burn and caused the boulevard around them to waver before her as if it were under the waters of the A'Sele. She could feel the moisture on her cheeks and dabbed at it with her sleeve angrily, hating that she would cry before the Archigos, that her pride was so overweening that she couldn't accept the fate Cénzi had set before her with due humility, that her faith was so fragile and her fear so great.

    She hoped that the Archigos didn't know about what she'd done with her matarh. If so, she was entirely lost.

    Ana realized that the Archigos was looking at her, and she wiped at her eyes again. "You should know that it was U'Téni cu'Dosteau who came to me after I was given this year's Marques," the Archigos said softly. "He wanted to talk to me privately. About you, Vajica cu'Seranta. Do you have an idea of what he said?"

    Ana shook her head, mute. Hope lifted its head again, battered and bloodied, but fear caught it in a stranglehold and bore it down. "I won't tell you all," the Archigos continued. "It's enough for you to know that U'Téni cu'Dosteau insisted that the Acolytes' Council had made a mistake, that they'd looked too much at the family names and too little at the students themselves and U'Téni cu'Dosteau's evaluations. He told me that he had a student who sometimes created her own spells with the Ilmodo rather than those of her instructor's. A student who used the Ilmodo for fire or earth or air or water, when most students found a strength in only one of those. A student who could quote the Toustour and seemed a devout follower of the Divolonté, even though there were whispers among her fellow students regarding Numetodo tendencies. A student with a natural talent who didn't quite know how to harness or control it—who started a terrible fire, he said, in the Acolytes' Dining Hall one night, then put it out before the fire-téni could come."

    "It was an accident—" Ana began, but the Archigos glanced at her, his hand raised.

    "I was impressed by the force of the u'téni's argument, especially after he reminded me that sometimes Cénzi manifests even in the most common of frames. As the Toustour says—"

    " 'Even the humblest can be raised, even the lowest exalted.' " She provided the quote without thinking.

     He laughed then, indicating his own stunted body with a hand. "Even the lowest," he repeated. "Vajica cu' Seranta, do you still desire to accept a Marque? Are you willing to join the Order of Téni if asked?"

    "Oh, yes!" she answered in a rush. The affirmation burst from her in a near shout and a laugh that shook tears again from her eyes. She thought the carriage must be shaking with the surge of joy the words had unleashed. "Certainly, Archigos."

    "Good," the Archigos said. He chuckled at her unrestrained joy. "Then I'll have your Marque prepared and signed. You'll no longer be Vajica; you'll be O'Téni Ana cu'Seranta."

    He spoke the title slowly and clearly. He was still looking at her, his head—too large for the small body—tilted to one side as if waiting for the question she wanted to ask. His silence gave her the courage to speak. "I must have misheard you, Archigos. I thought . . . thought you said o'téni."

    "Do I speak so poorly?" he said with a chuckle. "U'Téni cu'Dosteau was . . . well, he was quite persuasive, and after what I witnessed . . . I think that we have more than enough e'ténis already. U'Téni cu'Dosteau believed you were already well past the ability expected from an e'téni, and I would agree with him. In fact, you will be attached to my personal staff, O'Téni. Is that acceptable to you?"

    She had no words. She could only nod, a helpless grin on her face.

    "I'll take that as acceptance, then," the Archigos said. He sighed, turning away from her to raise his hands again to the crowds. "O'Téni, look behind the carriage. Look at the faces you see there."

    Ana glanced down and behind. The a'téni immediately behind the carriage stared back at her, nearly all their gazes lifted toward the carriage. One face in particular snagged her attention. She knew him: Orlandi ca'Cellibrecca, A'Téni of Brezno, Téte of the Guardians, and the man who had arrested dozens of Numetodo last Cénzi's Day in Brezno, tried them for forbidden use of the Ilmodo, then had the prisoners executed in the temple square before cheering throngs—his face was turned to her, and his stare was intense and appraising.

    "You see them?" the Archigos said softly. "They're all wondering why you're standing up here with me, wondering what they've missed and how critical it will be to their own power. They're wondering how it is that an inexperienced acolyte could manage a counter-spell that quickly and remain standing afterward. They're wondering, honestly, if they could have done the same. They're trying to figure out how to turn this to their advantage, and whether they should make an overture to you as soon as they can, just in case. When they're dismissed at the Old Temple, they'll be scattering to their offices and apartments, whispering hurried instructions to their own underlings, trying to find out everything they can about you, hoping to uncover something they can use. One thing you should understand is that in the world you're entering, 'trust,' 'loyalty,' and 'friendship' are all concepts that are liquid and mutable. But then, that's something I suspect you already know."

    Ana shivered. Except for A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca's stern and dour face, most of the faces of the a'téni smiled blandly up at her, as if they were pleased with what they saw; one or two even nodded as they made eye contact, their smiles widening. A few of them, looking away, were frowning as if lost in thought. Ana turned quickly back to the Archigos, and his face was also appraising. She wondered how much he knew. If Sala or Tari have whispered to the téni, or if Vatarh has said something . . .

    But the Archigos chuckled again. "As soon as we finish this tiresome routine, I'll sign your Marque in the Old Temple," he said. "Tonight, after the Lighting of the Avi, you'll be anointed before your family, in Cénzi's Chapel in the Archigos' Temple." Pudgy, splayed fingers touched her shoulder softly and she forced herself not to flinch away from his touch, a touch that reminded her too much of her vatarh's hand. "Shh, Ana. . . . You know how much I love you. Don't pull away, my little bird. . . ."

