PRELUDE

Sins long buried had clawed their way to the surface.

Mother de Nobili had discovered this terrible truth, and now she was running for her life, having abandoned her outreach mission. Her heart pounded fiercely as an eldritch creature crashed through the trees behind her. If it caught her, it would devour her, and she couldn’t allow that, for she carried a warning that would shock and terrify the world.

She quickened her pace, fear pricking her heels. But fear alone could not force her body of twoscore years to sustain such exertion. Her head throbbed with pain, and her strained heart threatened to fail.

Exhaustion rendered her clumsy. She lost her footing and tumbled down a mossy embankment, coming to rest beside a shallow pond. Her hide tunic and loincloth had done little to shield her from the myriad cuts and bruises that marred her golden-brown skin.

Forcing herself to stand, she spoke the eighth meditation, Meditatio de Fatigatione, used to combat fatigue. “Corpus meum voluntate mea renovatur. My body is renewed by my will.”

As she stumbled ahead, the trees began to thin, and she heard the roar of water. Risking a glance behind her, she saw a flash of black amidst the trees on the slope above. Though its form was indistinct, she saw the monster was as tall as the trees themselves. Through the soles of her worn leather sandals, she could feel the dreadful thump of its many feet.

In a panic, she ran pell-mell toward the sound of the water.

She cleared the trees and found herself at the top of a waterfall. She could only guess at her location. Was this a tributary of the Mazewater River in Westmarch? If so, how had she strayed so far from her assigned region?

Below the waterfall, she saw a peasant and his young son angling the waters with ash fishing-rods. She drew a quick breath and shouted a warning. “Run, lest the child be eaten!”

But her voice was weak, and they hadn’t heard her over the rush of the falls.

Pain lanced through the right side of her head. Her left leg went numb, and she collapsed to one knee. She suspected an apoplexy, an affliction that could prove fatal. But she could not allow despair to consume her resolve.

Sensing the approach of the creature behind her, she crawled toward the top of the falls. She rolled into the water and was swept into the torrent. The raging water propelled her outward, and she plummeted into the plunge pool below.

For a terrifying moment, the waterfall pinned her to the river's rocky bottom, and she feared she might drown. But her right leg was strong enough to push her free, and she bobbed to the surface a few yards below the falls. An upward glance showed no sign of the pursuing beast, and she dared to hope she had escaped its massive, envenomed fangs.

On the shore, the peasant boy hopped excitedly and pointed at her. He and his father were speaking but she couldn’t hear them over the crash of the water.

She called out to them, fearing she might drown. “Help me! I must warn the Prelate!”

Her words came out slurred, and the fisherfolk still hadn’t heard her clearly over the roar of the falls.

The left side of her body had abandoned her, so she leaned rightward and struggled toward the shore.

As she neared, the peasants dropped their fishing rods and the wide-eyed father cast a protective arm across his son.

Somehow, she dragged herself ashore. She could not stand, and struggled just to rise to her knees. Her vision blurred, and when she tried to speak, her words were nothing but gibberish.

To her horror, the man kicked her hard in the chest, sending her flying back into the river.

He shouted to his son. “She don’t speak our tongue. One of them dirty barbarians, she is. They all got the frenzy.”

As the current took her, she tried to reach under the collar of her hide tunic, to show the fearful peasants the holy pendant that hung there. Despite her primitive clothing, she was not a barbarian, and she was not frenzied. If they saw the pendant, they would surely help her.

A violent spasm wracked her body, and her vision began to fade.

Sins long buried had clawed their way to the surface, and she could not—would not—die before her warning was heard. With the last of her strength, she cast a garbled plea across the water. “Hear me, or perish!”

CHAPTER 1

A pair of piebald cob horses stamped impatiently, eager to be on their way. They were harnessed to a wagon filled with sacks of rye and corn from the spring harvest.

Atop the wagon sat an agitated peasant couple. The wife, gripping the reins, scowled at a privy house beside an opulent inn with timbers painted in teal. “What’s taking him so long? Zody, the day be getting hotter.”

The husband shrugged as he eyed the privy. “Might be his lordship fell in.”

The wife chortled. “A lord? He’s wearing scholar’s black, and has neither horse nor hunting sword. And that unshorn hair! I keep expecting an owl to fly out.”

“He got a signet ring on his wee finger. So he must be a noble.”

“Faugh. A sham ring, you mark me. He’s one of them schoolfolk putting on airs. We should be on our way. Leave him to his privy work.”

The husband scratched the gray stubble on his chin. “But he already coined us for the ride.”

She huffed. “He didn’t pay us to wait for his collywobbles. We got grain needs milling. Mitra’s the only miller we know who’s working on Solis, and she closes early today on account of the tourney.”

At long last, Sperling Sprunt emerged from the privy house. He wore a loose black gown cut just below his knee, made for hot weather. His lavish silk school belt was brocaded with silver crowns and flowers on a field of black, with the top and bottom edges threaded with gold. A worn leather travel-bag hung from a strap over his shoulder.

He offered the couple a pained smile, speaking in a rich university accent, “Apologies. It seems that dreadful pheasant from supper has made a riposte.” As he turned to close the privy door, the peasants caught a look at his backside. His gown was caught in his belt, exposing his graying silk braies and long, bare legs, grown muscular from foot travel.

The wife cackled.

A blush crept across Sperling’s face as he straightened his gown. He offered a sheepish grin that revealed his chin dimple. “Apologies, it seems I’ve left the postern gate open.”

He composed himself, running a brawny hand through his hopelessly wild, chestnut hair, and over the struggling beard on his lantern jaw. Then he approached the wagon with his best attempt at dignity. He had an important journey to make.

Sperling perched on a bag of rye grain nestled in the wagon bed, directly behind the bench seat occupied by the peasants. Though grateful to be off his feet for this stretch of the journey, a sore tooth hounded him, and he prodded it with a wince. Dismayed, he tried to distract himself with the beautiful view.

The wagon rolled toward St. Thrasea’s Tower in Wywick, which loomed on the horizon. They were traveling east on Crown Road, a wide brimroad with a soft gray surface that muffled the hoofbeats of the cobs.

Sperling heard melodic birdsong as they passed groves of beech and hickory trees. On the north side, the Grand Canal ran parallel to the road. Wildflowers grew along the canal, browning in the summer heat. The waterway hosted horse-drawn barges carrying quicklime, lumber, and iron, most of it bound for Blackheath. The nobility occasionally vacationed on the canal, but their luxury barges rarely ventured here after the spring bloom.

The husband turned in his seat and spoke to Sperling in a low voice, “Might be there’s bandits on this stretch ahead.”

Alarmed, Sperling tucked his shoulder bag beneath his arm. “Verily? Bandits? Are there no roadriders on patrol?”

“What, with the Midsummer Tournament starting today? Even them bastards take a day for tourneys. What about you? Here to watch the tilting?”

Sperling shook his head, speaking in a low, nervous tone. “I’m to meet my brother. A farewell of sorts. He’s joining the army. Then I’m off to Gallia. I’ve been accepted into the Flores program at the University of Argenteaux. It’s a big decision, leaving Anglia, but sometimes one must take a deep breath and jump.”

The husband blinked at him in surprise. “You one of them Green Mages?”

“Not as yet. I’ve a Doctorate in Botany from the University of Blackheath. But to become a Practitioner, I must study for three more years in Argenteaux.”

The wife cut into the conversation, never taking her eyes off the road. “Botany? Speak plainly, zod it.”

Sperling replied, his wary eyes searching the roadside. “Plants. I study plants. I wrote my dissertation on the history of organic fertilizers. Did you know that before the Brim, nightsoil and manure were highly effective fertilizers? Now we must mix them with potash or ground corn cobs to approach the same efficacy. No one knows why. It’s quite the mystery, I tell you.”

The wife frowned. “You sayin’ you studied shite at that fancy school of yours?”

Sperling looked away, trying to keep his chin up. “Yes, well, my own humble contribution to the commonweal, I suppose.”

Something in the trees ahead caught his attention. He gasped and pointed to a darting shadow. “Look there!”

The husband turned and squinted. “Got yourself some sharp eyes.”

“Tell me ‘tisn’t bandits.”

“Sorry friend, can’t do that.”

The wife snickered as she drew the wagon to a halt. “They’ll go hard on you, Green Mage. Might be they’ll take that name ring, finger and all.”

Sperling cringed and tried to pull off his signet ring, but it wouldn’t budge. He gasped in horror as an armed group emerged from the trees, neckerchieves hiding their faces. He was sickened at the thought of losing his small finger to these rogues.

Abruptly, the bandits were seized by uncontrollable laughter. And Sperling saw the swords they waved were made of wood. He had taken fright for naught. These were only peasant children playing a game, and his drivers were indulging their shenanigans. Sperling let out a long breath. These little rapscallions had no doubt given him his first gray hair.

The peasant couple handed out sweetbread to the children. Sperling had fond memories of sweetbread, something their cook had made for him as a child. He fetched a few farthings from the scrip inside his shoulder bag. He passed out the coins to the kids, knowing it was unwise. His money grew scant now. Wywick was near, but he wasn’t sure he had the funds to reach Argenteaux, where his destiny awaited.

Having parted with the peasants, Sperling was on his own now. He stood in Martyr’s Square, at the center of Wywick, amidst a horde of tournament goers. He noted the locals favored the black-and-white colors of House Ravenhill, but the outside visitors went out of their way to flaunt outlandish raiment and wave bright flags of bunting, occasionally hooting for no good reason.

