They had taken Karon’s body-no, more properly, D’Natheil’s body-away by the time Paulo and I stumbled onto the fine rug laid before the council table. The patterned wool square, hastily moved, did not quite cover the fresh blood that stained the white stone floor. They had kept us waiting in a bare anteroom for several hours, able to hear only hurried footsteps and bursts of unintelligible conversation through the door. The exclamations of dismay were clear enough, though, as the word of D’Natheil’s death spread.

Gerick and Darzid were no longer present-only the six Preceptors in their high-backed chairs. The one chair sitting empty at the end of the dais would have been Dassine’s. I wondered, somewhat foolishly, who would be chosen to sit in the chair. Maybe no one. Maybe the Preceptorate would no longer exist now that Gerick, a ward of Zhev’Na, was to become the Heir of D’Arnath.

“Who is this woman? Where did she come from? And another boy? Is this one your own long lost son, Exeget?” said Ce’Aret.

“We should get on with our important business and interview spies later,” said Ustele. “Everything is changed, now.”

“Not ordinary spies,” said Y’Dan, still red-eyed from his weeping, as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “These two are not Zhid.”

“Ustele is correct,” said Exeget. “We have two matters of utmost urgency: how we are to announce the Heir’s death to the people, and what provision we must make for the boy’s care until he comes of age-approximately a year, so I understand.”

Madyalar joined in. “Would that we could anoint the child right away.”

“Are you planning to destroy this young Prince the same way you ruined D’Natheil, Exeget?” said Ce’Aret. “I pray this Exile Darzid is trustworthy as you assure us. The boy must not be compromised either by the Zhid or our own foolishness. We must find him a proper protector and suitable mentors.”

“This Exile is eminently trustworthy,” said Exeget. “And he’s already taken the young Prince to a place of safekeeping. I propose we leave him there…”

As the six of them wrangled, a low mutter rose from beside me. “He’s not dead… not dead… not dead.” Paulo was staring at the blood fading from red to brown underneath the edge of the rug. A tear trickled down his freckled face. I reached for his hand, and for once he didn’t refuse it. When he looked at me, I gave him a slight shake of the head, warning him to be silent.

“Now,” said Exeget. “Let us dispose of these spies, so we can get to our business. Not only are these two strangers not Zhid; they are not even Dar’Nethi.”

“Not Dar’Nethi? No… I see not.” An itchy warmth crept behind my eyes as old Ustele peered at me across the table. One might have thought I had three heads. “Mundanes.”

Ce’Aret sat up straighter. “Mundane spies? Who is this woman?”

“As a spy she has severe lacks,” said Exeget. He tapped the ends of his smooth, white fingers together lightly. “And one has only to look at the woman to know who she is- even if certain people are too deaf to have heard her maudlin cries.”

“I’m not deaf,” spat Ce’Aret. “There was a commotion.”

“Yes, when D’Arnath’s Heir guts himself because his head pains him, an unseemly commotion is the likely result. But come, old woman, can you not see the resemblance to our new liege? I do believe we have the honor of meeting our young Prince’s mother.” Exeget jumped out of his seat and stepped from the dais, coming to stand beside me. Arms folded, he inspected my garments and face, much the way he might examine a piece of furniture.

“The mother? The wife, then, of the other-the Exile that lived in D’Natheil?” said Madyalar, staring at me curiously. “Is that true?”

“The Lady Seriana Marguerite-widow of the same man for the second time,” said Exeget. “A sad and most unusual case. And quite mundane. Of course, mundanes are not capable of spying as we know it. They can read nothing from our minds, nothing of the auras of life, nothing beyond the dry evidence of their eyes and ears. I cannot see how a Dar’Nethi-even an Exile-could consort with such deadness.”

“Is the woman mute?” said the querulous Ustele. “Why does she stand there so stupidly?”

“What should she say?” said Madyalar. “How pleased she is to meet us who sit in judgment of her husband and her child? How delighted she is that the poor madman somehow got his hands on a knife here in the council chamber? She’s committed no crime that I can see.” The woman slumped in her chair, tapping her fingers rapidly on the table, her mouth drawn up in annoyance.

“Well, we can’t just let the woman go free.” The bald Y’Dan bit his lip and wrinkled his leathery forehead. “She might know something useful. And I don’t understand-if she was the Prince’s wife, why did he not acknowledge her? Why was she sneaking about here in the dirt and”-his nostrils flared-“the stables?”

“All good questions,” said Madyalar. “But a more useful question might be how she can help us understand our new Heir. The boy seems so cold. What child of ten calls his father a murderer? Our examination revealed no evidence of murder in our late Prince.”

