Atabi stepped back and stared, his brow furrowed in worry. "What happened?" the guard asked.

"I don't know," Pilos replied, checking the ill man's vital signs once more, hoping his hands weren't shaking so visibly that the soldier would notice. "I found him like this at his desk. I have no idea how long he was there. A healing orison did nothing." Pilos felt his heart thudding madly in his chest, though he hoped his barely controlled anxiety was not visible to the guard.

Pilos had just decided to try another healing spell, one that was more powerful, but just as he was reaching for his holy coin, there was a commotion out in the antechamber. Several voices, all raised in alarm and clamoring one atop the next, began echoing in the sitting room as the doors banged open. Pilos felt relief wash through him. The arrival of older, wiser priests lifted a burden from the younger man that he had not realized he was feeling until that moment.

The priest spun around just in time to see a cadre of high-ranking Waukeenar enter the bedchamber, led by Grand Trabbar Lavant. The rotund high priest strode purposefully across the floor, his eyes focused intently on Mikolo lying atop the bed, while the others crowded in behind him. Some of them were terribly flustered and gesticulated and babbled animatedly as they followed Lavant toward their ill leader.

Pilos had to work to keep from scowling. He found the fat priest to be both condescending and vaguely unsettling in his demeanor, especially toward novice priests such as Pilos himself. And the way the others seemed to be deferring to him discouraged the younger man all the more.

Surely some of the others are more effective in the healing arts than Lavant, Pilos thought. Why do they let him dominate the situation?

Now is not the time, the younger priest reprimanded himself. The Grand Syndar's health is at stake.

Grand Trabbar Lavant stepped past Pilos without so much as a glance, and the other high priests shouldered their way past the young Abreeant, as well. The pudgy Waukeenar placed a hand upon the aging pontiff's brow and reached for his holy emblem, which hung from a chain against his bulging stomach. The other priests fell into an immediate hush.

"I attempted a healing orison before you arrived," Pilos said, stepping up beside the Grand Trabbar. The superior priest's only response was a slight smirk, and he continued his prayer.

Pilos sighed and stepped back again, wanting to give the more veteran clergymen room to aid their fallen leader, regardless of his own misgivings.

When Lavant finished his spell and opened his eyes, Pilos could see his face grow more somber. Whatever spell he had attempted, the Grand Syndar showed no improvement.

Immediately, the other high priests began to mutter among themselves once more, their faces grave and ashen. Everyone in the room realized the situation was dire.

"We must establish a healing circle," Lavant announced, silencing all talk. "Gather the materials at once. Quickly." As priests began to hurry urgently back out of the bedchambers, talking in muffled voices, Lavant turned back to Pilos and Atabi. "You were wise to fetch us," he said, looking from one to the other of them. "The Grand Syndar is very ill and needs our strictest attention." The rotund man turned to the guard. "You and your companion are to return to your station and prevent anyone other than myself and the other high priests from entering. Do you understand?"

Atabi nodded resolutely and spun on his heel to carry out his orders.

"And you, young priest," Lavant said, not even deigning to call Pilos by name, "must return to your own chambers and speak nothing of this to anyone. It would not do to upset the temple at large with this dire news. Not, at least, until we know more."

Pilos began to protest. "But I am needed by his side! I must-"

"You must let us do our holy work," the Grand Trabbar interrupted, adopting a steely gaze that made it clear he would brook no further argument from an underling of Pilos's stature. "I understand your concerns, but what the Grand Syndar needs now is our expert ministrations, and there is little you can do to aid us in that. Now return to your quarters, and when there is news, I will send someone to fetch you."

Pilos opened his mouth as if to resist further, but he snapped it shut again, knowing too well that he could not argue with a Grand Trabbar long and expect to come away unscathed. Reluctantly, in torment, he turned away and plodded toward the doors leading out of Mikolo Midelli's chambers, knowing full well he would hear little from any of the high priests once he was out of their sight.

The first fingers of sunlight were just reaching through the line of shadowtops to the east when Emriana rode into the orchard. Honey took an easy pace, and the girl gave her dun filly free rein, content to let the horse make its own way while she enjoyed the coolness of the morning. Back in Arrabar, Emriana would never have been up that early in the day, but whenever the Matrells spent time at their country estate, the girl always liked to rise at daybreak and get in a ride. With no refreshing sea breezes able to reach that far into the uplands, the heat and mugginess would become unbearable by midmorning.

As she rode, Emriana enjoyed the smells of the ripening fruit-peaches, plums, and starfruit-that permeated the grounds. There would be a good harvest of them that year, she noted, and she smiled, thinking about all the preserves and compotes that would mean. The fresh, sweet scents almost let her forget about her problems, at least for a while, but soon enough, she found herself dwelling on them once more.

Grandmother Hetta had insisted that all the women of House Matrell spend a few tendays in the country. "We need some time to recuperate," she'd said, "to get away from our troubles for a few days." That logic seemed funny to Emriana, though, for she discovered that she had spent more time thinking about the family's difficulties, not less. As she and Honey meandered between the trees, she felt dread welling up in her all over again, thinking about all that had occurred the night of her sixteenth birthday party.

Stop it, she chastised herself. That was almost three tendays ago. Get over it. Sighing, Emriana tried to obey her own inner voice, but it was hard.

Maybe Grandmother Hetta is right, she mused. But I don't need to get away from my problems. I need to face them.

It was still hard for Emriana to accept so many deaths. Uncle Dregaul and Anista Pharaboldi certainly hadn't deserved to die. And though her older brother Evester and his good friend Denrick, Anista's son, might have deserved it, she still felt sadness at their loss-or at least Evester's. Denrick could rot in the Abyss for all she cared.

She could still see Denrick taking his fatal plunge over the third-floor railing outside her grandfather's old study, and there was no remorse. Whenever Emriana started to feel a little guilty for that lack of sorrow, she reminded herself that he had tried to rape her, even going so far as to have that squirrelly wizard Bartimus magically charm the girl into cooperating. All in all, it had turned into a rather dreadful sixteenth birthday.

Emriana sighed deeply as she rode on, trying to keep all those feelings of dread from welling up again, but it was difficult. There were still threats from that night running free. The girl wondered where Grozier Talricci and Bartimus the wizard had snuck off to. Just thinking of them on the loose in Arrabar somewhere made her shiver, and she found herself glad that she was far away at the moment. They were supposed to be locked up, she thought bitterly, sealed away from her and her family within the dungeons in the bowels of the Temple of Waukeen.