Stepping around a man carrying a purple pennant and wearing an impossibly orange hat, Sperling joined the queue outside a cookshop selling coffin pies. Their sweet scent was intoxicating. Above him loomed the round tower of St. Thrasea’s Cathedral, the mark of a Holy City. Any Imperial city with its own cathedral was considered a Holy City. Sperling had never been a religious man, but he was impressed by this cathedral. Wide stairs led up to a grand portico, where stood a massive pair of doors plated with pale green marble tiles. A row of lancet windows stood above the portico, framing a giant stained-glass window in the shape of a red rose.

The long hand on the tower’s turret clock shifted to the eleven mark. The ensuing eleven strikes of the bell nearly deafened Sperling. The clock’s short hand, marking the quarter-hour intervals, snapped upright to indicate the top of the hour.

Sperling had arranged to meet his older brother, Forwin, outside Stock Arena, the tourney venue. They would have dinner nearby, watch a bit of the tournament, and say their farewells when Forwin left to join the army. Sperling felt a jab of anxiety. This was the Golden Age, an era of peace, but soldiering could still be dangerous. Perhaps this would be the last time he ever saw Forwin. Sperling had never liked him, truth be told. Forwin was a callow bully. But his offer to join the army would save the family finances. Perhaps Forwin had finally come of age in mind as well as body.

A space had opened at the counter of the cookshop, an ad hoc structure of canvas on a timber frame. A red-faced man with no time for bandiment grumbled at Sperling, “What’ll it be?”

Sperling tried to cheer the baker with a smile. “Good morning, gentle sir! Have you something with apples?”

The baker grunted and stepped away. In the back of the cookshop, Sperling saw a portable clay oven mounted on a handcart. Something about it troubled him.

The baker returned and set a coffin pastry on the counter before Sperling. It was the size of a small cake, encased in a thick, burnt crust. A wooden stamp had left the crust marked with an apple-shaped imprint. The burns didn’t worry Sperling. The crust was not meant to be edible. It served only to preserve the contents. Unopened coffin pastries would last a week on the road, and this one would be perfect for his trip to Argenteaux.

Sperling grubbled in his scrip for a halfpenny. He lamented the inflated tournament prices, but there was naught for it. “May I ask which apples you used? Would they be Wywick reds?”

The baker nodded.

“And the cinnamon? ´Tis true cinnamon, from Bharata? Or is it the inferior cassia from the Celestial Empire?”

The baker frowned, noticing Sperling’s signet ring. “His Lordship might be better served elsewhere. The Palace o´ Pies makes a coffin with Nordale apples, and they put faces on the crusts. Right classy and all. Be well now. Next!”

Sperling smiled awkwardly, realizing he had offended the vendor. “Dear no, I cannot afford Nordales. This one is adequate, thank you.” He handed over his halfpenny. The coin vanished into the baker’s jingling tunic pocket.

Sperling lingered, though he felt the pressure of the rabble queued behind him. He pointed to the clay oven behind the baker. “You’ve a crack in the right front wheel of that oven cart. The wheel will collapse soon, and the oven will slide off the cart bed.”

The baker, taken aback, turned to survey the wheel. “What, you an augur of carts?”

“I’ve an eye for trouble, inherited from my grandfather.”

The moment Sperling took his pastry, he was jostled aside by a hungry female watcher in a blue and gold uniform. She had jumped the queue and was in no mood for dawdlers.

As he stepped away from the cookshop, Sperling took a square of waxed linen from his shoulder bag, wrapped the pie, and managed to stuff it into the bag without breaking the sturdy crust.

As he left the cookshops, Sperling found himself drawn to the pink-blossomed trees that marked the grounds of Wywick College. He recognized them as pink dogwoods. They were flowering late, undeterred by the summer heat, and he suspected they had been expertly greened by a Practitioner.

Sperling encountered a modest crowd observing a group of student adherents of St. Chrysippus. They were finishing a debate on pneumanism. Sperling knew that Wywick produced a few postpneumanists, though there were many more in the north. Followers of the Northern Church were Logists who insisted parts of the soul were handed down to the next generation upon death. Thus, the world would become wiser with each successive generation. Sperling had no idea if that was true but hoped that it was.

The final speaker, a young, black-robed woman with fiery eyes, gestured to the crowd. “In conclusion, I invite you to consider that my arguments provide a plausible explanation for the existence of evil. Within the natural order, pneuma dissipate upon death. But outside of that order, the souls of the Old Gods, such as Hadrix, maintain cohesion when they die. As the years pass, the world changes, but Hadrix does not. He becomes increasingly alienated from the world around him, embittered by a humanity he no longer recognizes. His heart swells with darkness, giving birth to evil.”

Sperling tensed at the mention of Hadrix, a force of genuine malice, unlike many of the rustic superstitions.

With the disputation concluded, the participants presented themselves to the audience, who voted for a winner with their applause. The young woman lost the debate but accepted the defeat with grace.

Fresh adherents approached to begin the next debate, and the young woman departed, striding toward the pale stone buildings of the nearby college.

Without warning, a burly man seized Sperling from behind, locking his arm around Sperling’s neck. He forced Sperling to bend forward whilst the big man ground his thick knuckles against the crown of Sperling’s head. “Ave, Sperlie! Good to see you again, little brother.”

Surprised, Sperling extricated himself from Forwin’s grip. His brother wore black silk hosen and a red-and-gold brocaded doublet that was too tight for his expanding paunch. Both brothers had avoided the worst symptoms of pallor and had grown strikingly tall. But at six-feet, two-inches, Forwin stood an inch taller than Sperling, and was exceedingly proud of that inch.

Sperling frowned at his brother, his surprise turning to irritation. “I thought we were meeting at Stock Arena.”

Forwin shrugged. “Saw you here, so why wait? Now tell me straightaway, did you see this pale dragon I keep hearing about? The one that flew over Blackheath?”

Sperling sighed. “I was in the uni privy.”

Forwin chortled. “You’ve always spent too much time in there. Is it true though, about the dragon?”

Sperling shrugged. “Dragons retreated from these lands centuries ago. And there are no records of pale dragons. It was likely just a cloud.”

A tall woman of perhaps thirty approached from behind Forwin, speaking poor Anglish with a thick Gallian accent. “Ah, I find you now, my swain. Why do you stray from me? Who is this scholar who steal you?”

Forwin brought her forward, presenting her to Sperling like a revered artifact. “Sperling, this is my sweeting, Isabeau Pennier. Her parents are fromagers in Argenteaux, of all places!”

Sperling shook her manicured hand, trying to ignore her cloying perfume. “A great pleasure, gentle mistress.”

Her haughty green eyes surveyed him, lingering for a moment on his signet ring, a match to Forwin’s own. “I do not know there is a brother.”

Sperling frowned at Forwin. “You might have mentioned me. Perhaps in passing?”

Forwin shrugged and grinned. “Look at her. How can I keep a thought in my head?”

Sperling’s eyes darted to the quaintrelle. Her honey-colored hair curled in ringlets that bounced above the low bodice of her burgundy gown. Sunlight danced off the gold-and-emerald pendant adorning her ivory throat, a display of opulence uncommon for a merchant family.

Forwin put an arm around Sperling’s shoulders. “Come now, let’s eat and I’ll tell you my plan. I know an inn that serves that eel you like.”

Sperling felt a faint sense of dread. What had Forwin meant by my plan?

Sperling leapt up from the table. His trencher full of boned eel clattered to the floor. “What? You’re not joining the army?” As if on cue, tourney horns sounded in the distance.

Across the table, Isabeau smiled smugly, and Forwin couldn’t meet Sperling’s eyes. The inn’s brown mongrel darted in and gulped down Sperling’s fish. The proprietor’s son, a young man who had been filling their jacks with ale, pretended not to notice.

Forwin still wouldn’t look at his brother. “Isabeau and I are in love. And her family needs my help with their business.”

Sperling sputtered, unsure of where to start. “First, other than consuming it, you have absolutely no experience with cheese. Second, you are heir to the Barony of Daventry. Mother will be arranging our marriages, especially yours. And third, we need your military income and the tax benefits. If you haven’t noticed, our barony is struggling to pay its share.”

Forwin shook his head sadly. “It’s too late, Sperling. Our estate is already insolvent.”

“You were our last hope, Forwin. Father sent you off with the bulk of our fortune to purchase a horse and armor. Where are they, by the way?”

Forwin stared into his goblet. “Yes. About that…”

Sperling stepped back from the table. “Our money! God’s body! What have you done with it?”

Forwin shrugged. “Expenses. I purchased passage to Argenteaux with the Traveler’s Cooperative. For all of us. We’ll go together. No walking for my little brother.”

“Pish, that’s a pittance! What happened to the remainder?”

Forwin could only shake his head as Isabeau held up her pendant, displaying a verdant gem of startling clarity. “Jewel cost many marks. It show his love for me. How to say émeraude in your ugly Imperial Tongue? Em…er…ald?”

Tears of anger and desperation welled in Sperling's eyes. He pulled at his unkempt hair. “And Mother always said Forwin’s the responsible one. What an oxymoron!”

Forwin flashed him the fig. “You’re an oxymoron.”

Sperling sighed. “Do you even know what that means?”

Forwin stiffened. “What about you? Why don’t you get out there and earn us some coin as a mage?”

Sperling sighed. “In three years, when I’ve completed the program, I shall become someone’s apprentice. But it will take a decade to build my own practice and repay my uni loan. And I must repay it. The bank demanded hard collateral for every farthing. They’ll literally own our estate if I default. However, you, as a soldier, would make a handsome wage from the start, and earn our family a fifty-percent tax abatement when you retire. We desperately need that, thanks to that spiteful assessor who overvalued our estate.”

Forwin shot to his feet, glaring at Sperling. “And how is that my fault?”