    "You've been gifted by Cénzi Himself, Ana," the Archigos said so softly that she could barely hear him over the crowd. "It's rare, that blessing, and sometimes the hardest thing is realizing everything that Cénzi demands of us in return for the gift." His fingers tightened on her shoulder, and she frowned as the lines deepened in his face. He leaned in closely, so that she could see herself in the dark pupils of his eyes. "The greater the gift, the greater the cost," he whispered. "You will learn that, O'Téni. I'm afraid you will learn that well."

"DHASPI CE'COENI was a damned fool. Now we need to make sure his foolishness doesn't hurt the rest of us and my mission."

    Karl chopped his arms through the turgid air of the basement as if he were slicing a sword through the man's neck—a gesture, he realized, that was probably prophetic for the captured ce'Coeni. He spoke in Paeti, the language of the island he called home, a language he was certain few would understand here even if they could overhear it. Mika ce'Gilan, there with Karl, sank back into the plentiful shadows lurking in the corners. The basement room was a shabby area stinking of old stone and mold. The only light was from a trio of candles guttering in their stand on a wobbly table, thin, greasy trails of smoke twining upward from the flames, shifting as the wind from Karl's gesture made them waver and sputter. Above, they could hear muffled conversation and the creaking of floorboards under heavy feet: the room was below a tavern in the twisting streets of the Oldtown. Even at midday, there were patrons drinking and eating there.

    "Ce'Coeni didn't know me," Mika said, his own Paeti colored with the more guttural accents of Graubundi. "He can't betray anyone beyond the lower cell that recruited him. He had no contact with you as Envoy, so we're isolated from him. The damage will be minimal. He was just a rogue, Karl. A stupid rogue."

    "I wish I were that confident." Karl grimaced. He rubbed his shell pendant between his fingers as he stalked back and forth in front of the small table, too agitated to sit. "The téni preach against us even if the Archigos is less vocal than most, the Kraljica still refuses to meet us directly, and we know how closely the Kraljica's people are watching me. Now the talk is going to be—again—about how dangerous and violent we are, and there are going to be those telling the Kraljica that the Numetodo can't be tolerated any longer. A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca will be calling for the Archigos to do what he did in Brezno, or worse. We can tell them the truth, but the truth isn't what they want to hear. You can bet that Commandant ca'Rudka is already in the cell where they've put poor ce'Coeni, and after the commandant's through with him, ce'Coeni will be happy to sign any confession that ca'Rudka puts in front of him, just to stop the pain."

    Even in the wan candlelight, Karl could see that Mika's face was pale. He stopped his pacing and let the pendant swing back around his neck on its silver chain as he leaned on the table with both hands.

    "I'm not about to kill the messenger, my friend," he told Mika, and that brought a quick smile. "I'm glad you came as quickly as you did. There's nothing we can do about anything that's happened. It was incredibly stupid and it's going to cause us problems, but it's done." The words, intended for Mika, also managed to staunch the anger inside him. He was starting to think again, at least, instead of only reacting. He took a long breath. "All right. We need to minimize the damage. I want you to draft a statement for me to send to the Kraljica, denying that the attack on the Archigos was part of a Numetodo plot or that ce'Coeni was anything but a deranged man with a personal grudge against the Concénzia Faith and the Archigos. Deny that we've ever met with him or know him at all. You know what to say. Ask again if I can meet with her; she won't agree, especially now, but I might get a meeting with ca'Rudka and be able to garner some idea of how he intends to react. The Archigos, I'm sure, will be making light of the attack, especially given that no one was hurt—he'll use it as an example of how weak the Numetodo are against the truly faithful, but you know that everyone's going to be talking about it for a few days. We need to make certain that this doesn't happen again, so get the word flowing down to the others through the usual channels."

    Mika nodded. "I'll get a draft to you by this evening."

    "Good. We can finish it then and I'll sign it. . . ." Karl closed his eyes

momentarily, shaking his head. "Tell me about this woman who stopped ce'Coeni."

    "I don't know who she is yet, but we'll find out. I know she arrived in one of the Concénzia carriages, but she's not a téni that we know and wasn't dressed as one. Afterward, the Archigos brought her into his own carriage; she rode with him to the Old Temple."

    "That could be gratitude, or worse—it could all have been planned," Karl said. "Is it possible ce'Coeni was working both sides, that the Archigos planned this to bolster his standing? That would explain how this strange woman was able to counter the spell so rapidly, and also why ce'Coeni would be so stupid as to try to attack the Archigos in the first place. We need to find out if that's a possibility, and who this woman is. She could be important to us."

    "It's already being done." Mika pushed his chair back from the table and stood up as Karl straightened. "Though I don't believe that ce'Coeni was anything but a rash idiot. As to the woman, from the description I had, she used a counter-chant. She took out Dhaspi's spell a second after he launched it, and before any of the a'téni around the Archigos had a chance to react."

    Karl's right eyebrow lifted, wrinkling his forehead. "That's an accurate account?"

    "I believe my source, yes."

    "Then we really need to find out more. Téni spells take time—they can't create them that quickly. I'll work on this myself. You get word going through the cells. See if ce'Coeni could be a Concénzia infiltrator; I'll see what I can discover about this mysterious young woman. Meet me back here after Third Call."

    Mika inclined his head slightly. He went up the wooden steps to the door. Karl heard the sound of voices as momentary light bathed the rough wooden planks. Then the shadows settled around him again. He waited there for several minutes, fingers prowling his beard as a dozen contentious thoughts tried to crowd each other in his head. Finally, uneasy and troubled, he bent down to blow out the candles. Shrouded in blackness, he felt his way to the stairs.

