I did not take the rooms owing to me as Messenger in the palace’s Carillon Court when I joined the Circle. I preferred to move into the unused apartment at the top of the Northwest Tower on the outer wall because I found it easy to launch myself from its height. My window gave a view for a hundred kilometers of the river, the playing fields and white goalposts; red dock stalks sticking up from the green rough ground of Binnard meadow. Tern has never persuaded me to move back into the palace.

Tern shivered and I reached out with a wing to give her a pat on the shoulder. Tern’s wings are much smaller than mine, as are those of all Awians, because although they are the only winged people, they are flightless. I am the sole person ever to be able to fly. As I am half Rhydanne my light, long-limbed build and mountainlander’s fitness, when added to Awian ancestry on my father’s side, gave me my ability.

Hand in hand Tern and I walked down an enclosed passage over a flying buttress that spanned from the outside wall to the palace. It was a narrow, vertiginous bridge that soared over the roof of the Great Hall, stretching thin and tenuous in the air. Below us, we could only see the glow of lamps in niches outside the hall and on four stone steps that rose to double doors with opulent paneling. The deeply carved decoration inside its triangular pediment was even more ornate: two flamboyant white Awian eagles flanked the Castle’s sun emblem.

Our buttress walkway crossed above the head of the marble statue that topped the pediment, a slender woman bearing a sword and shield, her luxuriously feathered wings outstretched. Sometimes I land on the roof, providing a sudden perspective-she is twice my size. The hall was built by architects from Micawater, and Lightning is the only Eszai who would remember what the statue actually symbolizes. It could be anything: freedom, justice, the wet dreams of a hundred generations of Awian adolescents.

As I walked with Tern I thought the whole building seemed smug, as if it had soaked up the atmosphere of too many whispered indiscretions at formal parties and was simply waiting for the next.

We descended to a small cloister. A colonnaded corridor ran around the misty lawn; we walked along two sides. Outside the Throne Room its stone ceiling was elaborately carved with fan vaulting; bosses hung down like leafy stalactites. Instead of curtains the drapes that framed the Throne Room portal were sculpted from amber.

The Throne Room seemed even more massive after the narrow narthex. Tern and I walked in down the long aisle past the screen and bowed to the Emperor. The Emperor San was first to be present, according to his custom. This was an important occasion, so he wore the tall spired platinum crown that Awia presented to him when the First Circle was formed. San normally wore no crown at all. We settled on one of the front benches, because they were closest to the sunburst throne and I wanted to hear what Wrenn had to say.

On this side of the screen, the benches faced each other and were gently stepped as in an auditorium. I watched in silence as the other Eszai walked in and gradually filled the seats. Most of the women gazed at Lightning, but some looked at me. I doubt that I cut a fine figure at court, since the fashion’s long gone for looking pale and disheveled, but there’s no denying the effect I have on them. I may not command the battlefield but I can put the best spin on the outcome. I might not be a keen huntsman but I can gut a weekend newspaper. At sparring, I prefer words to swords, and I used to shoot drugs not arrows, but I’m free of all that now.

Wrenn entered the far end of the Throne Room, tiny below the huge rose window. It was symbolically important that he came in alone. He looked all around nervously and jumped as the doors closed behind him with an enormous crash. Then he began to walk, stiffly and obviously aching all over, toward us down the length of the scarlet carpet that was far more terrifying than any fencing piste. The Imperial Fyrd archers on the gallery with their pulley compound bows watched him carefully.

“That’s the new Swordsman,” I whispered to Tern. “This ordeal will be worse for him than the duel.” My initiation was an awful trial. “Before this is over, he may well wish he’d died out there.”

She leaned forward to watch him. “It depends how much he has to hide.”

Wrenn passed us slowly, giving the curious eyes of all the Eszai time to take him in. His short hair was wet from the bath or the steam room. His clothes were clean, but the same dull blue with thread holes on his sleeve where his fyrd patch used to be. He only looked straight ahead to the Emperor’s dais-though not, of course, to the Emperor himself. He reached the platform’s lowest step and knelt.

“My lord Emperor,” he announced. His voice gave way. He tried again: “I humbly petition to join the Circle and I claim the title Serein, having beaten Gio Ami Serein in a fair Challenge.” He thought for a second, eyes aside like an actor trying to remember his lines-but also because it meant he didn’t look at San. “I intend to serve you and the Fourlands every minute of my life.”

San regarded Wrenn and the members of the Circle in silence. Even at this distance I felt the scrutiny of his incredibly clear and intelligent gaze. San always wore white-a tabard with panels of colorless jewels over a plain robe that reached to the floor. The pointed toes of his flat white shoes projected from under them. The style of San’s clothes had remained the same since the year he created the former Circle, four hundred years after god left. His whole body was covered except for his thin and ringless hands.

The sunburst throne also remained a symbol of permanence. An ancient broadsword and circular shield hung from its back. They were a keen reminder that if we Eszai finally fail him in the Fourlands’ struggle against the Insects, San will again direct the battle himself. In the Castle’s stables a destrier is always reserved for him, never ridden, never used.

San rose and approached the front of the dais. “You have selected yourself for the Circle. You have humbly placed your talents at the world’s disposal. I thank you. Every successful Challenger must complete one last observance to become immortal. You must tell me everything about your life so far. Relate all that you think is significant from your earliest memory to the events that brought you here. You will not lie. My Circle will hear your testimony but they will neither interrupt nor judge. Nothing you reveal will ever be repeated. Only a refusal to speak will jeopardize your entrance into the Circle, not what you say. You have already won.

“The ceremony continues with your reception afterward: for one hour the other members of my Circle may question you as they wish. You will always reply with the truth; they will neither criticize nor condemn. They are not permitted to repeat your words at any time or place. If anyone ever reveals what he or she learns, he or she will be rejected from the Circle. During the following hour you can question the other immortals about themselves. Likewise they are obliged to tell the truth and you must never disclose what they say.”

It’s the only chance you’ll ever have, I added to myself.

San looked expectant. Wrenn hesitated. He suffered in the intense silence, and so began, “My name is Wrenn Culmish. I’m…I am from Summerday bastide town. Insects killed my mother when I was an infant and my father brought me up. He was a fyrd soldier given land for his service, and he taught me to fence…I surpassed him in skill when I was fifteen…But he proudly organized bouts with the other townsmen. I learned from them and soon I always won. So I had a faint dream of trying for the Circle.

“The year after, a soldier turned highwayman picked a duel with my father, who knew his identity. The robber waited on the road for him on the way back from the pub. My father did not return. I searched for him-I never stopped-but three days later the river washed his damaged and dirty body onto the sandy bank right in front of the governor’s house. It was so badly beaten that we could not tell how he died.