Sperling gaped. “I fail to understand your outrage. You offered to join the army. ´Twas your idea. That’s why Father gave you the money for armor and mount. Hold now! Was it ever your intention to soldier, or was it all a ruse to fleece us?”

Forwin leapt across the table and punched Sperling in the face. Sperling didn’t go down, but he recoiled in dismay.

Meanwhile, Isabeau flushed with exhilaration.

Forwin grimaced and examined his aching hand. “I think you broke it. When did you grow an iron jaw?”

Sperling shook his head in disgust. “I’m no longer the half-sized lad you pummeled with painful regularity.”

Forwin’s anger evaporated, replaced by a pleading urgency. “Sperling, try to understand. I’ve got Isabeau now. And love makes you mad as the bear. But we’re still brothers and I’ll make this up to you. Somehow. Look, our carriage leaves soon. Come with us to Argenteaux. We’ll find a way to work this out.”

Fuming, Sperling drew a halfpenny from his scrip, leaving it on the table as a gratuita.

Sperling slumped miserably in a coach upholstered with the blue and green of the Traveler’s Cooperative. Forwin and Isabeau sat across from him. Beside him sat an increasingly uncomfortable Gallian wine merchant who could sense the tension. She kept looking out the open window as if seeking another carriage.

Their driver looked in on them through the window. “Lords and ladies, we can depart now if you’re ready.”

Forwin nodded vigorously. The driver stepped away and Sperling heard the carriage creaking as she climbed into her seat. The brake disengaged with a thunk, and he heard the slap of the reins.

As the carriage began to move, Sperling looked out the window and saw the roundabout that led to Raven Gate, the entrance to the massive March Bridge. Built by the Brim, the bridge stretched for a mile and a half over the Copper River, and hosted more than a thousand shops and stalls. Once across it, they’d be on Border Road, the brimroad that formed the border between Caledon and Gallia. And so would begin their six-hundred mile trip to Argenteaux. Sperling was struck by the utter wrongness of it all.

Forwin spoke, as if reading his mind. “I know this wasn’t how you planned it, but worry not.”

Sperling’s face filled with despair as they circled the roundabout and approached Raven Gate. “I worry for our family, not for myself. Yes, ´twas our parents who ran the barony into the ground. But that was forgivable, considering… what happened. But what is your excuse, Forwin? You were afforded every advantage of the eldest child, yet have accepted none of the responsibility. Your intransigence in this matter defies my comprehension.”

Forwin frowned. “And you, brother? Have you no part in this?”

Sperling shrank into his seat as his despair deepened. “I do. I blithely acquired a fearsome educational debt, risking our estate to pursue a childhood dream.”

Forwin shrugged. “Chin up, mooncalf. We all make mistakes.”

In that instant, a part of Sperling yearned to strike Forwin. But Sperling wasn’t a violent man, and he was too sick at heart. If his family became destitute due to his poor decisions, he couldn’t live with himself. Somehow, he had to save them.

Glancing out the carriage window, Sperling saw they had already passed through Raven Gate. There was never an inspection of outgoing traffic, especially a TC coach. They were on the March Bridge now and would be out of Anglia in less than a quarter hour.

Coming to a decision, Sperling opened the carriage door, revealing a view of the river beyond the bridge’s parapet. He looked down at the bridgeway rushing beneath the carriage wheels. Until this moment, he had lived a measured life, but now it was time to take a deep breath and jump.

Forwin’s brow furrowed. “Godshite, Sperlie, the carriage is moving!”

When Sperling heard his own reply, it sounded far away. “I care not.”

Forwin tried to close the open door but couldn’t reach it. “Be sensible. You can’t walk all the way to Argenteaux.”

Sperling shook his head sadly. “That is not my destination.” He took a deep breath and leapt from the rolling coach.

CHAPTER 2

Lady Lavinia Harhaven glared out the misted window of her stalkwood luxury carriage, a cocoon of pale wood paneling and velveted cushions. She had short raven hair, a sumptuous brown doublet slashed with white, and ivory hosen stretched tight over her muscular legs.

She surveyed her Bearcroft escort, brown and white tabards rippling in the breeze as their horses’ hooves thumped the common ground along the brimroad. A checkerboard of croplands stretched beyond them.

Displeased, Lavinia spun like a hawk, her dark eyes pinning the majordomo sitting across from her in the carriage. “Lodyngton, this tedious journey rankles me. Why have we not reached Wywick?”

Her middle-aged servant shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fussing with the gold stitching on the cuffs of his russet silk robe. His small eyes darted like frightened sparrows, avoiding her glare. “Not to worry, my Lady, we’re making good progress. But please remember we can still turn back. The Smoke Hills remain within easy reach. Your aunt need never know of this detour to the tournament.”

She tapped a jagged scar on her lip. “I am a warrior, not a digger. Prospecting must wait. I’ve earned a day in the tilt.”

He bobbed his head reflexively, and his neck wattle quivered. “As you say, Lady Lavinia. Perhaps you could mention your plans to the Mining Chief in our retinue? She worries over the delay.”

Lavinia scoffed. “That pudgy little maker with the odd name? What was it again?”

“Strangewayes, my Lady,” responded Lodyngton, eyes on his own slippered feet. “Jesmyn Strangewayes. The one you asked for. Graduated top of her class, as per your requirements.”

Scowling, Lavinia leaned toward her majordomo. “Don’t parrot my own requirements. And keep that mage at bay until I’ve settled into my pavilion. Heed me, Lodyngton, or I’ll pickle your bollocks.”

The majordomo gave a weary nod.

Jesmyn sat on the back bench of a creaking, covered supply-wagon at the end of the Bearcroft procession. With the hood of her black academic robe lowered, her blonde hair fluttered in the summer breeze. Her leather scrip and sheathed paring knife hung from her luxurious school belt, a weave of white spearpoint suns on a field of black, with red edging. She was enormously proud of the belt, marking her as a Practitioner from the University of Highthorn.

Her hand, adorned by a thick gold ring with an oval red gem, rested protectively on the leather rucksack that contained her spell log and spellbook. As a nascent mining mage, she kept detailed notes on her chosen disciplines of Cutting, Bonding, Magnetism, and Transforming Properties.

Her matter staff lay propped against her shoulder. Precisely 1.8 yards in length, the staff had a chunk of dusty-white brimsteel mounted in its head. Nearly all Matter Mages carried such staves, used in a variety of disciplines. It was also her house weapon, and she could wield it in self-defense.

Jesmyn sat facing south, gazing behind the procession, her round face wearing a perpetually troubled expression. Her large emerald eyes surveyed the Copper River on her right, more than a mile wide, with Gallian greenery on its far shore. The river had been widened and dredged by the Brim, and now hosted an enormous volume of water. The hated occupiers, now long gone, had brought magic to the world. But Jesmyn knew it was their vast geoengineering projects that had birthed the Empire and this Golden Age.

She grimaced at that thought. A golden age, perhaps, for nobles such as Lady Lavinia. But not a golden age for all.

Her reverie was shattered by a sight that tugged at her heartstrings. A brimdog with filthy white fur, pointed ears, and sad blue eyes huddled alone at the base of a milestone. The Brim had brought these intelligent dogs to the world, and they were normally larger than a wolf. But not this one. It seemed the painfully thin animal was forlorn and waiting to die. And she understood why.

The dog had been born a runt. Peasants bred village dogs to be large and fierce, and they commonly cast out runts like this. From Jesmyn’s point of view, that was a clear violation of the Empire’s protection of the weak law, banning cruelty and abuse against people and animals. But in rural areas, it was sometimes not enforced for animals. Not that villagers were inherently cruel, but they saw dogs as unpaid labor, not as cherished pets.

A few people had stopped along the road to make way for the procession, but none paid heed to the poor dog. Jesmyn had a powerful urge to leap from the cart and rescue the creature. She was strong for her size, but slow. If she left the cart, her group would not wait for her, and she might never catch up.

The dog locked eyes with her and Jesmyn felt a connection. She had difficulty bonding with people, but not with animals. Her decision made, she grabbed up her staff, shouldered her rucksack, and clambered off the moving cart, nearly falling face-first on the road. She enjoyed food and had led a bookish life. That had taken a toll on her full-figured body. And it didn’t help that she was short, even for a maker, barely five feet tall. She shook her head as her father had taught her, warding off the unhappy thoughts about her body. Then she hurried down the road toward the forsaken dog.

Moments later, she reached the poor animal, so weak it could barely wag its tail. A man approached from the other side of the dog, and she wondered if he was its caretaker.

Jesmyn and the man both knelt to pet the animal, and it began licking their faces.

The man was in his mid to late twenties, with dark skin and red hair. He was a foot taller than Jesmyn, and his teeth shone like pearls as he smiled. “It seems we both have a soft heart for strays.”

He spoke with a university accent, but Jesmyn thought it was an affectation. She detected an Iron River accent beneath it. The man wanted to appear educated, but likely wasn’t.

As they stood to introduce themselves, Jesmyn heard tiny bells, and realized they were attached to the cuffs of the man’s particolored cotehardie, green on one side and red on the other. It was an odd costume, punctuated by a St. Seneca pendant on prominent display.

Unlike most crafters, Jesmyn’s family was not religious, but she knew enough about Logism to recognize his pendant. St. Seneca was one of the four Logist Martyrs. He was famous for his stoic plays, all of them tragedies. The saint had become a favorite of poets, actors, and minstrels. Was this man some sort of entertainer?

He reached to shake her hand. He was undeniably handsome, with long fingers ornamented with many bright rings. Her maker’s eye saw the rings were inexpensive, all set with semi-precious stones in base metals.