THE BASTIDA A'DRAGO, the fortress of the dragon, was a dreary, ancient building set on the south bank of the A'Sele. The Bastida had once served to guard the city from attack from the west: one wall of the structure was formed from the ancient city wall itself just where the A'Sele curved south; another plunged from a five-story tower into the waters of the river. The edifice was named because during its building the bones of a huge dragon had been uncovered there, a fireserpent turned to stone by some unknown magic. The creature's flesh was gone, but the great skeleton was unmistakably that of a once-living and mythical beast. The fierce, needle-toothed and polished head of the creature still loomed above the entranceway of the Bastida like a nightmare sculpture, set there by the order of Kraljiki Selida II, who had ruled the city at the time.

    The Bastida was no longer a fortress, just as the few remaining sections of the city wall no longer protected Nessantico but had been overrun and mostly consumed by the spreading town. Instead, its walls weeping with moisture and covered by black moss, the fortress had long ago been transformed into a gloomy prison where those deemed to be enemies of Nessantico resided, often for the remainder of their lives. Levo ca'Niomi, who had reigned for three short and violent days as Kraljiki, had been the first prisoner held in the Bastida, nearly a hundred and fifty years before. He languished there for nearly half his life, writing the poetry that would gain him an immortality that his brief coup never accomplished. More recently, the Kraljica's first cousin Marcus ca'Gerodi had been imprisoned for having financed the attempted assassination of Marguerite prior to her coronation. Luckily for Marcus, he had not been gifted with Marguerite's longevity, or perhaps the dank atmosphere of the Bastida had infected him; he had died there six years later from a fever.

    Sergei ca'Rudka, Commandant of the Garde Kralji, Chevaritt of Nessantico, an a'offizier in the Garde Civile, had never liked the Bastida. He liked it less since the Kraljica had placed it under his control.

    Sergei was certain that the poor fool who had tried to attack the Archigos would not be one of those remembered for his interment in the Bastida. Rather, he would be one of the far more numerous enemies of the state who entered these gates and were immediately forgotten.

    The gardai around the massive oaken gates of the Bastida jerked to attention as Sergei approached from the Pontica a'Brezi Veste. He gave them only the barest nod, glancing up—as he always did—to the stone-trapped head of Selida's dragon that snarled down on him. The dark shapes of house martins fluttered from where they'd nested under the crenellated summits of the towers on either side of the gate, but as Sergei watched, one of the birds darted out from the creature's open mouth. A barred door at the foot of the left tower opened, and the Capitaine of the Bastida emerged, a graybeard whose pasty skin betrayed long hours in darkness. The capitaine had once been the sole authority in the Bastida; now, by order of the Kraljica, he reported to Sergei. Neither one of them liked that fact. "Commandant ca'Rudka, we've been waiting for you."

    Sergei was still looking up at the dragon's mouth. He pointed as the martin darted back into the dragon's mouth and another left. "Do you know what's wrong with that, Capitaine ci'Doulor?"

    The man stepped out from the door, blinking in the sunlight. He stared at the dragon. He rarely looked at Sergei; when he did, like many people, his gaze was snared by the gleaming silver nose that replaced the one of flesh Sergei had lost in a duel. "Commandant?"

    "I love the freedom that the martins portray," Sergei told him. He smiled, gesturing at them. "Look at them, the way they dart and flit, the way they fly with the gift of wings Cénzi has given them. There are times I envy them and wish I could do the same. I would give up much if I could see the city as they do and move effortlessly from one rooftop to another."

    Ci'Doulor nodded, though his face was puzzled under the grizzled beard. "I . . . I suppose I understand what you're saying, Commandant," he said.

    "Do you?" Sergei asked, more sharply, the smile gone to ice on his lips. A martin emerged from the dragon's mouth again and fluttered off. "That dragon's head is the symbol of the Bastida, of its power and strength and terror. What message do you think it sends when those we bring here see birds nesting in that mouth, Capitaine? Do you think your prisoners feel terror as they pass underneath, or do they see a sign of hope that we're impotent, that they might pass through the Bastida's clutches as easily as that martin?"

    The capitaine blinked heavily. "I'd never thought of it before, Commandant."

    "Indeed," Sergei answered. "I see that." He took a step toward the capitaine, close enough that he could smell the garlic the man had eaten with his eggs that morning. His voice was loud enough that the gardai around the gate could still hear him. "Signs and symbols are potent things, Capitaine. Why, if I hung someone from a gibbet there below the dragon, someone who—let us say—didn't understand how important symbols are, I believe that seeing that body twisting in its cage would send a powerful message to those who work here. In fact, the more important that person, the more powerful that message would be, don't you think?"

    Capitaine ci'Doulor visibly shuddered. His throat pulsed under the beard as he swallowed. He was staring at Sergei now, at his own warped reflection in the polished surface of Sergei's silver nose. "I'll see that the nest is removed, Commandant, and you may be assured that no birds will roost there again."

    The smile widened. Sergei reached out and patted ci'Doulor's cheek as if he were a child Sergei was correcting. "I'm certain you will," he said. "Now, I'd like to see this Numetodo."

    Sergei followed ci'Doulor into the Bastida. The door shut solidly behind them, a garda locking it after them. Musty air enclosed them and Sergei paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to a dimness made only darker by the small barred windows set in walls as thick as a man holding out both arms. Ci'Doulor led him down a long hall and into the main tower, then down a winding stone staircase. Moisture pooled on foot-worn steps furred with moss on the edges where no one walked. From the barred doors of the landings, Sergei could hear the sounds of other prisoners: coughs, moans, someone calling out distantly. They came to a landing well below river level with one of the gardai standing at careful attention. The man opened the door and stepped aside.

