Adka sidestepped the page and let the door close behind him. He gave the soldier's reverence. "You sent for me, Imperial Majesty?"

"I am concerned about the levies, General," said Kacha as he beckoned Adka to take a chair. "Specifically, I am concerned about who has not delivered them yet."

"We do have men enough for the actions we have planned before winter." Adka sat stiffly, unwilling to relax his formal posture even for a moment. Adka was a square man, not overly tall, but broad and solid with thick hands, hardened from their life's work. His caftan of imperial blue strained at the seams, giving Kacha the impression that the man had not worn it much before he was called up on these actions. He preferred, doubtlessly, some less cumbersome, more well-worn coat when not in the presence of his autocrat. He also firmly believed that Hung Tse was a constant danger to Eternal Isavalta, and so had been more than ready to answer when Kacha called.

"That is not the point, General," said Kacha, pushing himself fully upright in his chair. The ache continued, becoming a low throb in his bones. "I am concerned that a traitor's father has not yielded up his men, as is his duty."

"Lord Pachalka was a member of the house guard. He knows his duty." Adka spoke the words as if saying someone knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Duty was an unalterable fact with him.

"Captain Peshek was also a member of the guard," answered Kacha evenly. "Despite that, he ran off with some scullery maid in complete breach of that same duty." That reminder made the stalwart man drop his gaze.

The page boy chose that moment to return with the pitcher of beer. With a child's extra care, he filled Kacha's tankard. Kacha gave him a nod, and he filled another for the general. Adka accepted the beer, but did not drink. Kacha took several swallows of the black brew, only to find it did nothing for his ache.

"Now." Kacha leaned forward. The movement sharpened the pain in his eye. "I do not wish to trouble her imperial majesty with this. You will select a detail of men, and I will grant them police powers. They will go investigate the reasons for Pachalka's lateness. If necessary, they will make an example of him and his, and they will collect the levies after that. Is this clear?"

Adka set down his untouched tankard and laid his thick hand over his heart. "Yes, Imperial Majesty."

Kacha meant to nod and dismiss the man, but at that moment pain stabbed hard behind hand and eye. He felt his finger twist, crabbing up like old roots. His eye swelled until it pressed against the bones of its socket. Long practiced at enduring pain, Kacha did not cry out, but neither could he speak: His bones writhed under his skin and his eye twisted in answer. But throughout all this torture, Yamuna's voice remained silent. No hint of why this was happening touched his mind. Unfamiliar, dizzying fear worsened the pain.

"Majesty?" Adka held out his hand. "Majesty, is something ..."

"Get out!" cried Kacha. "Get out of my sight!"

Adka blanched white and retreated at once. Alone, Kacha ground his teeth together and fought to master the pain. Through his right eye now, he only saw a blur of meaningless color that swam and shifted like oil poured on water. And his hand ... Kacha looked down at his hand with his good eye, and bit his tongue to stop the scream.

His skin had tightened against his bones and his fingers had grown long and brittle. The hand Yamuna had given Kacha to work his will now resembled nothing so much as the claw of some great bird. Trembling, he moved a plate of dainties from a silver tray and strained to see the wavering relection in its etched surface.

And he saw how Yamuna's eye had become round and black, and how it bulged grotesquely in its orbit, and how it was in no way a human eye any longer.

It was a spell, it must be. Some working of Yamuna's, for who else could have done this? What other power could have touched them? Kacha's heart froze. That Yamuna could use a spell of such power that it transformed the hand that was no longer completely the sorcerer's own, from a distance of a thousand miles ... that he would do it without thought or warning of how it would effect Kacha... .

Kacha threw the tray aside, because he could not bear to see. What have you done to us? Mothers All! Yamuna, what have you done!

But Yamuna did not answer.

Chapter Seventeen.

Medeoan had lost track of days. She only knew there had been too many of them. The leather shift which was her only clothing had chafed welts under her arms. Some of them were beginning to bleed. The silent women who were sent in to search her every day saw the weals, and did nothing. Not even ointment was permitted her. She was brought regular meals of fairly good food - fresh meats, pastries, rice and vegetables - well, if plainly, prepared, but she ate under their watchful gaze, and all that was brought in was removed again as soon as she was finished. A chamber pot was provided at these times so she could do what was needful, but not even that was left to her when she was alone.