He released her hand and bowed. “Zanther Asabi, Burgher of Bryhill, and curator of curiosities, at your service.”

As often happened to makers, she couldn’t maintain eye contact as she spoke. Her parents had taught her that firstborn interpreted this as rudeness, but she couldn’t help herself. “Jesmyn,” was all she managed to blurt before crouching down again to pet the dog.

He eyed her school belt and unadorned matter staff. “A practitioner, I see. Impressive.”

Petting the dog had calmed her enough to express her practiced greeting. “Apologies. I am the Practitioner Jesmyn Strangewayes, University of Highthorn. Former Journeyer in the Maymoor Boring Guild.”

The dog, a female, now lay on her back while Jesmyn rubbed her furry stomach.

Zanther grinned at the sight. “Well, Jesmyn Strangewayes, it seems we’ve rescued a dog. What shall we name her?”

After a moment of contemplation, they both spoke the same name at once. “Luna.”

Zanther laughed at the synchronicity. But it troubled Jesmyn. Why had she chosen Luna? And how had this stranger thought of the very same name? Jesmyn didn’t like coincidences and mysteries. She demanded an explanation for everything.

Jesmyn reached into her rucksack and pulled out a square of hardtack, part of the common rations she had purchased at the Traveler’s Co-op in Maymoor. She fed it to Luna, who greedily wolfed it down.

Zanther produced a half-eaten piece of cheese from one of his many pockets and added it to Luna’s meal. “I didn’t expect to meet a wizard along the road. Are you bound for the tournament in Wywick?”

“A mining mage. And yes.” Jesmyn winced at her brief retort, remembering she was engaged in a conversation and was supposed to be more loquacious.

Zanther cocked his head and gave her an appraising look. “Have we met before? Perhaps in Bryhill? My parents are mercers there, exotic cloth. A dull trade I found I could not stomach.”

“No,” Jesmyn responded reflexively, though he did seem familiar somehow. Her memory for people and faces was poor. She hoped she didn’t know him from petty school, a three-year humiliation that still haunted her.

She pulled some salted pork from her rations and fed it to Luna. Feeling Zanther’s gaze upon her, Jesmyn nervously twisted the ring on her finger as she watched Luna eat.

The ring caught his attention. “Now that’s a curiosity if I ever saw one. What is its provenance?”

Jesmyn smiled. She held up the ring so that the gem shone in the sunlight. “When I was six years old, I discovered a hoard buried during the Brimian invasion. It was on the Viscount’s land, so he claimed the bulk of it, but he let me keep this ring. It’s unalloyed gold, set with an uncut garnet. Gothic era, well over two centuries old. For now, I’ll work as a mining mage, or perhaps open my own magerie. But when my casting career is over, I want to hunt for those hoards and collect Gothic jewelry, which I’ll restore and sell in my own shop.” She beamed at her ring. “But this one I’ll never sell. It’s a bit of a cipher, you see. Gothic styling is usually more austere and pointed, but this is oddly flowery.”

She suddenly stopped and put her hand over her mouth.

Puzzled, Zanther tilted his head. “Something wrong?”

Jesmyn looked away. “Mother told me not to speak of jewelry, because I cannot stop. Conversation is supposed to be an exchange of information, so perhaps you could speak now. Tell me about your curiosities.”

“Gladly, my beringed wizard!” Zanther reached into a pocket and produced a lacquered wooden box, which he opened with a flourish, revealing a lump of amber. “I present to you, a genuine dragon scale, preserved in amber. A fragment more than a whole scale, but still, they’re in demand since that dragon was spotted over Blackheath.”

Jesmyn frowned. “A fairy tale, surely. The few surviving dragons live in the distant north. They are creatures of fire, easily overcome by the southern heat.”

She leaned in and peered at the amber. The scale looked like a flake of bark, but with tremendous effort, she managed not to speak her mind. “Will you sell it in Wywick?”

He nodded. “Among other trifles. And you? To where are you bound?”

Belatedly, she noticed his brow had furrowed. Was he angry, confused, or hurt? She couldn’t tell, and there was no point in guessing. She turned her attention to the now distant Bearcroft procession. “I am with the Bearcrofts. Lady Lavinia wishes to tilt at tourney. But we’re supposed to be prospecting. That’s why I was hired.”

“If you want to catch them up, I’ve a Co-op horse we can share.” He pointed down the road to a brown rouncy nibbling on a tussock of dry grass. The double saddle, dyed green and blue, held a shortbow in a leather case, along with a quiver of arrows.

Jesmyn frowned, speaking reflexively. “There isn’t space for me.” But already, with her maker’s eye, she knew she could fit.

He waved off her objection, causing the brass bells on his cuff to jingle again. “Nonsense, we can cozy up! Come along, the both of you, we can still catch them.”

Energized by the food, Luna was up and about, and seemed capable of travel. Brimdogs were incredibly resilient.

Jesmyn gathered up her staff and rucksack, and reluctantly followed Zanther to his horse.

When they reached the animal, Zanther held out the reins to Jesmyn. “I can ride behind you in the saddle.”

She shook her head, staring at the ground. “I know naught of horses.”

“You must allow me to remedy that.” He swung effortlessly into the saddle and helped Jesmyn climb up behind him. She had to lean so heavily into the stirrup, she feared the saddle would slide off.

The back of the double saddle was sized for a child, and she rested uncomfortably upon it. But she didn’t complain. Zanther’s proximity was distracting her. Heart athrob, she felt a strange brew of fear and exhilaration.

Zanther pointed to the distant procession. “Luna, would you be so kind as to lead the way?”

Brimdogs were known for their intelligence, and Luna, though a starved runt, was no exception. She stalked ahead toward the Bearcroft procession.

As Zanther coaxed the horse forward, Jesmyn began to slide from the saddle.

“Hold on to me,” he admonished.

Jesmyn balanced her staff horizontally between them and wrapped her arms around Zanther’s waist. His body was trim and muscular. She wanted to say something witty, but knew if she opened her mouth, incoherent babble would emerge. When in doubt, close your mouth, her mother had always said.

Zanther guided his horse to the busy Co-op stable outside of Wywick, marked with the green and blue flag of the Traveler’s Cooperative.

Sitting behind him, Jesmyn looked past the stable, and saw the Bearcroft procession queued to enter Wywick’s South Gate. Their guards had weapons which had to be checked in. Most weapons, including Zanther’s bow, must be surrendered at the gate and collected again upon departure. Her matter staff, however, was exempt from this rule, as were the hunting swords that nobles wore.

Luna paced around Zanther’s horse as he dismounted and helped Jesmyn down from the saddle. Her thighs were sore from the short journey.

“A TC horse is the best way to travel,” said Zanther as he lifted his bow case, rucksack, and quiver from the saddle. “Their main office is near the March Bridge, but they have stables outside all the gates. If you traveled with your own horse, you’d have to cross swords for a rental stall during the tournament.”

The groom, a sweating young woman in Co-op livery covered with horsehair, emerged from the stable to collect Zanther’s horse.

He reached beneath his cotehardie and produced a hidden pendant on a chain around his neck. He wore a St. Seneca pendant on the outside of his clothes, but Jesmyn hadn’t realized he wore a TC pendant inside. He flashed the square bronze pendant at the groom, who nodded as she took the horse away.

As Jesmyn eyed the pendant, Zanther held it up for her inspection. “I’m a Half Member, so I can rent horses at a fifty percent discount. It was a gift from my parents. I suppose they thought I’d be using it for family business.”

As the pendant spun in the sunlight, she saw Zanther’s brimprint stamped on the back, a series of sixteen Brimic characters.

The First Empire had attempted to eradicate brimprints but had failed. Brimprints were simply too useful, especially for sealing contracts. Jesmyn had long since memorized her own brimprint, though she’d made little use of it. For some reason, Lady Lavinia had yet to profer a contract for her work as Mining Chief.

Zanther smiled, nodding toward the great tower that rose above the unwalled city. “St. Thrasea’s Tower. What do you think?”

Jesmyn surveyed the cream and bronze tower with an engineer’s eye. It rose two hundred and eighty feet, or perhaps a bit short of that, she estimated, without any sign of instability. “It has an impressive foundation,” was all she could think to say.

“Ever been inside?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Never been to Wywick.” In truth, she was excited to be here. She had spent most of her life in Maymoor and Highthorn, and longed to see more of the world.

Zanther tucked away his TC pendant. “But you’ve heard the stories, no doubt. What would you like to see here?”

Jesmyn considered the question for a moment. “The artificial lake, said to be a remarkable feat of engineering. And perhaps the Grand Canal.”

He nodded vigorously. “I too would enjoy seeing them!”

Jesmyn tilted her head. “Engineering feats interest you?”

Zanther laughed and flashed his pearly smile. “Come now, who doesn’t love a good engineering feat?”

Jesmyn sensed she was missing something. But she didn’t have an opportunity to explore the thought. A voice behind her nearly stopped her heart.

“Froglet? Is that you?”

Jesmyn, fighting the urge to run, turned to see a woman emerging from the outbuilding beside the stable. She looked to be a merchant, with a sleeveless blue vest over her breezy silk tunic. Jesmyn didn’t recognize her, but knew where she was from.

The woman hurried over with a scampish grin. “Froglet, it is you! My, how you’ve grown. It’s me, Orliana, from petty school in Maymoor.”

Acutely aware of Zanther’s presence, Jesmyn felt mortified. Why did this have to happen here, and why now? Jesmyn silently cursed her luck, while avoiding the eyes of her old nemesis. Her days as Froglet had been the worst of her life, and she didn’t care to revisit them.

Jesmyn shook her head. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” It troubled her to lie, but this Orliana creature didn’t deserve the truth.