    They entered a square, compact room, the garda entering with them. Chains clattered: a man shackled to rings on the far wall stirred, his hands bound tightly to the wall so he couldn't move them to create one of the Numetodo spells, his mouth gagged with a metal cage that trapped his tongue. Sergei could see that the would-be assassin had been beaten. His face was puffy and discolored inside the bars of the face-cage, one eye was swollen shut, and a trail of dried blood drooled from one nostril. He'd soiled himself at some point—his torn hosiery was discolored and wet, and the smell of urine and feces was strong. "Capitaine," he said. "Has this man been mistreated?"

    "No, Commandant," ci'Doulor answered quickly. The garda, behind him, sniffed in seeming amusement. "It was the citizenry who did this in retaliation. Why, our Garde Kralji had tremendous difficulty even getting him away from the mob after the attack on the Archigos."

    Sergei knew that to be a lie; the gardai assigned to the Archigos had subdued the man immediately after the attack and hurried him away before the crowd was even certain what had happened. "The people do love the Archigos," Sergei said, more to the prisoner than to ci'Doulor. "And hate those who would try to harm him." He stepped closer to the prisoner, taking a kerchief from his pocket and dusting the seat of a scarred, three-legged stool near the prisoner. The man moved his head inside the cage, watching Sergei with his one good eye. "If I remove the tongue-gag, will you promise to speak no spells, Vajiki?" Sergei asked, leaning toward him.

    The man nodded. His gaze was not on Sergei's eyes, but the gleaming metal nose. Sergei reached around the man's head and loosed the leather straps that held the device in place. The man gagged as the metal spring holding down his tongue was removed.

    "What's your name?" Sergei asked.

    "Dhaspi ce'Coeni." The man's voice was pain-filled and hoarse, and the syllables—unsurprisingly—held the accent of the north provinces.

    "You're a Numetodo?" A hesitant nod. "And who sent you to harm the Archigos? Was it Envoy ci'Vliomani, perhaps?"

    "No!" The denial was quick. The man's undamaged eye went wide, and the chains clanked dully against stone. "I . . . I've never met Envoy ci'Vliomani. Never. What I did, I did alone. That is the truth."

    Now it was Sergei who nodded. "I believe you," he said soothingly, watching his sympathetic tone leech the tension from the man's face. He sat there for several seconds, just gazing at the man. Finally he stood, going over to a small niche in the wall. From it, he took a brass bar, as thick around as a man's fist and perhaps two fists high, and satisfyingly massive and heavy. Both ends of the bar were polished and slightly flattened, as if they'd been battered many times. "I love history," he said to the prisoner. "Did you know that?"

    The man's gaze was on the bar in Sergei's hand now. He shook his head hesitantly. "Of course you don't," Sergei continued. "But it's the truth. I do. History teaches us so much, Vajiki ce'Coeni—it's from understanding what has happened in the past that we can best see the dangers of the future. Now this piece of metal . . ." He put his index finger into a large hole bored through the middle of the bar; only the tip of his finger emerged. "There was once a large bell in this very tower. The bell enclosure is still there at the top of the tower; you may have seen it when they brought you here, though I doubt you were much in the mood to notice such things. The bell was to be rung if there was a threat to the city so that the citizenry would be warned and react. Now, the bell itself has long ago been removed and melted down—I believe that the statue of Henri VI in Oldtown was cast from the metal of the bell; you might have seen it. But this . . ." Sergei hefted the bar again. "This was the bell's clapper. You see, a rope went through the hole here, knotted above and underneath to keep it at the right height, then the remainder of the rope dropped down to the floor of the tower so that someone could ring the bell at need. And it was rung, five times all told, the last being when the Hellinians sent their fleet of warships up the A'Sele to attack the city back in Maria III's reign." He took his finger from the hole and hefted the clapper in his hand. "So I look at this and I have to marvel at the history I'm holding, Vajiki, at the fact that this very piece of metal has been part of so much of what has happened here. It has protected us before, and—this is the part that's crucial to you, Vajiki ce'Coeni—it continues to do so."

    Sergei went back to the niche. From it, he took a short length of oak, rounded by a lathe at one end. He fitted the rounded end into the hole of the clapper, transforming the metal bar into the sinister head of a hammer. He nodded to the garda, who came forward and unlocked the fetters from the prisoner's left hand. "I require your hand, Vajika. Please place it on the stool, like this." He held out his own hand, palm upward, with the little finger extended out and the rest of the fingers curled in. The prisoner shook his head, sobbing now, and the garda took ce'Coeni's hand and forced it down on the stool's seat. Ce'Coeni curled his fingers into an impotent fist. "I need only your little finger, Vajiki," Sergei told him. "Otherwise, the pain will be . . . far worse." Sergei moved alongside the stool, looking down at the prisoner. "I need to know, Vajiki ce'Coeni, the names of the Numetodo with whom you were involved here in Nessantico."

    "I don't know any other Numetodo," the man gasped. He tried to move his hand back, but though the chains rattled, the garda held it fast.

    "Ah," Sergei said. "You see, I believed you when you told me that you acted alone, because I don't think even the Numetodo would be so foolish as to send a lone person on such a futile mission as yours. But I don't believe you now. I can see the lie in your eyes, Vajiki. I can hear it in your voice and smell it in the fear that comes from you. And I've learned over the years that there is truth in pain." He touched his finger to his false nose, and saw ce'Coeni's eyes follow the gesture. He hefted the hammer made by the bell clapper and looked down at the stool where ce'Coeni's hand was still fisted. "What will it be, Vajiki? Your entire hand, or just the little finger?"

