Safar guided me through big double doors at the palace’s south face and then into the spacious corridor—the one Ilana had taken me through—that led to the garden with the columned pavilion. He ushered me down a side hallway and into a snug courtyard with a fountain against the far wall. A faas filled an urn from the tumbling miniature waterfall, then hopped through a nearby doorway. The smell of roasting meat clued me in that we were probably near the kitchen. I headed to the fountain and stuck my hands under the cool water, keeping them in long after the dirt was washed clean as I tried unsuccessfully to shake the sense of dread.

“What has disturbed you?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the familiar and potent voice behind me. I whirled to see Mzatal regarding me with slightly narrowed eyes, hands behind his back.

“Nothing,” I muttered, shaking water from my hands. Maybe that would keep him from noticing that they were trembling.

His eyes narrowed a fraction more as he reached out and took one of my hands. “What has disturbed you?” he repeated as he held it flat between his. A tingle of warmth spread through my hand, and the dull ache from the scrapes faded.

He healed it, I realized with astonishment. What the hell happened to the lord who was about to snap my neck? “I don’t know why I freaked out so badly,” I said. “In Szerain’s shrine place, Turek showed me an image of a knife. A dagger. That’s it.”

“Szerain’s blade, Vsuhl. Hidden, lost.” Mzatal released my hand and then took the other. Once again the warm tingle spread through my palm, and to my surprise, in my bruised knees as well. Yet he didn’t release my hand after the warmth faded. “And still you tremble,” he said.

“Yeah, it…” I grimaced and struggled to get my mental equilibrium back. It didn’t help that I was reeling a bit from Mzatal’s bizarre behavioral shift from “scary motherfucker who will snap your neck” to “oh let me heal those booboos on your hands.”

“I guess it was a panic attack,” I said, though even as I did so, I frowned. I’d never had a panic attack in my life. “Last couple of days have been a bit stressful.”

He continued to hold my hand. “Kara, breathe.”

I scowled. “I am breathing.”

“And still you are trembling,” he replied, voice persuasive and melodic. “Focus only on the breath. Three breaths. Then call up in your mind’s eye the pygah sigil.”

My brow creased in bafflement. “The what?”

One eyebrow lifted in what might have been surprise before he repeated, “The pygah.”

I shrugged. “I have no idea what that is.” Was he fucking with me?

Mzatal released my hand and traced a simple, harmonious form in the air, visible to me even with the collar on. He lowered his hand, smiling ever so slightly as it began to tone softly. “The pygah. The balancer. Foundation for breath work for a summoner.”

“Show me again how to make it…please?” I asked, deeply curious, and at the same time wondering why the hell I didn’t know this if it was supposed to be so fundamental.

He flicked his fingers to send the current sigil away, then traced the simple loops again while I watched closely. As he finished, he touched it with potency, an infusion of power to bring it to life, like turning on the electricity. “You followed?” he asked with a questioning tilt of his head.

I nodded. I had no idea how to initiate a floater and knew I couldn’t even try while I wore the collar, but I’d memorized the pattern.

“Now, trace it in your mind and breathe,” Mzatal said, exuding patience.

A mental tracing? I complied, doing the three breaths thing, oddly surprised to find that it really did help, despite the collar. He nodded, approving. “Now you have the perspective to look at your fear.”

“Okay,” I said, brow creased in a frown. “Now what?”

“The rest is simple,” he said. “You have already, during a most challenging manifestation, recognized that which is you, and that which is Elinor.” I realized he was referring to yesterday when he revealed the statue to me. “This is no different.”

Of course, I realized. I didn’t have a panic attack. It was that damn Elinor’s freakout.

“Your fear today was acute and so interwoven you could not distinguish yourself from Elinor,” Mzatal continued. “Call up the image of Vsuhl again. Call up that which makes you tremble. Trace the sigil, breathe, and seek the boundary between you and the fear. Then expand until it is all of you and none of her.”

I met his eyes for several heartbeats as I struggled to fathom whether this was some new game or trickery of his. He returned my gaze evenly, and I finally gave up and did my best to follow his instructions. Closing my eyes, I began the careful breathing and visualized the sigil. Sweat broke out on my upper lip as I cautiously probed the memory, but gradually I could view it without the irrational reaction.

I opened my eyes to see Mzatal watching me closely. “Practice this regularly,” he said in a tone that left no doubt that he was accustomed to being obeyed. “Panic will destroy you if you do not learn to defuse it efficiently and expeditiously.”

He turned and walked away. “If you have not yet taken in the view from the west tower,” he said without glancing back or breaking stride, “ask Safar to take you. It is not to be missed, and we depart on the morrow.”

I stared after him. Practice regularly and see the sights? Amazingly, I managed to bite down on the urge to shout after him, “Does this mean you’re not going to kill me in the morning?” Instead, I turned to Safar: “I guess we’re going to the west tower.”

Safar stood, snorted, and bounded down the corridor. At the end he turned back to me and bared his teeth. “Come!”

I smiled and trotted after him, down the central corridor of the west wing and then up a broad spiral stair in the west tower. I knew this stair, or at least Elinor did, but the eerie familiarity surged when we reached the seventh floor, where the chamber spanned the entire floor of the tower with huge windows all around. Eleven of them. I turned slowly, taking it in. Easels. Tables with paints, brushes, and a host of things I couldn’t identify. A bench with hammers, mallets, and a variety of chisels. A single wooden stool, unadorned and well-worn.

Several sculptures lay toppled to the floor, broken, and at the base of one wall lay a dusty heap of shredded paintings. The stone above the heap bore a splodge of crimson paint, as though splattered from a container thrown with force. My gut wrenched at the wanton destruction of brilliance.

“Who destroyed all this?”

“Szerain.”

My twisting anguish deepened. “Why?”

“After the cataclysm, after the last of the humans died, Szerain started to sculpt and paint but finished nothing. What he began, he destroyed. In time, he did not begin.”

A deep sadness tightened my chest. I crouched and picked up a severed stone hand. Slender fingers. A woman. The dream image rose of a shattered statue of Elinor, and I wondered if there was a connection. And if there was, what did that mean? The statues were broken after Elinor died so it couldn’t be her memory. My breath caught, and cold sank into my bones. From the floor in front of me, the half shattered face of a man stared in horror, mouth twisted in a scream.

I looked around, really seeing the fragments now. Each was as exquisitely crafted as any of the statues in the palace, but every face and twisted limb was the shard of a horrific story. I gingerly placed the hand back on the floor and stood, feeling as though I trespassed on someone else’s nightmare. I backed toward the stairs, scrubbing my hands on my jeans. “Let’s go.”

Safar huffed and bounded up the next curve. I followed, glancing back once at the testament of pain. Was this why I’d never seen Ryan show any sort of artistic ability? Did this agony still grip him? Or was it simply that Szerain couldn’t express it through Ryan? I found either possibility equally heartbreaking.