Orliana smiled, undeterred. “Remember when we said you were the dire child of an Eronyan Shah, and that she had tucked you away in Anglia to hide you from her enemies? We shouldn’t have done that, of course, but in our defense, it was vastly entertaining. When we told you the Shah was coming to take you back, you ran straight home and didn’t return for two days. Merry times!”

Jesmyn turned her back to Orliana. In truth, she had forgotten the dire child incident. Because it couldn’t compete with the other abuses.

Orliana looked annoyed, and then frightened, as Luna began to nip at her heels. “I suppose I’ll be on my way then. You really ought to leash your zodding hound.”

The woman hurried toward the stable to collect a rental horse.

After she left, Jesmyn found herself too humiliated to meet Zanther’s gaze. “Vexing,” was all she could think to say.

Zanther thrust his thumb between his first and second finger, directing a fig gesture at the woman’s back. “That’s no way to treat a Practitioner.”

Eager to flee the awkward situation, Jesmyn gathered her staff and rucksack, turned away from the stable, and began walking toward the city gate.

Zanther called after her. “Wait for me, if it please you, whilst I pay for the horse. It will only take a moment.”

Jesmyn wanted to be alone, somewhere she could twist the ring on her finger and rock herself into a calmer state. But she knew that wasn’t possible. She took a deep breath and turned to face Zanther. “I must report to Lady Lavinia’s pavilion. Thank you for your help.”

As she turned to leave, she heard Luna barking. The dog sounded distressed. Jesmyn turned back to see Luna spinning about, exactly halfway between herself and Zanther.

Zanther moved to pick up the dog, jingling the bells on his cuffs. “Practitioner Strangewayes, after your meeting with the Bearcroft noble, consider visiting me and Luna at the market, east of the tower. I’ve rented a stall there to sell my curiosities. And perhaps later, we can explore Wywick, and visit that wondrous lake you spoke of.”

Jesmyn cast a guilty look at the doleful Luna. They were kindred spirits, both runts, and Jesmyn found she couldn’t abandon her. “Very well.”

Then she rounded on her heel and made for the gate. The interactions with Orliana and Zanther had rattled her. Why did Zanther persist? A selfish part of her wished he had a romantic motive. But such things were not her lot in life.

More than anything now, she wanted to speak with Lady Lavinia and begin the prospecting expedition. She hoped the noble would prove a pleasant employer. Jesmyn really didn’t need another jangled nerve.

The tournament pavilions stood in a fallow field just outside of Galliete, Wywick’s Gallian district. Dozens of brightly colored tents, each with their own snapping flag, vied for Jesmyn’s attention. The vivid spectacle overwhelmed her senses, making her a bit queasy.

Clutching her matter staff, she plodded through the harrowed soil, making her way to the brown and white Bearcroft pavilion under their provincial flag.

Upon seeing her, the two house-guards, now without weapons, parted to allow her entry. As she lifted the flap, she smelled a strong floral scent.

The light dimmed as she stepped inside, but her eyes adjusted instantly. She saw well in dim light, as did all makers.

Lavinia’s majordomo, she couldn’t remember the lickspittle’s name, sat huddled on a cushion against the edge of the pavilion, a mug of ale in his hand. He gave Jesmyn an intentional look, but she didn’t grasp its meaning.

A topless cupbearer, wearing only a loincloth and pink fabric cat ears, knelt at Lavinia’s side and filled her chalice with wine. The boy was lithe and beautiful, but his exploitive costume troubled Jesmyn.

Lady Lavinia sat in a wooden folding chair, her long legs stretched out before her. She brushed a fleck of dirt from her white hosen, then rubbed the scar on her lip.

Was Lavinia angry about something? It seemed so, but Jesmyn wasn’t certain. As for the scar, Lavinia had the coin to repair it, but she hadn’t. Perhaps she thought it fiercened her countenance.

Remembering her manners, Jesmyn bowed to the noble, keeping her eyes downcast. “Practitioner Strangewayes, my lady. I wish to speak of the prospecting crew awaiting us in Marswood. I seek to travel ahead, joining them to begin the work.”

Lavinia took a deep draught of her wine, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her doublet. “Tell me, maker, when I tilt on the morrow, will you be on the Bearcroft bench, profering your huzzahs?”

Jesmyn continued to look down. “No.”

“And why not?” snapped Lavinia.

Jesmyn no longer doubted the noble was angry. “The clash of weapons. The roar of the crowd. They are…unsettling noises.”

Lavinia’s voice turned soothing and sympathetic. “Poor little dandiprat. There must be something wrong with your ears. But no worries, I’ve a new pair for you.”

She whispered something to her cupbearer. The boy put down his flagon of wine and rose from his knees. Lavinia gave him a lecherous swat on the rump.

Jesmyn responded to Lavinia’s shenanigans with a disapproving frown.

The cupbearer pulled his pink cat ears from beneath a tangle of dark curls. Each cat ear was attached to a wire frame that gripped like a pair of spectacles.

Jesmyn recoiled as the boy approached her. The cloying floral odor was some awful fragrance he wore. She gritted her teeth as he lifted her blonde hair to attach the cat ears. He arranged them artfully, so that the pink ears peeked from her hair, giving her a sylvan quality. These were the toys of a child, and Jesmyn felt silly wearing them. But she knew better than to complain. This was her first job out of uni, and if she botched it, she would have a difficult time finding another.

Lavinia offered an arch smile. “Look you, my pudgy little pet. When I tilt on the second day of the tourney, I expect to see you seated with our contingent, wearing those ears. And I expect to hear you cheering. What’s more, if I lose my match, you can bid farewell to your job as my mining chief. If I lose, you lose. Do you mark me?”

Jesmyn’s gut clenched. “Yes.”

Lavinia waved her hand. “Good then. Scurry off, runt.”

Jesmyn wanted to scream, and she wanted to cry. But despite Lavinia’s despicable treatment, she couldn’t afford to indulge her emotions. Her grandfather’s inheritance had paid for her education, but her beloved parents had beggared themselves repairing her malformation, and she wanted to support them in their old age. If Jesmyn failed in this venture, she would also be failing her parents. So, as instructed, she turned abruptly and scurried off.

As she exited the Bearcroft pavilion, she anticipated reconnecting with Zanther and Luna at the market. She wanted to run her fingers through Luna’s warm fur. And she wanted to tell Zanther that her entire future now rested on the outcome of a single tilt. No doubt he’d say something disparaging about Lavinia. Jesmyn would enjoy that. She suspected he had no interest in her as a woman, but perhaps they could become friends and share their troubles. People did that, she knew.

She tried to focus on Zanther, and not the upcoming tilt that would determine her fate.

CHAPTER 3

A pair of impish clerics, a woman and man in their early twenties, tip-toed down a stone hallway lit by an arched window with open shutters. Both students wore the white, short-sleeved robes of curates in the Order of Mercy. The distinctive short sleeves of their order kept their cuffs out of patients’ wounds.

The curates passed a menial hunched on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a coarse linen rag and a pail of soapy water. Treading on her clean, wet floor, the curates made their way to a chamber at the hall’s end. Its wooden door was painted white, marking a patient’s room. Without knocking, they cracked the door open and slipped inside.

Within the small, austere chamber, the priest from the waterfall sat on the bed, her legs drawn up to her chest. She no longer wore crude clothing cut from animal hides but was dressed in the long, bleached tunic given to all patients. The mats had been shorn from her dark hair, and her cuts and bruises had healed. She clutched a dove pendant on a chain around her neck as she warily regarded the uninvited callers.

The female curate spoke quietly to her male companion. “Say nothing of this to Aurisma. She might tell Mother Frowseloure. Or perhaps even her Benevolence.”

The young man tutted. “Did you hear how she spoke to the Prelate last week? As if she owned the cathedral. I know Auri venerates St. Thrasea, but there are lines even he didn’t cross.”

The young woman nodded. “Pity we might be working under her one day.”

“Bah, they’ll give her the crook. You mark me.”

The two stepped closer to the woman on the bed. The female curate, fascinated and nervous, spoke to her companion in a rush. “They’re calling her Fera. It’s Latic, for ‘wild animal’. She’s the barbarian who came down through the waterfall. Seems she’s had an apoplexy. There’s nothing we can do for that, but still, they sent her here.”

The male curate’s eyes gleamed with wonder. “A barbarian?”

“Verily. They found her wearing animal skins and babbling in a hill tongue.”

He cocked his head at the patient’s pendant. “How did she obtain a dove?”

His companion responded sotto voce. “Probably stole it from a priest she murdered. They’re headhunters, you know. If she wanted to, she could leap up from that bed and wring your neck like a harvest goose.”

He stiffened pridefully. “I can defend myself if needed.”

Attempting to prove his valor, he took a tentative step toward Fera and plucked the pendant from her fingers, stretching it out on its chain. He spoke to her, slow and loud. “You stole this pendant, yes?”

Fera eyed him angrily, trying to retrieve the pendant, but the curate refused to loosen his grip.

Suddenly, someone slapped his hand, and he lost his hold on the pendant. Fera retreated and stuffed the pendant under her white tunic.

Irritated, the young man spun to face the interloper.

Aurisma regarded him with contempt, her full lips turned in a frown. “She’s our patient, you wicked mooncalf. I’ll not have you mistreating her.”

Auri was a reverent, and her powerful violet eyes pierced his soul, forcing him to step back.

The female curate, incredulous, studied Aurisma, noting her raw hands, her coarse linen tunic and trousers, and the sweat on her flushed face. “Aurisma? Was that you scrubbing the floor back there?”

