A Parliament of Owls

Author's Note

When the first two books of the Bharaghlafi series were published—in 2000 and 2002, respectively—with the third (unwritten) volume under contract, I thought I had finally found a permanent publishing home. Unfortunately, before the third volume of this series (which wasn't written)—or, for that matter, the sequel to Cats in Cyberspace (which was)—could be published, the publisher went out of business, casting me and my books adrift. My search for a traditional publishing house to pick up the Bharaghlafi series was unsuccessful, so I set the project aside until a later time. The publishing industry as a whole went through a period of turmoil, which corresponded with deep changes in my life situation—with the result that my time and creative energies were absorbed by things other than writing novels. While A Pariliament of Owls doesn't have a cliff-hanger of an ending, it's nonetheless clear there is more story left to tell. I have felt a certain amount of guilt for leaving readers hanging, and have had to respond to many, many queries from readers wanting to know whatever happened to Ferret, Owl, and their friends.

One of the reasons I am putting my backlist books into e-book format is because I hope that making these titles available will provide sufficient income to justify my spending a greater part of my time actually writing—and An Ambush of Tigers is a top priority for that writing time. That said, I'm not a particularly fast writer, and it is a complicated story, so it won't be out this year. But I am committed to getting it written, so, while you shouldn't hold your breath or go on a hunger strike, you also should not lose hope. I wouldn't make this effort to introduce a new generation of readers to the world of the Bharaghlafi Empire if I didn't intend to continue the story arc in subsequent volumes.

The two most common questions I receive from fans of the Bharaghlafi series are: 1. When is An Ambush of Tigers coming out? and 2. How do you pronounce the names? I'm fairly sure that the uncomplicated-but-true answers to these two questions (1. Well, sometime after I finish it; and 2. However you like.) are not satisfying; I trust that this author's note will provide a more nuanced response.

So: about the names... If you're not one of those people who needs to know how the author pronounces her characters' names, feel free to skip this part; but for the curious, here's my attempt at a pronounciation guide. The weird-looking consonant combinations (kh, zh, bh, etc.) approximate sounds that don't exist or are uncommon in English. Kh is a back-of-the-throat gutteral, much like ch in German (ach); zh is a voiced sh-sound (as in azure); bh falls somewhere between (in English) b and p; c is pronounced as English ch (church), cc is a k'ch sound (as in the phrase slick chimp), dh as in the phrase ad hoc; rh denotes a flipped r sound and rr a rolled r. The vowel y is usually a short i sound (as in bit), except as an initial letter, where it is closer to a long e (beet), or after kh, where it has a long i sound (wild); a is either an ah sound or short (as in cat); e is usually eh (as in best), and is pronounced (though never stressed) when it is the last letter in a word; i is pronounced ee, and o as in overt. There is (alas) no consistent rule for which syllable is stressed, though in two syllable names, it's generally the first (RHY-dev, CYF-fe); in three syllable names, either the first syllable (KHE-thy-ran AN-zhi-bhar, VEN-y-khar) or the second (y-CE-vi ghyt-TE-ve, ci-THAN-ekh) is stressed.

Beth Hilgartner, July 2015

Dramatis Personae

At the Court

The Emperor's Household

Emperor Khethyran Anzhibhar (the Scholar King) • Emperor of Bharaghlaf

Queen Celave Azhere Anzhibhar • the Emperor's wife

Khecelle Anzhibhar • eldest of the Emperor's daughters

Thylave Anzhibhar • the Emperor's second daughter

Ranve and Khece Anzhibhar • the Emperor's twin daughters

Khethcel Anzhibhar • the Emperor's infant son

Arre of Kalledann • a Seer and bard of the Kellande School; the Emperor’s lover

Thantor (Donkey) • the Emperor's spymaster

Bhenekh (Commander) • Commander in the Imperial Guard

The Queen's Household

Azhine Azhere Glakhyre (Lady) • the chief among Queen Celave's ladies in waiting; Ymlakh Glakhyre's wife