With the first meal each morning came the search. Her shift was removed and inspected. The leather mattress was turned over and examined closely for any irregularity in the stitching, in case she had managed to use her fingers to loosen the gut to get at the ticking or to conceal something inside. The bare room was inspected. Medeoan's cropped hair was rifled. Only when all was found to be in order did they permit Medeoan to sit and break her fast.

After her guards departed, it had become Medeoan's custom to sit in the window for a time, looking down at the gardens and across the walls to the city. She watched the green sea of trees waving below her and the flights of distant birds. After the first few days, she realized that it was becoming increasingly unlikely that she would be released alive. True, she was not being treated quite as a common prisoner. She was not in chains, but would the Nine Elders really want their honor impugned by stories of how they treated the lawful empress of another realm? No. They meant to make her a prisoner for life, and they were the ones who would determine how long her life would be.

When she was sure her guards were going to stay outside, when she heard no footsteps coming or going in the narrow hallway just beyond her door, she would leave her window and push her mattress away from its corner.

To her eye, it was easy to see the circle of braided silk plastered to the floor with a mixture of blood and less pleasant things. Inside the circle lay a delicately formed weaving of blond hairs. It looked like a short chain of flowers, their stems wound and knotted together to hold them in place.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Medeoan pulled three more hairs from her head. She had ceased to wince at this small pain. She wet them with her spittle and twirled them together to make a slender thread. Then, she took a deep breath and carefully, tentatively, she drew up her magic. She did not seek to release a river of power, which she normally would, especially for so complex a spell as she created now, but only a soft trickle. If her power rose too strongly, the Nine Elders would feel it. They would come and search her chamber with magic and find this working, her one chance at escape.

Concentrating, and attempting to relax at the same time, she spun the single new thread into the weaving, and that was all. To do more than that at one sitting was to invite detection. She laid her working back in its circle of protection, repeating the spell that caused it to be overlooked.

"I, Medeoan, servant of Vyshko and Vyshemir, place my working with a stone barrier about it, closed with a stone door, locked with three times nine locks and three times nine keys, with one key and one lock let no one cross this barrier, no bird fly over it, no eye light on it."

She replaced the mattress. Then, there was nothing to do but return to her window to wait and watch until the next meal. She had so often wished to be left alone, to not be princess or empress. Now, she had that wish, and she was locked up in a single room without any sort of help. Her captors attempted to make her nothing and nobody. But even they had not succeeded. She was still the empress of Isavalta. She was still Medeoan the sorceress, and she would make them remember that before the end.

And Avanasy will come for me.

She held fast to that hope most of all. As the sun crept across the sky, her only measure of the hours, she would picture him coming to the Heart of the World, and to her. Sometimes, in her dreams, he arrived at night, alone and stealth, and they eluded the guards and their magics flew them over the walls. Sometimes he arrived with Peshek and a legion of loyal soldiers, leading a proud horse, and she would mount it in broad daylight and ride in triumph back to Isavalta, where Kacha would kneel at her feet and beg for mercy. He would find none. She might, she thought sometimes, choose to keep him in the dungeons long enough for a public trial, but then he would die. She would have him beheaded in the courtyard as befitted his rank and crimes.

Each day, she found it a little easier to think of Kacha without longing, and with a clearer view to who he was and what he had truly done to her. It was his fault she was prisoner here, locked away and struggling for her freedom. She would see this added to the list of crimes that would be read out at his trial. If she chose to give him a trial. If she did not simply choose to have Peshek, or some other loyal guard, run him through the moment she saw him again. That would prevent him from using his honeyed words to try to soften her heart toward him again, not that it would work, but she was not certain she wished to hear him try.

Then there would only be her and Avanasy. She would make him lord sorcerer for his loyal service to her. She would have it published and proclaimed that it was only Kacha's treachery that had caused him to be banished. She would rule Isavalta wisely and well, just as her father had wished, and he would be chief among her advisors, and she would never turn him away again.

And perhaps, in time, he would become more than advisor, more than teacher and friend.

This dream she permitted herself to dwell on only occasionally, even though she found it warmed her the way no other plan could. She had to remind herself that she did not know what state Avanasy would be in when he returned. He might be angry with her for a time for not valuing his loyalty more highly, for throwing him aside for a traitor. It might take time for him to forgive her so much, but they would have that time. There would be so much to do. Starting with renewing the loyalty oaths of all the lords master. Then it would probably be necessary to appoint a new council, as Kacha could not be acting alone at this point. The traitors would have to be tried and sentenced before any other work could be done. Then ... then ... then ...

