“Does anyone disagree?” Lernaion said hastily. “Aloê, are you willing to take up the task?”

Aloê bowed her head in thought. Then she said, “I accept it. God Avenger have pity on the killer, for I’ll have none.”

Naevros pounded the table and there were shouts of assent that echoed all around the chamber. Vocates left their places at the long table and went over to congratulate her. Morlock stepped off the dais to let them pass. Looking up he saw his red-cloaked, dark-skinned, golden-haired wife crowned with the stars painted on the dome’s ceiling. She seemed more than human to him in that moment, as in many others, and he laid the memory of her away in a secret temple of his mind. When the vocates drifted away back to their places he stepped up again and would have said something to her. But she stabbed him with a bitter, golden glance, and he realized that she was angry with him, though he didn’t understand why.

He shrugged and said, “Tell me later.”

“Yes.”

Lernaion rapped the Staff of Exile on the table and said, “Guardians, to order.”

“Lunch!” called out someone hopefully. The voice was disguised, but Morlock thought he recognized it as Deor’s.

The cry was echoed a couple times around the long table, and a wintry smile bent Lernaion’s brown lips. “The Guard now,” he said. “Lunch later. Guardians, I see that the stranger Kelat is with us. Let us do now as we have done before, and join our minds, strength to strength, and seek the truth in the mind of this stranger. I ask that you permit my colleague Bleys to join us at Station, so that he may prepare Kelat to bear witness.”

“Guardians!” cried a voice near the Witness Stone. “Vocates and Summoner Lernaion! I say no to this. I urge you all to say no as well.”

Looking over, Morlock saw that the speaker was Gyrla Keelmaker. Her face was red and sweating, and she leaned on the table as she shouted out her words. “Many of you know me,” she continued, “but some of you may not. I don’t come to Station to tell witty stories or make myself admired. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can go about our real work. But my brother was Thain Stockrey, and he is dead today because of this Bleys and the games he played with the Witness Stone. The Graith chose not to exile him for those crimes, though God Avenger knows he deserved it. You probed his mind with the Witness Stone and found its uncleanness to be of use to the Guard. ‘We don’t judge; we defend.’ I’ve heard it a million times. Well, I do judge, and I tell you I will not stand in rapport with that monster and the Witness Stone. Neither should you. Look at him! Look at him! How can you trust him?”

Bleys stood in a patch of chilly light from the windows. His head was bowed, his pink, hairless face frozen in a smile. The names of Kinian and Stockrey would haunt him to his grave, Morlock thought, without any sympathy at all.

Lernaion’s dark face grew darker with anger, but he spoke patiently. “Who better than Bleys?”

“Anyone! No one!” cried Gyrla. “But if you speak merely of skills, there are not a few who can see as deeply as Bleys into the unseen world, and who do not have the blood of fellow Guardians on their hands.”

“You would persuade me better if your tone were calmer,” Lernaion said in a level voice.

“When she finds no one will listen, a Guardian’s voice may grow shrill,” Noreê said thoughtfully. “I agree with Gyrla in this. Our rapport will be deeper, our union closer, if Bleys is not part of it. I don’t trust him either, and I doubt I am alone here.”

There was a general growl of agreement and Lernaion glanced thoughtfully around the table. “Very well,” he said. “It is for you, Guardians, to decide who stands at Station with you. Illion and Noreê: after Bleys, you are called the greatest seers in the Graith. Will you prepare the witness for the Stone?”

“Wait a moment,” said Jordel.

“Have you an entertaining story to tell us, Jordel?” Lernaion said, his long calm fraying to the breaking point.

“Thousands,” said Jordel agreeably, “and I’ll tell them to you some time over wine and shellfish. But for now, just one point. I don’t trust Bleys either. He keeps his white cloak thanks to you and Earno. But now Earno is dead, and for all we know, you may be next. When we are in rapport with each other and the Stone, Bleys may work some harm against us. I hope you don’t mind my being so frank, Summoner Bleys?”

“If I were allowed to speak in this assembly,” said Bleys warmly, “I would assure Vocate Jordel of my willingness to harm him. As it is, I prefer to stand silent.”

“I guess that’s irony?” Jordel said. “Anyway: who’ll guard the Guardians while we question the witness? It must be someone Bleys couldn’t get around somehow.”

“Let him do it!” said Noreê, pointing at Morlock. “They hate each other almost as much. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“. . . as much as you hate us both, my dear?” Bleys suggested in his most grandfatherly voice.

“My peer,” Lernaion said heavily, “be silent.” He turned to Morlock. “I don’t know if Noreê spoke in malice or in jest. But I think she’s right. What do you say?”

Morlock weighed his options and at length said, “Yes.” He stepped off the dais and went to stand by Bleys.

Deor came over and stood on the other side of the old summoner.

“Well, well,” said Bleys in a genial whisper that was audible through the whole room. “A scion of Theornn on each side of me. I almost feel one of the clan.”

Neither Morlock nor Deor rose to the bait, but Naevros made a throat-clearing sound of disgust and walked past the other vocates, nearly shouldering Lernaion out of his way. He walked down the steps of the dais and went to stand next to Morlock.

“I stood with Morlock in the North and I stand with him now!” Naevros shouted up at Lernaion, who was staring coldly down at them.

“We see that,” Lernaion said evenly, and turned away.

Morlock felt his face grow hot. The tangle of emotions between him and Aloê and Naevros was more than he could easily understand. But Naevros’ good opinion had always meant a great deal to him, even before he had known who Aloê was. He pounded Naevros on the arm and said nothing; there was nothing he could have said.

Bleys looked as if he wanted to say something; his mouth was working as if he had just discovered it contained a live scorpion. But in the end he, too, was silent.

They watched as Illion and Noreê led the stranger Kelat to the Witness Stone.

Morlock had been present at a handful of such events, including one that had preceded his birth, when his mother Nimue Viviana had stood on the Witness Stone. They always filled him with a certain dread. But he did not like standing aside while Aloê went into rapture without him. If there was danger, he felt they should share it. But he had made his choice and would stand by it.

Aloê noted the passing of Illion and Kelat only vaguely. Her thoughts were focused inward, preparing her mind for rapport. The union involved would be superficial, but she did not want her anger against Morlock spilling out into the minds of her peers; it wasn’t their business. She wrapped her private thoughts in a cloak of solitude and hid them deep within her.

Her insight told her that her peers were ready for rapport. She took the first, shallowest step into vision.

She was one-yet-separate with laughing Jordel, bitter Noreê, angry Gyrla, frightened Rild . . . all of them, all of them were there with her. She did not sense the stranger, though—could catch no echo of Kelat in all the voices in her head.

The rapport was odd. Fiery. The talic world was blood-bright, smoke-dark. Something was wrong. Something was wrong and it was her. She heard her voice speak the words of the dragon and knew her will was lost.