“Clearly one of us must question the woman before we let her go on her way,” said Exeget. “As she cannot cross the Bridge to her own world until her own son can take her, she and her young companion will need someone to take them under his wing. I consider such a matter to be my responsibility as head of the Preceptorate.”

I almost broke my resolution of silence. I would not surrender myself or Paulo to Exeget.

“No, I’ll take her,” said Madyalar, shooting a wicked glare at Exeget. “You insisted I turn over the Prince to you for the examination, and look what’s come of it. He was wreckage, already half dead before you brought him here this morning. This matter”-she waved her hand at Paulo and me-“needs a woman.”

“How dare you question me? The Prince’s state was Dassine’s fault, not mine, and if you think I will allow the new Heir to be coddled by some maudlin female-”

“A plague on both of you”-Gar’Dena rose to his considerable height, pounding his meaty fist on the table until the floor shook with it-“and on all of us Dar’Nethi who have allowed matters to reach this pass.”

Throughout the whole discussion, the huge man had sat silently in his oversized chair, his massive head resting on thick fingers ringed with emeralds and sapphires. But now his thundering rage silenced the childish bickering like an arrow in the throat. “We were saved from one disaster by our brother Dassine and this dead Exile, whom you so callously dismiss. Now we stand at the brink of another, and you quarrel about your petty prerogatives. We should humble ourselves before this woman who has suffered such loss as we cannot imagine. We have no right to question her, but should instead beg her forgiveness and implore her to enlighten us as to what might influence her son to follow the Way of the Dar’Nethi. To that end, I will take her under my protection, and whoever says ought against it will discuss it with my fist.” A burst of white lightning spat from Gar’Dena’s jeweled hand.

Leaving Exeget and Madyalar sputtering and glaring and his other fellows openmouthed, Gar’Dena lumbered down from the dais with surprising quickness, motioning Paulo and me brusquely to the door. I could no more resist his direction than a feather could withstand a hurricane. When we passed through the bronze doors, I felt slightly dizzy, and my eyes played tricks on me, for I seemed to exist in two different rooms at once.

One was plainly furnished with a thick carpet of dull blue on the floor and padded benches of fine wood set against bare, cream-colored walls. The other room could not have been more different. A vast, opulent space, its walls were hung in red damask and gold velvet. From a ceiling painted with forest scenes and dancing maidens hung great swathes of filmy red and yellow fabric that shimmered like water, and spread on the green-tiled floor were purple patterned carpets so thick they could serve for a king’s bed. Through the slowly shifting veils, I glimpsed lamps of ornately worked brass and silver standing on large tables with black marble tops and gold lions for their legs. Statuary, silver wind chimes, ornaments of glass and silver, and baskets of flowers stood or hung in every nook and niche. Two fountains bubbled in the corners where plantings of greenery, even small trees, flourished in the soft light. Exotic birds twittered from the branches, and everywhere was music: pipes and flutes and viols, softly playing every manner of melody that varied depending on where you looked.

A large hand nudged me one step further. The plain room vanished. Gar’Dena, Paulo and I had come fully into that other place. But the ebullient decoration of the vast chamber was not the whole of wonder. Gar’Dena clapped his hands three times, and three young women instantly appeared in the room with us. One was slim and short, with long, dark hair, her hand raised in mid-stroke with a silver-backed hairbrush. The second girl was blond and tall. Surprise and annoyance crossed her handsome face as she stood in the elegant room, her upraised hands and apron dusted with flour. The third and youngest, bright and fresh-faced and surely no more than twelve or thirteen, was seated on one of the swooping fabric draperies as if it were a child’s swing. A book lay in her left hand, while the fingers of her right hand ran over the lines on the page. Her eyes were unfocused, aimed vaguely into the center of the room while she performed this activity, and the longer I watched, the more convinced I became that she was blind and yet was “reading” the book in some strange and marvelous way.

“Aiessa, Arielle, Aimee, we have guests,” bellowed Gar’Dena. “Look lively now. We need rooms, baths, supper.”

All three girls were clad in flowing, high-waisted gowns of white, the sleeves banded in blue or rose embroidery. Their elegant simplicity presented quite a contrast with Gar’Dena himself, who was resplendent in green satin breeches and a red silk doublet in addition to his hundredweight of jewels.

“Papa, you must give us more notice,” said the tall blond girl, whose flour-dusted apron was dark blue. “My bread is in mid-kneading, and there’s no wine to be had in the house. You sent our dinner to Co’Meste to redeem your wager, and the guest rooms have not been swept in a moon’s turning, since you frightened the sweeping girls. Not that you are unwelcome.” She directed the last at me with a charming smile.