Aurisma pulled strands of her dark, mid-length hair from her eyes. “They made me a scrubber for the summer hiatus. Punishment for correcting Professor Etton in class. She was wrong, of course, not that it matters. Doesn’t trouble me, though. We can’t have dirty floors in hospital. Now, the two of you, get out of here before I tell Mother Frowseloure you were goading a patient.”

Auri’s body was lean and strong, and she looked like an animal ready to pounce. But it was her eyes that undid them, the violet eyes of a reverent. And not just any reverent. Auri was pledged to St. Thrasea, so she could weigh the virtue of their souls, no doubt finding them lacking.

Both curates rounded on their heels and absented the chamber.

Auri’s demeanor shifted like quicksilver as she turned to Fera. The reverent’s kind smile comforted the patient, wrapping her in its ardent embrace. The violet eyes that moments ago had inspired such fear now expressed a commensurate compassion.

The right side of Fera’s mouth smiled as Aurisma knelt beside the bed.

Auri’s voice, now without its dominating tone, sounded much chattier. “Worry not, cousin, you’re in Wywick, at hospital in Anglia. This is Last Hope, next to St. Thrasea’s Cathedral. I’m so sorry about what just happened. We’re supposed to be helping you, not grabbing your dove and calling you Fera. That’s a cruel name, if I may say. May I call you Tacita? For now, at least? It just came to me, and I think it sounds grand.”

Tacita only stared at her, uncomprehending.

Auri cocked her head as she regarded the woman. “You’re not a barbarian, are you? I think the apoplexy jargogled your speech, and those idiots thought you were speaking a primeval tongue. That happens with apoplexies. People can lose their ability to speak and understand words. Do you still have your letters? Sometimes those remain.”

Auri gently guided Tacita’s right forefinger to her raw, red palm. “Can you draw a letter on my hand. Perhaps an O?”

But Tacita didn’t draw a letter. She simply clutched Auri’s hand and gazed intently into the reverent’s violet eyes, as if she desperately wanted to tell her something.

Auri noticed that Tacita’s pendant chain had gotten knotted, so she gently straightened it. “There we go. All tidied.”

Tacita suddenly recoiled as the door flew open behind Auri.

Mother Frowseloure entered. Her long gray robe hid her feet, and she seemed to glide into the chamber like a phantom.

Aurisma didn’t like this priest. The elder woman was virtuous enough, Auri knew, but she was a needlessly harsh person.

The priest tsked at Auri, her lined face locked in a habitual frown. “Aurisma Shawe. Why are you here? Don’t you have a floor to scrub?”

Auri stood to face the irritated woman. “I finished it, Mother Frownseloure.”

“Did you just call me Frown-seloure?” the priest huffed.

Auri’s cheeks flushed. “Slip of the tongue, Mother Frowseloure.”

“Bah. You do nothing by accident, you insubordinate wretch. Your mother was the same when she was here.”

Auri frowned at that, snapping back, “I’m nothing like her.”

A man in black robes entered the chamber behind Mother Frowseloure. Shiny red threading lined the edges of his school belt, the mark of a practitioner. He was middle-aged, with ruddy features, and looked quite uncomfortable. Auri could sense his magery, as could all reverents. It pricked her skin like a sleeping limb. From the design of his belt, Auri saw he was a Body Mage from the University of Blackheath. That was passing strange. Practitioners rarely ventured into Church territory.

Mother Frowseloure glared at Auri, not bothering to introduce the man. “The Body Mage is here to read the barbarian’s brimprint. Once we’ve confirmed she’s not in any Majority Archive, we can release her.”

Aurisma had expected this visit. Before they had perished in the Thaumacaust, the Brim had marked nearly all of humanity with brimprints. Each person, including newborns, now had a unique Brimic signature that could be read using magic. Paper records of the brimprints were aggregated in Majority Archives buildings near cathedrals around the Empire. Only reverents, such as herself, had no brimprint.

Auri immediately saw the flaw in Mother Frowseloure’s plan. “A provincial archives search could take months,” she protested. “Let’s not spuddle about. Send a dove to Vevento, where they keep copies of all the parish records in one place.”

The Mother harrumphed. “Do you know how expensive that is, girl? Of course you don’t. You’re a sheltered reverent. What do you know of the real world?”

“I am not sheltered! I was born and raised here in Wywick. I’ve even been to Low Town.”

“Good then, let’s put that street savvy to work. Take a few pence from the errand box and fetch food for the patients. Quick now, hop like a rabbit. If you’re not back in a quarter-hour, no library privileges for a week.”

Auri raised her voice in protest. “It’s the Midsummer Tournament. It’s madness at the market. I can’t possibly finish that quickly!”

Mother Frowseloure only stared at her, silent for a moment, before finally speaking. “Fourteen minutes left. Hop hop, little rabbit.”

Realizing the woman would make good on her threat, Auri grudgingly lowered her head. “God’s grace, Mother Frowseloure.”

Aurisma turned to say farewell to Tacita and found the woman staring at the Body Mage near the door. Tacita looked worried and Auri wanted to assure her that reading a brimprint was painless. But before Aurisma could speak, Mother Frowseloure pushed her out into the hallway.

The grumpy priest may have won this conflict, but Auri vowed to revisit Tacita. The patient’s mind was ajumble, and Aurisma intended to make order of that chaos.

Midsummer Day was crowned by an endless blue sky. Market Street, closed to horses and wagons during the day, was packed with colorfully dressed revelers. And though the air was heavy with the aroma of fresh bread and pastries, Aurisma had no time to indulge herself. She was perilously close to losing her library privileges.

Today was Solis, marking the end of the week. It was a day of rest and devotion. Normally, most markets would be closed. But the March Tournament had brought in travelers from all the border provinces, known as the marches, and so the vendors kept their stalls open. Many flew gay pennants, and all had inflated their prices.

Auri shifted restlessly as a produce vendor filled her wicker basket with potatoes and carrots, nestling them next to the bread she had already bought. There were produce vendors closer to the cathedral, but Auri had rushed all the way to Stock Arena, where the best vegetables could be found. She wanted the patients to receive the freshest and heartiest food.

Absently, she restacked a pair of apples that had escaped the display. Her thoughts were focused on the time. She had been given only fifteen minutes and had already used the bulk of it. She glanced left, down the length of Market Street, where the cathedral tower loomed over Martyr’s Square. She might yet make it back in time, if she ran.

The vendor, a middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows and a tight smile, seemed in no hurry to fill her basket. He eyed her conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a level she could barely hear over the din. “Got a brother over in the meat market. Tebner, he be. Tell him I sent you and he’ll drop a farthing off your mercy meat.”

Aurisma offered him a smile. She could sense he was a virtuous man, albeit a slow-moving one. “Thank you, but we eat fish at hospital, and only on Solis.”

The man cocked his head. “What? Even on feast days? You one of them folk, what you call them?”

“An ichthyophagus. Fish eater. Most clerics eat mercy meat on feast days, but many from the Order of Mercy do not. We believe it damages the constitution.”

A trumpet blast echoed across the market. Auri turned to her right, where the March Tournament was getting underway in Stock Arena. All four flags of the March Provinces flew proudly over the stadium. The Westmarch banner of House Ravenhill, host of the event, stood the highest. Below it fluttered the flags of Northmarch, Crownmarch, and Southmarch. The flags all featured weapons or fierce creatures. To Auri’s eyes, they offered only violence. She preferred the Holy Dove, the flag of the Church. But of course, it never flew over a joust, only at the top of St. Thrasea’s Cathedral, a Prelate’s seat.

Aurisma’s gaze was drawn to Ravenrock, the black-marble castle that rose in the heights beyond the arena. The massive citadel was a remnant of Anglia’s dark and distant past. Auri wished they’d paint it something jolly.

A young child rushed past her, all capers and cheek, scampering toward the arena. He was a boy of Eronyan descent, probably from the Quarter, and he wore a pair of pink cat ears that completely charmed her.

A boggle raced alongside the boy. Auri had read about them in Cathedral school. The small, arboreal creatures were tool users, but rarely seen in cities. This one had a feline face with blue and green fur, and sauntered about on its hind legs.

One hundred and twenty thousand people lived in the Holy City of Wywick. And perhaps an additional twenty or thirty thousand visitors were here for the festival. Each of these people was a unique thread in the tapestry of the Logos, and Aurisma felt the combined weight of them. But of all these people, this Quarter-born boy was now the focus of her attention. She sensed that his thread had somehow sprung loose and was threatening to unravel from the tapestry.

Auri turned to the vendor, pointing at the child. “I think that boy is starving.”

The seller shrugged as he put the last handful of carrots into her basket. “Faugh, don’t look hungry to me, larking about with that tree rat.”

Auri glanced into her basket. “I can spare him some bread. But I’ll never make it back in time.”

“If ya ask me, shouldn’t encourage his lot. That’ll be two wheels.”

Auri reached into a scrip she carried on a cord around her neck, and fetched a pair of silver pennies from her Church coin, each with a waterwheel on one side and stalks of wheat on the other. She paid the man and grabbed up her basket. “God’s grace, gentle sir.”

He nodded farewell as Auri hastened toward the scamp and his boggle. No doubt this detour would cost her library privileges, but she felt it a worthy cause.

Behind the wooden walls of the arena, the crowd cheered in reaction to some act of martial prowess. Aurisma frowned. Violence had its place in the natural world. It was woven into the tapestry of the Logos. But there was a difference between fighting to eat, or to survive, and fighting for the lurid entertainment of the firstborn rabble. The spectacle saddened her.

Just as she approached the boy, a screaming man in green and red livery pinwheeled out of the arena. He flew over the wall, bounced on the cobblestones, and rolled against a nearby fountain.