    The man sobbed. The smell of urine became stronger. "You can't . . ."

    "To the contrary," Sergei told him, his voice soft and sympathetic. "I will, not out of desire, but because I must. Because it's my task to keep this city, the Kraljica, and the Archigos safe."

    "No, no, you don't have to do this," the man said desperately, his voice rushed. "I'll tell you the names. I met once with an older man named Boli and another one my age whose name was Grotji. I don't know their family names, Commandant; they never told me. I met them in a tavern in Oldtown. I could show you where, could describe them for you—"

    Sergei was still looking at the hand on the stool. "The finger or the hand, Vajiki?"

    "But I've told you everything I know, Commandant. That is the truth."

    Sergei said nothing. He lifted the hammer, bending his elbow. With a whimper, ce'Coeni extended his little finger.

    Sergei brought the hammer down with a grunt: hard, fast, and sudden. The blow crushed bone and flesh, tendon and muscle. Blood spattered from beneath the brass. A shrill scream tore from ce'Coeni's throat, a high-pitched screech that echoed from the stones and Sergei's ears before it faded away into a wailing sob. Sergei was always surprised by the sheer volume the human throat could produce.

    He lifted the hammer; the man's finger was flattened and destroyed, nearly torn in half near the second joint. He heard the capitaine's intake of breath hiss behind him.

    "There's truth in pain," Sergei said again to the man. The garda had released ce'Coeni's hand, and the prisoner cradled it to his chest, rocking back and forth on the floor of the cell as he wept. "I'm very sorry, Vajiki, but I'm afraid I need to be certain there isn't anything else you have to tell us. . . ."

    Sergei remained, asking questions until only the thumb of ce'Coini's ruined hand remained untouched. Then he wiped the bloodied and gore-spattered end of the hammer on the prisoner's clothing, and pulled the handle from the clapper with some effort. He placed the metal bar and handle back in their niche. Nodding to the garda, he and Capitaine ci'Doulor left the cell.

    "He knows nothing of any use," he said to the capitaine as they ascended the stairs.

    "He named Envoy ci'Vliomani, there at the last," ci'Doulor said. "Isn't that what you wanted, Commandant?"

    "He would have named his own matarh then," Sergei answered. "I wanted the truth, and the truth is that he was a fool acting alone. We have two first names, almost certainly false, and a tavern in Oldtown that was probably chosen at random. I'll send out the Garde Kralji and see if they can find these men from the descriptions he gave us. But I don't have much hope. I'll speak with the Kraljica and the Archigos and tell them what we've learned."

    "And the prisoner, Commandant?"

    Sergei shrugged. "Have him sign a confession. Leave the paper blank so we can fill in what we might require later. Then execute him for his crime. A quick and painless death, Capitaine. He deserves that much. Afterward, cut off the hands and pull out the tongue, as required for Numetodo, then gibbet the body from the Pontica Kralji so that all of Oldtown can see it."

    "I'll see to it."

    "And to the birds?"

    "The birds?" the capitaine said in puzzlement, then: "Ah, yes. In the dragon's mouth. Yes, Commandant. I'll see to that also."

    "Good." They reached the top of the stairs. Sergei turned, and the capitaine brought his hands to his forehead in salute. "It's been a productive day, then. You have your tasks to attend to, Capitaine. I can find my own way out."

THE TÉNI-LIGHTS OF NESSANTICO were famous through out the Holdings. It was the Night Circle that people often spoke of when they reminisced about their visit to the capital city. As the sun faded behind the bend of the A'Sele, as the western sky deepened to purple and the first stars appeared, a procession of dozens of e'téni clothed in yellow-hemmed robes filed from each of the several temples of the city. Ana watched with her family, Sala (tending to her matarh) and the other onlookers as one group of light-téni left the Archigos' Temple, proceeding east and west along both sides of the Avi a'Parete as they passed the gates. The e'téni each went to one of the tall, black iron poles erected several strides apart along the boulevard. There they paused, chanting and performing intricate motions of hands and fingers as the wind-horns blew a mournful dissonance from the towers. Finally the e'téni lifted their hands high, fingers spread wide open, and the yellow-glass globes high atop the poles flared and illuminated as if a tiny sun had been born inside them. The e-téni clapped their hands once and moved to the next light poles, repeating the spell. Around the entire long loop of the Avi a'Parete and the Four Bridges, the daily ceremony was repeated until all the lamps were lighted and the boulevard that encircled the inner city was ablaze with pools of false day.

    "When I was at Montbataille, I swear I could look to the south and west from the high slopes and see Nessantico at night, miles and miles and miles away, like a necklace of stars fallen to the ground and glittering there." Ana's vatarh Tomas smiled at her, his arm slipping around her shoulders and pulling her tight to his side. Ana forced herself to return the smile and to remain in his embrace though she ached to pull away. No more. Not after tonight . . . "Seeing the lights always made me think of you and your matarh, safe there. And I wondered if one day it might not be you in the procession every night, lighting the lamps. You always played at being a téni, even when you were just a child—do you remember that? And now . . ." His smile transformed into a grin tainted with greed. She knew his thoughts: an o'teni could command a dowry of her own for the family. . . . "They won't waste an o'téni to just light the Avi, will they?"

