One stormy afternoon Seregil discovered Alec in the library, frowning pensively as he scanned the shelves.

"Looking for something in particular?"

"Histories," Alec replied, fingering the spine of a thick volume. "Last night at Lord Kallien's salon, someone was saying how this war may be as bad as the Great War. I got to wondering what that one was like. You've told me a bit about it, but I thought it would be interesting to do some reading on it. Do you have anything?"

"Nothing much, but the Oreska library does," Seregil replied, inwardly delighted at this show of scholarly initiative. Alec generally preferred more active pursuits. "We could ride over if you'd like, and see Nysander, too. It's been days since we've heard from him."

Sleet pelted wetly down on them as they galloped through the streets of the Noble Quarter to the Oreska House. As soon as they entered the enchanted gardens surrounding it the sleet turned to warm, gentle rain.

Turning his face up to it, Seregil wondered if any of the wizards ever got bored with the perpetual summer that surrounded the place.

Crossing the second-floor mezzanine on their way to Nysander's tower, Alec nudged Seregil and pointed to the walkway across the atrium.

"Look there," he murmured with a slight grin.

Following his nod, Seregil saw Thero and Ylinestra walking along arm and arm. As they watched, Thero threw his head back and let out a genuine laugh.

"Thero laughing?" Seregil whispered in amazement.

Alec watched as the pair disappeared down a corridor. "Do you think he's in love with her?"

"He probably is, the poor idiot. Or maybe she's magicked him."

He'd meant it as a joke on Thero, but Alec's sudden blush made him wish he'd kept it to himself.

The boy never spoke of his own apparently cataclysmic tryst with the sorceress, or betrayed any sign of jealousy when speculating on her other attachments, but he was rather brittle about the circumstances.

Magyana answered their knock at the tower door.

She had a few willow leaves caught in her silvery braid and a smudge of damp earth on her chin.

"Hello, you two!" She exclaimed, letting them in. "I just dug some lovely orris root in the garden and brought some up to Nysander, but he's not here. Wethis says he's off visiting Leiteus i Marineus again."

Seregil raised a questioning eyebrow. "The astrologer?"

"Yes, he's been spending quite a lot of time with him these last few weeks. Evidently there's some sort of conjunction they're both interested in. I've got a potion on the boil back at my workshop so I can't linger, but you can come in and wait for him."

"No, we've got other business while we're here. Maybe we'll catch up with him later."

"I see." She paused, studying his face for a moment in the most unsettling way. "You haven't seen him lately, have you?"

"Not for a week or more," Alec told her.

"We've been pretty busy."

There was something hovering behind the old wizard's eyes that looked very much like concern, though she seemed to be masking it. "Is something wrong?" asked Seregil.

Magyana sighed. "I don't know. He just looks so worn-out all of a sudden. I haven't seen him look this tired in decades. He won't talk of it, of course. I wondered if he'd said anything to you?"

"No. As Alec said, we've hardly seen him since the Festival except over a few quick jobs. Maybe it's this business with Leiteus. You know how he drives himself when he's working on something."

"No doubt," she said, though without much conviction.

"Do look in on him when you can, though." She hesitated again. "You two aren't angry with one another, are you?"

A sudden image leapt in Seregil's mind; the night they'd unraveled the palimpsest together, and Nysander suddenly looking at him with a stranger's eyes as he warned—if you let slip the slightest detail of what I am about to tell you, I shall have to kill all of you.

He pushed the memory away before it could show in his face. "No, of course not. What would I be angry about?"

Leaving Nysander's chambers, Alec followed Seregil back down through the warren of stairways and corridors to the ground floor.

"The Oreska library is actually scattered all over the building," Seregil explained as they went. "Chambers, vaults, closets, for gotten cupboards, too, probably. Thalonia has been the librarian for a century and I doubt even she knows where everything is. Some books are available to anyone, others are locked away."

"Why, are they valuable?" asked Alec, thinking of the beautifully decorated scrolls Nysander had lent him.

"All books are valuable. Some are dangerous."

"Books of spells, you mean?"

Seregil grinned. "Those, too, but I was thinking more of ideas. Those can be far more dangerous than any magic."

Crossing the atrium court, Seregil swung open the heavy door to the museum. They hadn't been in here since Alec's first visit during Seregil's illness. As they passed the case containing the hands of the dyrmagnos, Tikarie Megraesh, Alec paused, unable to resist peering in at them in spite of his revulsion. Recalling the trick Seregil had played on him last time, he kept his friend carefully in sight.

The wizened fingers were motionless, but he could see freshly scored marks in the oak boards lining the bottom of the case beneath the cruel nails.

"They look quiet enough—" he began, but just then one of the hands clenched spasmodically.

"Bilairy's Balls, I hate those things!" He shuddered, backing hurriedly away. "Why do they move like that? Aren't they and all the other pieces of him supposed to be dying?"

"Yes." Seregil looked down at the hands with a puzzled frown. "Yes, they are."

Alec followed Seregil through a stout door at the back of the museum and down two sets of stairs to a series of corridors below the building.

"It's this one here," said Seregil, stopping before an unremarkable door halfway down the passage. "Stay here, I'll go find a custodian to let us in."

Alec leaned against the door and looked about. The walls and floors were made of stone slabs, laid smooth and tight together. Ornate lamps were fastened in brackets at intervals, giving enough light to see clearly from one end of the corridor to the other. He was just wondering whose job it was to keep all those lamps full when Seregil came back with a stooped old man in tow.

The custodian rattled the door open with a huge iron key and then handed Alec a leather sack. Inside were half a dozen large lightstones.

"No flames," the old man warned before creaking off again about his business. "Just leave them outside the door when you've finished."

The chamber was a large one, and filled with closely spaced shelves of books and scrolls.

Holding one of the stones aloft, Alec looked around and groaned. "It'll take us hours to find anything here!"

"It's all very logically arranged and docketed," Seregil assured him, pointing out little cards tacked to the shelves here and there. On each, a few words in faded script indicated general subject areas. "Histories of the Great War" took up several bookcases at the back of the room. Judging by the undisturbed layers of dust on most of them, there had been little interest of late in the subject.

Seregil clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "People ought to make more use of these. The past always sets the stage for the future; any Aurenfaie knows that."

Alec looked at the closely packed tiers in dismay. "Maker's Mercy, Seregil. I can't read all these!"

"Of course not," said Seregil, climbing a small ladder to inspect the contents of an upper shelf. "Half of them aren't even in your language and most of the others are ponderously boring. But there are one or two that are fairly readable, if I can just remember where to look. You browse around down there; stick to things less than two inches thick to begin with—and see if you can read them."