Dreaming her unfamiliar dreams of empire, Medeoan smiled out across the walls of the Heart of the World, worked her magics and learned to bide her time.

In the end, Ingrid and Avanasy traveled to the Heart of the World in fine style. Lien hired them a troop of guards, and saw that both Ingrid and Avanasy were properly outfitted with silk robes and riding in a sedan chair carried by six bearers. Avanasy had thought they should ride horseback to the gates in Isavaltan fashion, but Ingrid had to admit she had never been on a horse in her life, so it was the sedan.

They did not go unannounced. Three days before, a hired messenger had accompanied the hired guards into the Heart of the World bearing a courteous message written on translucent rice paper naming Avanasy, and Ingrid, as messengers from the empress of Isavalta who begged an audience with the emperor of Hung Tse so that they might deliver the empress's "sagacious and urgent words." Two days ago, a message sealed in saffron ribbons had been returned, fixing the time for their arrival.

Avanasy was barely able to sleep the night before. Ingrid, awake with her own worries, had seen him pacing the gardens and gone down to join him. They said nothing to each other, only walked side by side across lawns silvered by moonlight. They had not been able to discover any news of Medeoan. Lien had consulted his numerous sources carefully. Cai Yun had taken Ingrid with her, visiting the ladies of several rich and possibly noble families, all of whom had relatives serving or living in the palaces of the Heart, but her discreet questions of these ladies yielded nothing.

Was Medeoan here, incognito? It was possible, but there should be servant's gossip if that was true. Had she yet to arrive? What could have held her up? Her route should have been more direct than theirs, even with their magical aid.

Had she died? Had she been captured? Was Isavalta now truly in the hands of the Usurper? Ingrid knew the thoughts rang around Avanasy's head, and she had no answers for him. But first and foremost among them was, is my charge, my student, safe?

To make matters even worse, there was still no word from Peshek.

So they walked, and they held hands, and they looked at the moon reflected in the still garden pools. They held each other close as the night wore away, parting at dawn with a soft kiss to prepare for the day ahead.

Now, the eastern gates of the Heart of the World stood open before them. Soldiers in black lacquered armor with saffron sashes stood rank on rank, some holding colorful pennants, some holding poles tipped by wicked-looking hooked blades or spears. In the center of the martial display stood two ... people. Ingrid could not readily identify whether they were male or female, their features were so obscured by a myriad of garish tattoos. The person on the right seemed marked mostly in veins of green and brown. The person on the left had been decorated in sharply angled stripes of silver, gold and copper. They both wore heavy robes of an identical cut and style of wrapping, save that the right-hand person wore a rich emerald robe covered all over with embroidered tortoises, and the left was in what appeared to be cloth of silver with copper trimming.

"The Minister of Earth and the Minister of Metal," murmured Avanasy to Ingrid. "Two of the Nine Elders. We are indeed honored, and the Heart is indeed suspicious of us."

The sedan's bearers halted inside the gate, set their conveyance upon the ground and bowed to the ministers who stood solemnly before them. The ministers did not even nod to acknowledge this gesture, but kept their gazes fixed steadily on Avanasy as he helped Ingrid out of the chair so that they in their turn could stand before these representatives of the emperor and bow. Ingrid held her hands before her as Avanasy had instructed, and bowed no lower than he did, such gestures being serious matters of etiquette here. The ministers bowed in return, in perfect unison with the soldiers who stood guard behind them.

"We have been instructed by the most elevated, the Heart of the Sun and Earth, to say that you are welcome to the Heart of the World on behalf of your Mistress and his Sister Empress, Medeoan Edemskoidoch Nacheradovosh," said the Minister of Metal.

"Please return our thanks to his Reverent Majesty," returned Avanasy. They had not yet straightened up and Ingrid was beginning to feel the strain in her back. "For the grace of this welcome and his willingness to receive these humble messengers."

The pleasantries having been delivered, it was all right to stand straight again. The two ministers turned gracefully and the guards parted for them. In perfect step, they walked through the great gates. Ingrid glanced at Avanasy with raised brows. He just gestured for her to walk beside him and together they entered the Heart of the World.