    Ana shook her head, starting to pull away, but Tomas hugged her tightly again as the e'téni moved on to the next lamps and the crowd that had gathered to watch the procession began to thin. She felt his fingers cup the side of her breast, but before she could react, his arm slipped from her. Tomas crouched down in front of Ana's matarh, seated in her carry-chair. Her matarh's eyes were open, but they saw nothing and tracked no one. He put his hands on hers, folded on her lap. "We're proud of our Ana, aren't we, Abi?"

    The woman didn't reply. She rarely spoke anymore, and when she did, no one could understand her. Her eyes seemed to search for something past his shoulder. Another of the coughing spasms struck her and she hunched over, the cough rumbling and liquid in her lungs. Tomas took a kerchief from the pocket of his bashta and dabbed at the mucus around her mouth.

    I will need to help her again tomorrow. "Vatarh? We should be going to the temple," Ana said.

    Tomas stood slowly and nodded to the quartet of hired servants with them; they took up the poles of the carry-chair once more. They proceeded across the street into the plaza where, just this morning, everything in Ana's life had changed. A female acolyte was waiting there, approaching them as they crossed the Avi. Ana recognized her: Savi cu'Varisi, one of the current third-years who—unlike Ana when she'd been there—had been plucked by the téni from the common rabble of the acolytes and given special tasks at the temple. Even though Ana was the senior student, in their few encounters Savi had treated Ana as she might have some merchant's apprentice. Tonight, Savi seemed subservient and overawed by her task. She kept her head down, refusing to meet Ana's gaze.

    "This way, O'Téni cu'Seranta," Savi said. She stumbled over the title, and her face reddened. "The Archigos is awaiting you and your family."

    " 'O'Teni cu'Seranta.' " Tomas chuckled as the acolyte led them toward a side door of the temple. "That has a wonderful sound, doesn't it, Ana?"

    "Yes, Vatarh," Ana admitted, watching Sala as she turned and started to walk toward the temple, wishing he sounded more pleased for her and less for himself. "But I don't know if I'll ever get used to it."

    "Oh, you will. And more. I'm certain of it. One day soon it will be U'Téni ca'Seranta. This is Cénzi's will; this is our reward for the trials He sent us. I always knew it would come."

    Ana nodded at her vatarh's confidence, though she knew that Tomas' certainty was new and fragile. True, Cénzi had sent trials enough to their family: the deaths of her two younger siblings to Red Pox six years before, followed closely by the loss of Ana's older brother Louis the next year, serving with the Garde Civile in one of the border skirmishes with Tennshah. Then Vatarh, a mid-level bureaucrat within the Department of Provincial Commerce, had been assigned to the town of Montbataille only to have his position eliminated within six months. Since then, he had held a variety of positions within the Nessantico government, each of them of less status and lower compensation as Abi and Tomas were forced to squander their savings and rely on the largesse of the cu'Seranta relatives to avoid the shame of becoming ci'Seranta or worse.

    Ana thought the nadir had come four years ago when Abi had been stricken. That had seemed the final blow. Her apprenticeship to the Concénzia Faith had been her vatarh's desperate attempt to salvage something from the unrelenting downward spiral of the family's fortunes.

    The healers had all said that her matarh would die, and Ana had watched her fail. When Ana was little, she had often put her hands on her matarh's temples when she complained of headaches, and there were always words in her mind that she could say, words that would take away the pain. You always played at being a téni. . . . She had, and Ana knew now that it was the early manifestation of her Gift, an instinctive use of the Ilmodo.

    It was also wrong. The Divolonté, the laws and regulations of Concénzia, explicitly said so. 'To heal with the Ilmodo is to thwart the will of Cénzi,' the téni thundered in their Admonitions from the High Lectern in the temple. Ana, always devout, had stopped as soon as she realized what she was doing.

    But . . .

    She couldn't watch her matarh die. After the last healer Vatarh had hired left in defeat, Ana finally put her hands on her matarh again and spoke the words that came—carefully, tentatively, letting the Ilmodo ease the pain, letting Ana bring her back from the death spiral she was in, but not all the way back: because that would be too visible and too dangerous. Ana parceled out the relief, feeling guilty both for her misuse of the Ilmodo and because she didn't use it as fully as she might.

    Then came the true shame. The worst of it all. Her vatarh . . . First it was just words and hugs, then he came to her for the more intimate comforts that Abi had once given him. Too young and too immature and too trusting, Ana had endured his long, careful seduction, knowing that if she told anyone, the shame would destroy the family utterly, that it would be her matarh who would suffer most of all. . . .

    "O'Téni? Through here . . ." Savi had led them to a set of gilded wooden doors. The panels were carved with a representation of Cénzi's ascension to the Second World—the elongated figure of the god being lifted up toward the clouds while below an immense fissure yawned in the globe below, where Cénzi had fallen in his struggle with the Moitidi, His children. Ana stroked the polished wood as Savi pulled open the doors. Beyond was a small, simple chapel which might have held fifty people at the most, lit by candles set in silver candelabra swaying on chains from the high ceiling. Ana could smell incense burning in a brazier, then motion caught her eye near the altar covered with fine damask at the far end of the chapel. The Archigos stepped up onto the altar dais, supported by a young male o'téni who towered over him. The Archigos gestured to them as Savi closed the chapel door, remaining behind in the corridor. Ana glanced around; there was no one else in the chapel.

    "Are you disappointed, O'Téni?" the Archigos asked, his voice reverberating from the stone surfaces around them. "I know that the official ceremony was better attended with all the families and all the a'téni. . . ."