Auri felt the victim’s agony. Pushing aside her shock and horror, she dropped her basket and rushed to the fallen man. She was vaguely aware of the boy and his boggle running in to grab her scattered food, but she paid them no mind. A man was dying before her.

As she knelt over the small man, she saw his life fading. She took his hand, and her violet eyes reached into his pneuma to comfort him. She sensed that he was not a good man. But somehow, that didn’t matter now. The man said something, but Auri couldn’t hear him. Blood trickled from the back of his head, staining her robe where her knees touched the cobbles. He was too far gone. She would never get him to Last Hope alive.

Desperate, she called out to the gathering crowd. “This man is dying! He needs a Body Mage.”

As a cleric, it pained Auri to call for magic. Her mother, a reverent who had mastered mending, might have been able to help this man without magery. But her mother was a mature reverent, and Auri had not yet developed those powers. Aurisma knew only traditional healing techniques, and those wouldn’t help her now. Her eyes flooded with tears as she felt the man’s soul run free.

She released his hand and made the sign of the dove, both palms on her chest, her two thumbs intertwined, with her fingers pointing up toward each shoulder.

Aurisma stood before a copper basin perched on a wooden bench. She had stripped down to her braies and chemise to scrub the blood from her robe. As she labored over a washboard in the basin, lye stung her cracked hands and made her eyes water.

Mother Frowseloure entered the hospital washhouse, frowning as she saw Auri’s sad state. “Given the circumstances, we can issue you a new robe.”

“I’m nearly finished,” Auri replied.

The Priest’s frown deepened as she observed Aurisma’s frantic scrubbing. “What happened to you out there was traumatic. If you asked him, I’m certain Father Hurlok would unburden you.”

Auri shook her head.

“As you like. But you may receive a visit from the Prelate,” continued Mother Frowseloure. “For some reason, her Benevolence has taken an interest in you.”

That was interesting information, and for some reason Auri hadn’t known it. The only thing she liked about Mother Frowseloure was her lack of discretion.

Mother Frowseloure sighed after Auri failed to respond. “You’re off duty for the next two days. Use the time to restore yourself.”

As the priest turned to go, Auri asked hopefully, “And my library privileges?”

Mother Frowseloure replied without turning back. “Still intact.”

Auri exhaled in relief. She now regretted her intentional mispronunciation of the woman’s surname. Something about the grumpy priest brought out the petulant child in Auri.

Aurisma’s lips twisted as she saw the bloodstain on her robe was still visible, even after all that work. Perhaps it was best to acquire an unsullied robe, as Mother Frowseloure had suggested. And once that was sorted, she had an important visit to make.

Auri entered Tacita’s chamber and found the woman standing at the unshuttered window, staring at the walls of the nearby cathedral.

Auri held out a wooden trencher. “Good afternoon, Tacita. They said you had refused our usual lunch, so I brought you something more appealing. Humble bread, made with corn meal. With sweet butter and apricot jelly. It’s one of my favorites.”

With a half-smile, Tacita accepted the trencher and set it on a table at the foot of her bed. But she made no move to eat it.

Auri crawled onto Tacita’s mattress and sat with her legs folded, then motioned for Tacita to join her. Tacita nodded and sat on the mattress facing Auri, as if they were two friends exchanging gossip.

Auri took hold of Tacita’s hands. “Something bad happened today, at the tournament. And somehow, it made me think of you. Because something bad happened to you as well, did it not?”

Tacita regarded Auri, uncomprehending. Auri could see that she was frustrated.

Aurisma’s violet eyes reached into Tacita’s soul. As a follower of St. Thrasea, she had been trained to judge a person’s virtue. And she saw that Tacita was indeed a virtuous person. In fact, unusually so.

Suddenly, Auri felt herself slip, as if she was falling. She trembled with sudden dread. It was the paralyzing, existential dread that a child feels when a monster stirs beneath her bed. And the dread was accompanied by a terrifying memory. Tacita’s memory.

It was night, and she stood in a forest clearing. Moonlight shone on a mass of dark gourds growing at her feet. She stomped on a gourd, breaking it open, and picked up one half. The gourd looked like the inside of an animal, filled with small organs pumping blood.

A moonshadow fell across her, and she looked up to see a barbarian in furs, riding atop a great, horned stag. The mounted figure lifted a bow.

Aurisma yelped and released Tacita’s hands as she clambered off the bed.

Tacita gasped in relief and scrambled off the bed to embrace Aurisma. Tacita began to whisper slurred nonsense. Auri didn’t understand the words, but she knew their meaning. Tacita was expressing gratitude. But why? Was it because Aurisma now understood some of what she had experienced?

Auri, struggling to maintain her composure, returned Tacita’s embrace, then gently parted from her. Aurisma extended her hand, palm up, and closed her fingers into a fist. It was a stoic gesture called assent. In this context, it meant that she had accepted Tacita’s memory as real, as something Auri was willing to act upon.

Auri’s knuckles whitened as the memory continued to frighten her, so real it seemed as if the archer was in the room. She suddenly knew how she had acquired this memory, and felt her composure starting to slip. “Tacita, my apologies. I must go.” Then she fled the room.

Auri lay curled on her bed, absently fingering the pair of pendants hanging from her neck on silver chains. One was the Holy Dove, worn by all clergy, and the other was the face of the stoic, St. Thrasea.

Her chamber window was shuttered, but the morning sun crept between the panels. She frowned at a mote of dust swimming in the ray of light that stretched across the room’s tidy interior. Her copy of the Complete Enchiridion, a gift from her father, sat on the desk next to her steel buckler. The Church tolerated the small round shield because it was her house weapon, and was primarily defensive. The codex and buckler were her only personal possessions. Her candles, tinderbox, quill, inkwell, sand tray, and leaves of paper all belonged to the hospital.

Auri had spent most of the night in contemplation. As a Logist, her dream had always been to live a virtuous life and achieve eudaemonia, a state of happiness and well-being. But living a virtuous life sometimes rankled authority. That was the story of St. Thrasea, who was martyred for his virtue. Auri was at no risk of martyrdom, but if she didn’t navigate Tacita’s situation with the upmost caution, she could bring down the wrath of the Prelate.

During her contemplation, Aurisma had asked herself the questions of influence. One: Is this a situation I can influence? And two: If yes, how can I best exert my influence? As was usual, she had decided yes on the first question. And after that, she had devised a plan to address Tacita’s needs. Now it was time to put her plan into action.

As Auri rose from the bed, she was struck by a terrible wave of dread. She cried out in frustration. The dread felt like her own emotion. But it wasn’t Auri’s trauma, it was Tacita’s. And though the terrible memory of the bloody gourds lived within her now, Auri knew she could choose how to feel about it. And she was determined not to take fright. Calling on her training, she whispered the seventh meditation, Meditatio de Timore, to drive away the fear. “Dum exhalo, metum meum resolvo. As I exhale, I release my fear.”

She breathed in deeply, and as she breathed out, she felt some of the dread depart. Before she could repeat the meditation, she heard a soft knock on her door. Somehow, she knew who was on the other side. She steeled herself and called out, “Enter.”

Her Benevolence, Prelate Silbia Jendring, the mistress of St. Thrasea’s cathedral, entered Auri’s room. The Prelate wore the cloth of her office, a pale gray robe with lavender trim and a green collar. These were the colors of the rock dove, the symbol of Logism. Silbia’s skin was black and lined, like the bark of an ancient tree that had survived a great fire. Her white hair was wispy and her brown eyes were clouded with age.

The Prelate was a noble, as were all Prelates. Reverents, and indeed all secondborn, were not allowed to become nobles. And so the Church was ruled, for better or worse, by the firstborn.

Silbia swept into the room with haughty grace and lowered herself into the chair at Auri’s desk. After a dramatic moment of silence, she spoke in a cathedral accent still dominated by her noble heritage. “You’ve been ensconced here for two days. Are you aware of that?”

“I am, your Benevolence” replied Auri, more sharply than she had intended. “I had much to think on.”

The Prelate crossed her arms and tilted her head. “You’ve experienced something, Aurisma. Not the casualty at the arena. Something to do with Fera.”

Auri knew it wasn’t a question. The Prelate suspected what had happened and was demanding an explanation. Aurisma inhaled deeply, gathering her energy for the battle to come. “Her name is Tacita. And I unburdened her. An accident, mind you.”

Silbia raised an eyebrow. “You are too young for such a feat. What have you, twenty-one years?”

Aurisma nodded stiffly. “Nonetheless, I did. And when I unburdened her, I took away more than just her painful emotions. I also took one of her memories. At first, I thought I had shared this memory. Now I understand that I took it from her, unburdened her of it. It’s a bizarre memory. I saw a primeval archer riding a stag. He was protecting a crop of gourds. These gourds were…alive…somehow, with the organs of living beasts.”

The Prelate lifted her hand, palm up, with her fingers spread wide. It was a stoic gesture called withholding, indicating she had not accepted Auri’s statement as real, worthy, or actionable. “Aurisma, unburdening doesn’t function in that manner. You remove negative emotions, not memories. Ask your mother. She’ll tell you the same.”

Auri suppressed her annoyance. “Be that as it may, I have an idea for helping Tacita.”

Silbia waved her hand. “No need. We’re awaiting word from the registers. If she’s not listed, she’ll be released into the wild. And if she is, she will be sent to her proper home.”

Aurisma shook her head. “That will take months, and we’ve no time to wait. The archer and the bloody gourds represent a danger, a warning of what is to come. So I’ve developed a better plan.”

Silbia raised both her eyebrows. “Have you now?”