Until that moment, Ingrid had been feeling fairly comfortable with what was happening to her. Now, with the great palace spread before her and the impassive soldiers in their black-and-saffron armor escorting them up the expanse of stone, she suddenly a fraud; a rough, country girl done up in borrowed silks, a caricature in a bad pantomime. Her mouth had gone dry and she had the unaccountable desire to hike up her skirts and run. It occurred to her that this was exactly the effect this splendid vista was supposed to inspire. The thought did nothing to put the strength back in her spine.

After what seemed an age of walking and watching the spreading scarlet-and-emerald palace with its great golden tower approach, they reached the beautifully lacquered doors. Yet more soldiers bowed before the two ministers who led them, and then drew the doors open to allow them admittance to a great pillared hallway hung with elegant paintings executed on pale paper.

Ingrid worked hard to keep her mouth closed before the splendor that opened before her as she stepped across the threshold. As soon as her thin-soled shoes touched the polished floor, however, the air swam in front of Ingrid's eyes, and the whole world changed.

The palace was full of ghosts.

Gaunt and gray, they lined the corridor, watching all the passersby with their blank eyes. Some were bloody, some held their mouths slack, some bore burns or brands on their shadowy flesh. Some were blank-eyed maidens who wept bloody tears and wiped them away with their long, black hair. If she could have heard their wailing, Ingrid was certain she would have been deaf in an instant.

Ingrid felt she could not breathe for the press of them. If the ministers could see them, they gave no sign as they continued serenely down the wide hall. The ghosts reached out to them as they passed, some beseeching, some cursing and crying, others kneeling in respect or desperate humility; Ingrid could not tell.

Avanasy's hand brushed hers, and Ingrid jerked her gaze sideways to look at him. His face was straight ahead, but his eyes flickered.

What is it? he was asking. She must have hesitated without being aware of it, or her distress must show in her features.

"Ghosts." She breathed the word in English, hoping no one heard her speak.

Avanasy sucked in a breath, but did not look at her. They could not afford any conversation right now, especially not any that could be perceived as secret. Ingrid struggled to school her features into a calm blank, but she could not tell if she succeeded at all.

In truth, she could barely see her way because her gaze kept getting caught by the lonely, empty eyes of the dead. They seemed barely aware of her, and relief at this realization almost buckled her knees. All their attention was on the ministers. Watching them in their shuddering, pitiful crying, mouthing their pain in an attempt to shout it, Ingrid suddenly understood what had moved Grace to make her promises to the drowned sailor lost in the grip of Lake Superior, and this was worse, hundreds of times worse, because there were so many more dead.

All Ingrid's attention being taken up by the crowds of dead, she barely noticed that they had reached the end of the corridor, or that the interior gates had opened onto a grand room that was even more opulent than the corridor they had just passed down, with pillars of semiprecious stone and elaborately enameled statues of stern and beautiful beings she could not take for anything but gods standing guard with their weapons raised. But again, these were all things she barely noticed, for the dead were here too. Some of these were soldiers standing around the base of the dais, rank on rank of ghostly troops ready, it seemed, to defend the young man in the saffron robe who sat at the top of the curving steps next to an older man robed completely in white. Others of the dead were old men, young men and boys, some as young as three or four, each of whom wore a robe identical to that of the young man sitting on the dais. In attendance with them were dozens of women, their robes and elaborately done hair heavy with ornamentation. None of these cried as did the ghosts in the corridor. These whispered among themselves, pointing to the ministers, and to Avanasy, and to Ingrid. Some looked concerned. Some merely shook their heads.

The two ministers mounted the steps halfway up the dais and turned to face Ingrid and Avanasy. It was only then that she saw there was another minister already there. This one was robed and marked in white with gulls, and snow geese the prominent motif for the decoration. This, Ingrid assumed, must be the Minister of the North.

She only had a bare moment to note all this before she remembered what she was supposed to be doing at this time. Both she and Avanasy knelt and pressed their hands and foreheads against the cool, silky-smooth floor. Under her breath, Ingrid counted to thirty. Part of her was sorry the time was so short. Huddled facedown like this, she could not see a single one of the pale, attentive dead.

But, beside her she heard the rustle of silk as Avanasy stood, and so she had to stand herself. The ghosts around them all looked stern or disdainful, and Ingrid felt herself withering under their blank-eyed attention.

As she had been told would happen, the emperor made a series of elaborate signs to the old man in white who was the Imperial Voice. As he did, all the ghosts filling the great chamber stilled themselves and seemed to strain to listen.