    "No, Archigos," Ana answered. She remembered A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca's stern, unforgiving face staring at her, and the way the others had looked at her as if she were a puzzle they had to solve. She was pleased none of them were there now. "I'm sorry. I'm . . . very happy tonight."

    "Then please come forward and sit—there are chairs for all of you here in front. This is your vatarh and matarh?"

    "Yes, Archigos." Ana introduced her parents, Tomas going forward to kneel before the Archigos with clasped hands, playing—as he always did—the devout follower. The Archigos came forward to put his own gnarled and small hands around her vatarh's.

    "I thank you for sending us your daughter," the Archigos said. "Vajiki cu'Seranta, I've arranged for the Concénzia treasury to transfer five thousand solas to your family's account against Ana's future services to the Faith. I assume that will be sufficient?" Ana could see Vatarh's eyebrows lift and his mouth drop. She sucked in her own breath in surprise as well—the families of the acolytes in her class had been given a tenth of that sum.

    "Oh, yes, Archigos. That is quite . . ." Tomas stopped. She wondered what he'd intended to say. His mouth closed and he swallowed. ". . .adequate for the moment," he finished. Ana could see him toting up accounts in his head.

    The Archigos had noticed the internal greed as well, Ana realized. He favored her vatarh with a dismissive smile. "One of my clerks will be outside when you leave, Vajiki," the Archigos said. "She will have papers for you to sign that will complete the transfer. You'll note that you will also be giving up the family's right to either select or approve a husband for Ana: she now belongs to Concénzia and can make her own choice freely. You will have no voice in that, nor will you receive any further dowry for her."

    Her vatarh frowned at that. "Archigos, we had expected to advance the family through Ana's marriage."

    "Then perhaps a thousand solas will suffice, if you prefer to retain those rights. It doesn't matter to me. My secretary, O'Téni Kenne ci'Fionta, is right here." The Archigos nodded to the téni who was standing next to him. "Kenne, would you be so kind as to tell the clerks to make that change in the contract. . . ."

    Vatarh's eyes widened again and he hurried to answer as the o'téni bowed and started down the aisle of the chapel. "No, Archigos," he answered. "I think the agreement will be sufficient as is."

    "Ah," the Archigos said. Kenne, with a slight smile, returned to the Archigos' side. To Ana, the Archigos seemed to be smothering laughter. "Then let us begin . . ."

    The ceremony was brief. Afterward, O'Téni ci'Fionta handed the Archigos the green robes that would be Ana's attire from this time forward. The Archigos uttered a blessing over the robes, then handed one set to Ana. "If you would put this on," he said. "You may go behind the screens there at the side of the altar."

    The robes felt strange against her skin; softer than she'd expected from the times U'Téni cu'Dosteau's robes had brushed against her. She touched the slashes at the shoulders of the robe: yes, they were those of an o'téni, and on the left shoulder was sewn the broken-globe crest of the Archigos. Taking off her tashta and putting on the robes, she realized that she was also severing herself from her old life and putting on a new one. She would not be returning to her family's home this evening, but retiring to a new apartment here in the temple complex.

    I'm finally gone, Vatarh, and you can't touch me anymore. . . .

    She came out from behind the screen, holding her yellow tashta folded in her arms. Sala, beaming, hurried forward to take it from her. Her vatarh nodded his approval, tears glistening unashamedly in his eyes—she wondered whether he was truly proud of her, or only saddened by what was being taken from him. Her matarh stared blankly ahead, as if transfixed by candle glints from the gold-threaded robes of the Archigos.

    "Ah . . ." the Archigos breathed. "Now you look the proper téni. Vajiki cu'Seranta, I wonder if you would allow me a few minutes alone with your daughter. My clerk, as I said, is waiting outside to take care of the fund transfer while you wait. Your servants should go with you, but I would like Vajica cu'Seranta to remain."

    Anna's vatarh looked startled, but he brought his hands to his forehead and motioned to Sala and the other servants. The Archigos waited, silent, until the chapel doors had closed again behind them. Then he turned to Ana.

    "I deliberately brought you here, to this chapel and without any of the a'téni about. Your matarh, her illness is grave. The Southern Fever, isn't it? She was incredibly fortunate to survive at all. I've only rarely heard of anyone recovering who has been affected that badly. I remember all the funerals years ago when the Fever was at its height here in the city."

    He was staring at her, as was O'Téni ci'Fionta. "It was Cénzi's Will that Matarh lived, Archigos," she said, and the lie felt like pins stabbing her throat

    "No doubt," the Archigos said. "And your will, also."

    "Archigos?" Ana started.

    Faintly, the dwarf smiled. "There's no one here but the four of us, Ana. No a'téni listening, no ears here that shouldn't hear what you might say, no prying eyes watching." Ana couldn't stop her gaze from going to the young o'téni. The Archigos' smiled widened slightly. "Kenne ci'Fionta is someone I trust implicitly, so you must also." He paused. "You no doubt prayed for your matarh's life."

    "Of course, Archigos. Every day."

    "And Cénzi answered your prayers? Or was it something else?" the Archigos prompted, and Ana's face colored helplessly. "You lie badly, O'Téni," the Archigos said. He stepped from the dais and put his hand on her matarh's arm. At the touch, the woman stirred, turning her head slightly but still staring off vacantly. "Your innocence and naïveté is very fetching, Ana, but we'll need to work on that. Tell me the rest, and tell me the truth now. Did you use the Gift of Cénzi to thwart Cénizi's Will for your matarh? Did you do what you knew was forbidden for the téni by the Divolonté? Tell me the truth, here where you can."