Auri took a deep breath and charged ahead. “I suspect that Tacita is a priest in the Order of Outreach, who was working in the Maze Hills. She encountered something terrible there, something otherworldly, and she returned to warn us. But her apoplexy thwarted that effort.”

The Prelate flashed another gesture of withholding. “I’ve read the report. She wears a dove pendant, true. But no saint pendant. All clergy have a patron saint. So, what makes you think she’s a priest?”

Auri took another deep breath and raised her chin. “It’s a feeling I have, and I must act upon it. I plan to take a leave of absence, to escort Tacita to the Church of Reception in Harcaster, where she can be cared for by her own. I’ll return before the fall session to continue my studies.”

The Prelate winced, and after a long moment, spoke. “Aurisma, you’ve experienced a pair of painful experiences. First, a man dies at your feet, and shortly thereafter, your first attempt at unburdening goes awry. In such circumstances, it is natural to seek the comfort of a parent.”

As a child, Auri had been dazzled by the Prelate’s profundity. Now she just wanted to slap her. Aurisma shot to her feet. “It’s just a coincidence that my mother lives in Harcaster. I’m going to the Church of Reception and returning straight away. I probably won’t even see her.”

The Prelate gave Auri a sad, gentle smile. “Aurisma, as much as I’d like to indulge you. You can’t be spared. You see, there has been a development.”

Auri’s heart sank. “Development?”

“The tourney incident was caused by frenzy, of course. One of the tilters threw a groom over the fence. This is a problem the Crown can no longer ignore. The Imperial Deputy Chancellor, Bonamy Leventhorpe, has just arrived in Wywick. We’ve heard he will task each of the marches with finding the antecedent of this dreadful disease. The Margrave has already requested we scour the cathedral library for any historical accounts of frenzy, to find its origin. I think you’ll agree this is a job more suited to you than scrubbing floors.”

Auri tilted her head. “I thought we understood its origin. After the Thaumacaust, the land was poisoned by brimbane, which causes birth defects, and probably frenzy.”

“Perhaps, but we don’t really know what brimbane is, and the rate of frenzy is rising sharply. Also, mages do not suffer from frenzy, even if they have birth defects. So obviously there is much we don’t understand. They’re calling it the insanity of humanity. To my mind, the real insanity was waiting this long to investigate it.”

Auri stared at the floor, forcing herself not to think, to let her mind roam free and form its own connections. When an idea came to her, she spoke excitedly. “What if frenzy has something to do with these events in the Maze Hills, with the stag rider and the blood gourds? Perhaps it’s no coincidence that Tacita is here now, when this problem has come to a head, and there’s a pale dragon about.”

The Prelate tsked. “A wild leap, Aurisma. This memory of yours probably isn’t real. Your mind simply summoned the imagery needed to explain what you were feeling.”

Auri continued as if the Prelate hadn’t spoken. “I’m taking Tacita to Harcaster. Her order can tell us the details about her mission in the hills. Have no worries, your Benevolence. I have already asked myself the questions of influence and determined this is the virtuous path. And before I depart, I will complete the premeditatio malorum. Rest assured I will pursue this venture as the Church has taught.”

The Prelate spoke in a weary tone. “Aurisma, mark me. You are still a full year away from earning your Doctorate in Theology. And though your grasp of the meditations is impressive, you’ve yet to develop your mending, to divide your mind, or to execute a proper unburdening. Learning to wield Logism requires time and patience. That is episteme. Your mother was nearly thirty before she completed her development.”

Auri rolled her eyes. “My mother this, my mother that. Why don’t you ask her to search your library? I have more meaningful work to do.”

The Prelate gave Auri a withering glare.

Auri ducked her head, realizing she had lost her temper. “Apologies, your Benevolence. It’s been a difficult past few days.”

The Prelate slowly shook her head. “In many ways, you’re still that nine-year-old girl who joined our monastic school, insisting on being boarded. Even though your mother had a suite on the grounds, you didn’t want to live with her. And yet in your first year of Cathedral school, when she moved to Harcaster to serve House Whitehart, you couldn’t stop crying.”

Auri threw up her hands. “That’s not true!”

Silbia regarded her with impatience. “A small measure of petulance can be suffered in a prodigy. But you should have outgrown that by now. The Church has requested your service. Before you rebuff it, I urge you to visit the chapel and seek the wisdom of prayer. For the mistakes you make here will haunt you to the end of your days.”

Before Auri could frame a response, Silbia rose and swept out the door, shutting it firmly behind her.

Aurisma paced the chamber, biting her lip. That didn’t go as she had hoped. Somehow, her conversations with the Prelate always involved her mother.

Auri decided she would visit the chapel as the Prelate had instructed. But she would not go alone.

Aurisma emerged from the open double doors of Last Hope, arm in arm with Tacita. A painted wooden sign hung over the entrance of the double-story, stone-walled hospital. It showed only a red flask on a field of white, the symbol of life. All Imperial salutaries were marked in the same manner.

To their left was a stone walkway that led to an amphitheater that hosted mostly religious plays and, notoriously, the Imperial Labor Assembly. But they took the walkway on the right, which led to the nearby cathedral.

Tacita, still in her patient’s tunic, squinted in the sunlight, her head tilting back to take in the sight of St. Thrasea’s Cathedral. Its stone walls were painted cream with gold and bronze accents. Its tower rose three hundred feet into the heavens, and was topped with the enormous Church flag, the Holy Dove.

Because of Tacita’s weakened left leg, it took them some time to reach the front stairs of the cathedral. Each stair was as wide as the edifice itself. They slowly ascended the steps, emerging on the columned portico. The cathedral’s huge, pale green doors stood open, as they always did when a service was not being conducted.

Auri led Tacita across the threshold and into the antechamber. A female and male guard nodded politely. Both wore gray tunics and trousers, and the red belts of the Order of Vigilants. These were the Church’s peacekeepers, most of them former soldiers. They carried no weapons and fought only with their hands, so as not to shed blood. This was the way of the Church.

As Aurisma and Tacita crossed the antechamber, Auri felt the weight of the cathedral’s tower directly above them. St. Thrasea’s tower, more than twenty stories high, was a village unto itself, hosting hundreds of vigilants, city watchers, dovekeepers, clerics, crafters, and various workers. Only the young lived in such towers, because climbing the stairs was exhausting.

They entered the nave, walking across diamond-shaped marble tiles alternating gray and dark green. Auri whispered to Tacita as they passed row after row of pews, some of them dotted with parishioners. “I’ve been instructed to pray on the wisdom of taking you to Harcaster. I think you’re a priest, so you probably know how this works. But if not, just keep one thing in mind. God is not a person. God doesn’t say things like Good afternoon, Aurisma. I advise you to avoid Harcaster. So don’t expect a conversation, and don’t ask for material things. Prayer is a meditation. We seek wisdom from the fraction of God that lies within ourselves. We are each a thread in the tapestry, and we must strive to align ourselves with the Logos, the perfect order of the world as shaped by divine reason.”

Tacita gave no sign of understanding. But Auri saw the woman seemed at ease within the awe-inspiring cathedral. She was certainly no barbarian.

At the front of the nave, they passed through the cathedral’s crossing, marked by a florid dove mosaic on the floor. They walked into the chancel, where a verger eyed them from the steps leading up to the sanctuary’s altar, glittering with golden miniatures, ornaments, and icons. Auri had encountered this fussy man before and had found him to be quite territorial. He looked relieved when Auri and Tacita turned right, toward the cathedral’s private chapel, one of three apse chapels in the rear of the massive cathedral.

The private chapel was a cathedral in miniature, with a small nave leading to a raised altar. There was no crossing or chancel, but the decor was opulent. A trio of sharply arched stained-glass windows rose high above the altar, each depicting a pastoral or riverine setting. As they crossed the threshold, Tacita paused to admire a painting mounted on a column that split the nave.

A vigilant stood guard over the painting, and though she avoided eye contact, it was clear they should step no closer to the great work. It was an oil portrait of St. Thrasea, one of the stoic martyrs. The saint’s eyes coolly regarded Auri, as if judging her and finding her lacking. For a moment, the man seemed to breathe, as if he stood on the other side of an open window.

Aurisma leaned toward Tacita, whispering an explanation. “It’s a Danet. Lestyn Danet painted all twelve of the Logist saints. This is St. Thrasea, from his series, Our Cherished Saints. Danet painted it, mmm, perhaps thirty years ago. Each cathedral has its own unique Danet, most of them anyway, based on their titular saints, the saint whose holy relic lies in the cathedral’s foundation. Danet’s paintings are priceless. You can see why.”

They passed the painting and entered the nave, finding the chapel empty. Auri guided Tacita to a seat in the rearmost pew. Aurisma always took the rearmost pew. For some reason, she didn’t feel holy enough to sit in the front.

Auri gave Tacita a reassuring smile. “You can pray anywhere, of course. But it’s always most effective in our private chapel, with St. Thrasea at your back. Now then, we’ll close our eyes, perhaps for ten minutes or so, and pray for wisdom. It helps if you focus on the problem at hand. May God enlighten.”

To Auri’s pleasure, Tacita closed her eyes and bowed her head toward the altar. Aurisma knew that Tacita could not understand her words, but she certainly knew what to do in a chapel. Surely Auri was right. This woman was a priest.

Buoyed, Auri took a deep breath to clear her mind, then closed her eyes and bowed her head toward the altar. Prayer was healthy and beneficial. There was nothing better for making order of chaos.

Almost immediately, she saw a shadowy figure in her mind’s eye. It was a robed man, though in the darkness she could not see his features. When he spoke, his voice flowed like liquid gold. “Good afternoon, Aurisma. I advise you to avoid Harcaster.”

Auri shrieked, bolted to her feet, and tumbled backward over the pew.

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