"We extend our welcome and hospitality to the messengers who have come at the word of my Sister Empress, Medeoan Edemskoidoch Nacheradovosh of Eternal Isavalta, and I am now well disposed to hear the missive they carry."

Avanasy had considered long and hard what he would need to say at this moment. Even so, Ingrid saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Fear took her, because the ghosts saw it too, and they whispered to each other, pointing and smiling cruelly behind their hands.

Despite that flicker, and despite what Ingrid knew he would have to say next, Avanasy's voice rang out clear and steady.

"Esteemed and Reverent Majesty, I must speak to you with slow and reluctant words. I must speak of treachery and the usurpation of rightful power. I must also speak of a danger to both the Heart of the World and Eternal Isavalta."

None of the audience, living or dead, moved for a moment. Then the emperor made his signs to the Voice.

"This prologue is indeed grave. Let us hear your words."

So, Avanasy told them. He told them what he knew about Kacha's treachery and his plans for war. He told them rather more than he knew about the rallying of the loyal Lords Master, raising their own armies to fight the usurper. With an utterly straight face, he told them about the empress being escorted across the borders by her loyal followers to take council with her brother emperor and how she desired to speak with him about how their powers could be combined for the protection and prosperity of not only their realms, but of the right order of the world.

All this time, Ingrid watched the ghosts. They stood still as he spoke of Kacha. At first, Ingrid thought they were listening attentively, but then, she saw how their pale faces were set. Bored. The dead heard Avanasy's dire warnings, and they were bored. When he spoke of the loyal nobles of Isavalta rallying to the cause of their mistress, the dead smirked and whispered back and forth to each other. Ingrid imagined she heard the rustle of ethereal voices. When Avanasy spoke of the empress being escorted by her followers, the ghosts began to laugh. They were not merry laughs, for their faces were hard and cruel. Their hollow eyes squinted, and would have rolled, she was sure, if they had orbs still in their sockets. They pointed at Avanasy, and they mouthed silent jeers. It was all Ingrid could do to stand rigid among the crowd of taunting dead, their hands waving in gestures of mockery, the jibes she could not hear passing back and forth between them. Her ears burned with anger, shame, and the reflexive effort of straining to hear what could never become audible to her.

Her fists and jaw clenched; she could not help it. She forced her eyes to look ahead of her, to focus on the living who stood on the dais, the one place in the great room that was free of the jeering ghosts. It was only then she noticed that the Minister of Earth was staring straight at her.

Ingrid, unable to endure another searching presence, dropped her own gaze to the floor, studying the polished boards at her feet. But she knew they were there, the ghosts, the ministers, the emperor, the Voice. They knew something was wrong with her, and by extension with Avanasy. She could not stand steady in the face of the mockery of the dead and the inquiry of the living, and her failure was ruining all of Avanasy's careful planning.

Ingrid forced her head up in time to see that the ghosts had sobered, and were again straining toward their emperor, who was, in turn, signaling his Voice as to what was to be said next. The Minister of Earth, however, still had his (her?) gaze pinned to Ingrid. She made herself watch the emperor and his Voice.

"We are most concerned by what you have told us. You may be assured that we will be at once deploying members of our personal guard to watch the roads down the peninsula so that the empress may be properly greeted and escorted when she arrives in Hung Tse. In the meantime, you will be given quarters where you may rest and take refreshment while we consider what else may be done regarding these most serious tidings."

Avanasy bowed, and barely in time, Ingrid remembered to do the same. Four servants who had gone unnoticed by Ingrid, the living lost among the dead, stepped sedately forward and bowed to them. Avanasy nodded in acknowledgment, and they followed the quartet out of the throne room. All the way, Ingrid could feel the eyes of the living and the dead staring at her back.

Returning to the hallways was agony. At least the haunts in the throne room had seemed composed, as if they accepted their fate. The dead who lingered in the corridors were in torment. Tears and blood both streaked their faces and hands. They wailed to heavens that seemed to have long ago ceased to hear them, and reached out to the living who never could. Some, to Ingrid's horror, seemed to realize she could see them, and they fell on their knees, reaching up to her, mouthing their pleas. She wanted so much to shrink against Avanasy, to have him shield her from the desperate, tortured spirits, but she could not. There were living beings in the corridor. Men, mostly, in fine robes, or soldiers in armor, going to and fro about their own business, but most definitely taking note of the two foreigners and their escort. She could not show such overt weakness yet, but neither could she repress the tremors seizing hold of her.