    Ana saw the joyous evening and her triumph beginning to collapse around her. She wondered how she would be able to tell Vatarh how it had gone so badly so quickly. She could imagine his face going slack, his shoulders slumping and his will shattering inside him . . . and the foul anger and abuse that would follow. "Matarh was dying. Archigos," Ana said, looking down at her matarh unmoving in her carry-chair. "That would have killed Vatarh, too, after all that had happened to us. So I . . . I . . . Just the smallest help . . . Just enough that . . ." She couldn't finish, her voice choking. Her hands lifted. Fell back to her sides.

    "You know the punishment for this sin? You know the Divolonté?"

    Ana clasped her hands behind her back. She could barely speak. "Yes, Archigos." Cénzi has given me His own punishment to bear for what I did. If I'd let her die, then Vatarh might have married someone else, and he might have left me alone.

    "Look at me. Quote the Divolonté for me; you've certainly heard it often enough in your studies."

    She forced herself to look down into his face: stern now, the wrinkles holding his ancient eyes drawn harshly in his skin. Her voice was little more than a whisper. " 'The sinner has abused Cénzi's Gift and shown that she no longer trusts in Cénzi's judgment; therefore—' " She stopped.

    "Finish it," the Archigos told her.

    " 'Therefore, strike her hands from her body and her tongue from her mouth so that she may never use the Gift again."' Ana took a long breath.

    "You put yourself above Cénzi?" the Archigos asked.

    "No, Archigos," Ana protested. "I truly don't. But I watched her suffering, watched my vatarh suffer with her. . . ."

    "Does your vatarh know what you did? Does anyone?"

    "No, Archigos. At least, I don't think so. I was always alone with her when I tried. I made certain of that."

    The Archigos nodded. His hand was still on her matarh's arm. "You didn't do all you could for her, did you?"

    Ana shook her head. "I was afraid. I knew Cénzi would be angry, and I was also afraid that everyone would notice—"

    "Do it now," the Archigos said, interrupting her. At her look of shock, his stern face relaxed. "The gift of healing is the rarest tendency, the most easily abused, and the most dangerous to the person using it, which is why it's proscribed. It's also why I made certain that the only other person here tonight was someone I could trust. Your hands and tongue are safe for now, Ana. Show me. Show me Cénzi's Gift. Use it as you wanted to use it. Go on," he said as she hesitated.

    Ana took a long breath. She could feel the Archigos staring at her as she closed her eyes and brought her hands together. As she been taught, she reached deep into her inner self as she prayed to Cénzi to show her the way, and again the path to the Ilmodo opened up before her, sparking purple and red in her mind. Her hands were moving, not in the patterns that U'Téni cu'Dosteau had laboriously taught the acolytes but in her own unconscious manner, the way she knew they must go to shape this particular Gift. She could feel it now, a warmth between her still-moving hands, a glow that penetrated her eyelids and sent blood-tinted, pulsing streaks chasing themselves before her.

    Before, she'd stopped at this point, just as the energy began to be felt, and applied it to her matarh. This time she allowed it to continue to flow around her, gathering it. She chanted: words she didn't know, in a language that wasn't hers. A calmness filled Ana as her hands stopped moving, as she cupped Cénzi's Gift in her hands.

    She opened her eyes. Her matarh was staring at the brilliance she held between them. "This is for you, Matarh," Ana whispered. "Cénzi has sent it to you." With that, she bent forward and placed her hands on her matarh's shoulder. The brilliance darted out, striking her matarh and seeming to sink into her.

    As Ana touched her matarh, she felt again the wild, black heat in the older woman: patches of it in her head, around her heart, in her lungs. It paled where the Ilmodo touched it, and this time, this time Ana let the power flow freely, let it cover the illness. She could feel it through her hands: as if Ana herself had the Fever, as if it could crawl out from her matarh into herself. She pushed it back, back into the maelstrom of the Ilmodo, and the heat rose so intensely that she thought her hands would be burned.

    She lifted her hands away from her matarh, unable to hold the power any longer.

    Abini jerked in her seat, a shuddering intake of breath as if she were a drowning person gasping for air. Her eyes went wide, and she gave a long, low wail that held no words at all. She sank back, her eyes closing . . . and when they opened again, her pupils were clear, and she looked at the Archigos and O'Téni Kenne alongside him, then at Ana in her green robes.

    "Ana? I feel as if I've been away for a long time . . . I'm so tired, and I don't remember . . . Why are you dressed that way, child, like a téni? And so much older . . ."

    Ana's breath caught in a sob. She felt too weary to stand, and sank down alongside the carry-chair, gathering the woman in her arms. She looked at her own hands, marveling that they weren't burned to the bone. "Matarh . . ." The doors to the chapel pushed opened suddenly and her vatarh strode in, looking concerned. The servants peered around the opening. Ana glanced at him; her matarh turned in her carry-chair and laughed.

    "Tomas!"

    "Abi?" he said. He gaped, almost comically, caught in a half-stride. "Abi, is that you I heard?"

    "Indeed it was," the Archigos answered him, moving between Tomas and Ana as Kenne lifted Ana to her feet, his hands supporting her as she swayed, exhausted. "Cénzi has moved here tonight, Vajiki, in honor of your daughter's anointment. We have witnessed a special blessing."

    Ana heard the Archigos' last words as if they were coming from a great distance. She thought she saw her vatarh rushing to them, but the shadows in the chapel were growing darker and the candlelight could not hold them back. The darkness whirled around her, a night-storm. She pushed at it with her hands, but the blackness filled her mouth and her eyes and bore her away.