The corridors seemed endless, an interminable stretch of painted pillars, gilding and works of art Ingrid could barely discern for the press of the dead. Her resolve ebbed with every step. She wanted to throw herself on the floor with her eyes shut and her hands pressed over her ears. She wanted to scream and scream until someone made these hideous visions vanish.

Then at last, at last, the servants stopped in front of a green door painted over with gilded sigils.

"Honored Sir, Honored Lady, in deference to the customs of your nation." There seemed to be a small deprecative sneer in the voice, but Ingrid could not be sure, her head was reeling so badly. Next to the servant, the ghost of a crone reached out her crabbed hand, trying to pluck at his sleeve, her mouth shaping one word over and over. "We have been instructed to see you housed together," he was saying. Bowing low, he pushed the door open.

The first thing Ingrid saw about the room was that no ghosts stood within. She practically ran across the threshold before she remembered she was still watched, and recovered herself enough to stand up straight and look about with something like detachment.

Thankfully, this chamber seemed to be designed with comfort more than grandeur in mind. The low, carved benches were laden with pillows. The hangings on the walls were pleasant landscapes of lakes and mountains. Feather mattresses had been piled high on the beautiful bedframe. Curtains of sapphire silk hung from the canopy. A fresh breeze and the scents of flowers and ripening fruit told her that the lacelike wooden screens against the far wall concealed open windows, or possibly doors to a verandah. Ingrid found she could breathe normally again.

Avanasy stepped up beside her, his own gaze sweeping the room, and nodding with approval at what he saw, particularly the plates of dainties laid out on one of the tables.

"This will be quite satisfactory," he said in the same utterly confident tone he had used before the emperor. "We will send for you if we have need."

The chief among the servants blinked in surprise. Ingrid knew enough now to understand how strange the dismissal would sound to him. Nonetheless, he and his fellows simply bowed without other comment and slipped out the door.

No sooner did the door close behind them than Ingrid collapsed onto the nearest bench, pressing her palms against her eyes.

"Vyshemir's knife!" exclaimed Avanasy, coming at once to sit beside her. "What is it, Ingrid?"

"Ghosts," she said. She couldn't look up, not even at him. She had seen too much and needed to be in darkness for awhile. "This place is full of them. Hundreds of them. They're ... they're in pain, Avanasy. They're crying, and they're begging, and I can't hear them. I can't ask them what they want."

Avanasy's arms wrapped tightly around her and drew her close to his chest, holding her safe from all that she had seen. She relaxed into his embrace. She had thought she might cry when this moment came, but she did not. Fear and pity had drained her dry for the moment, and she needed no more than Avanasy's warmth to sustain her.

When at last she was able to push herself away and look Avanasy in the face, she said, "I wanted to tell you, there were ghosts in the throne room. I think some of them were old emperors, and there were soldiers, and some women. I don't know who they were, but when you started talking about Medeoan being escorted here, they all started laughing. Not kindly either." She shuddered remembering their mocking gestures and pointing fingers. "It was as if they were making fun of us."

Avanasy let out a long, slow breath. He pushed his hair back from his forehead. "So, I did feel it. Medeoan is already here."

Ingrid felt her brow furrow with perplexity. "Surely not. They would have told us."

"Not if they are keeping her prisoner." Avanasy rose swiftly and crossed the room. He folded back one of the elaborately carved screens and revealed a stretch of lawn trimmed with drooping trees and brightly colored blossoms. It ended in a high wall painted with saffron and bordered in black. Several wooden gates had been set into the stone, all of them solidly closed. Avanasy's shoulders slumped and then stiffened as he gazed at that well-built wall. "When a spell is being worked, a sorcerer nearby can feel the making of it. I know the touch of Medeoan's working quite well." Ingrid could hear the soft smile in his voice, but it faded quickly. "While we stood before the emperor, I thought, for just the briefest instant, I felt that touch. This place is such a warren of spells and workings being constantly employed to protect the people within ... I thought I must have imagined it among all the other currents, but no, I did not." He turned and his face was grim. "The empress came here before us, and the emperor and the Nine Elders are holding her captive until they can decide what to do with her."

"What should we do?" asked Ingrid softly.

Avanasy looked over his shoulder at the high wall and the closed gates. "I don't know," he murmured. "Yet."