Yverri Ambhere • one of Queen Celave's ladies in waiting

Centyffe Azhere • one of the Queen's ladies in waiting

Klarhynne Dhenykhare • one of Queen's ladies in waiting

Lyssemarhe Ghytteve • one of the Queen's ladies in waiting; Marhysse

Ghytteve's sister

Zhylande Glakhyre • one of the Queen's ladies in waiting

Ceghorre Khyghafe Glakhyre • one of the Queen's ladies in waiting

Averhacce Mebhare • one of the Queen's ladies in waiting

Pakhrielle Ykhave • one of the Queen's ladies in waiting

Elyrrothe Ythande Mebhare • one of the Queen's ladies in waiting

Ysmenarr (Captain) • Captain of the Queen's Guard

Council Houses

Anzhibhar • the Royal House

Ambhere • Mining

Azhere • Silk

Dhenykhare • Shipbuilding

Ghytteve • Coffee (drugs)

Glakhyre • Wool

Mebhare • Farming

Ykhave • Artisans

Ythande • Woodsdwellers/timber

Khyghafe • Nomads/horses

The Council of Advice

Mylazhe Ambhere (Lady) • Councilor for House Ambhere

Cithanekh Anzhibhar-Ghytteve • Councilor for House Ghytteve

Rhydev Azhere • Councilor for House Azhere

Dhyrakh Dhenykhare (Duke) • Duke and Councilor for House Dhenykhare

Venykhar Ghobhezh-Ykhave • Councilor for House Ykhave

Ymlakh Glakhyre • Duke and Councilor for House Glakhyre

The Warlord (Ykhyf Khyghafe Kh'Cizhanne) • Councilor for the Khyghafe nomads; commander of the Cavalry.

Enghan Mebhare • Councilor for House Mebhare

Khycalle Ynghorezh Ythande (Lady) • Councilor for the Ythande (forest dwellers)

Dharyan (Master) • Master of the Caravan Guild; Council representative from the Guilds

Bishop Anakher • Bishop of the Horselord's Temple; Council rep. from the Temple District

Zherekhaf Azhere • the Prime Minister; Rhydev’s uncle

Cithanekh Ghytteve's household

Owl Ghytteve • a Seer trained at the Kellande School; Cithanekh's lover

Cezhar Ghytteve • the chief of the Ghytteve bodyguards

Rhan Ghytteve • a bodyguard; Cezhar's brother

Marhysse Ghytteve • a bodyguard; Lyssemarhe Ghytteve's older sister

Effryn (Squirrel) • the Ghytteve steward

Yrhenne Ghytteve • a bodyguard; Yrhazh's sister

Lynx • a renegade Eschaddande; Owl's bodyguard

Khofyn Ghytteve • a bodyguard

Yrhazh Ghytteve • a bodyguard; Yrhenne's brother

Pazhref Ghytteve • the Ghytteve cook

Rhydev Azhere's household

Ancith Anzhibhar-Ghytteve • Rhydev's young lover; Cithanekh's brother

Ghorran Azhere • an Azhere bodyguard

Hassyn Azhere • an Azhere servant/bodyguard

Duke Dhyrakh Dhenykhare's household

Morekheth Anzhibhar-Azhere Dhenykhare • candidate for Admiral; possible royal contender

Rhyazhe Dhenykhare • Dhyrakh's niece; currently living in Cynteffarhe

Zhentalle Pykhatheth-Ythande Dhenykhare • Rhyazhe's mother (deceased)

Khamarh Dhenykhare • the Dhenykhare steward

Pezh Dhenykhare • a bodyguard and friend of exiled Rhyazhe Dhenykhare

Zhedhyn Dhenykhare • a bodyguard

Varykh Dhenykhare • the Admiral

Akhatheraf Dhenykhare • candidate for Admiral (dissolute and quarrelsome)

Myrhaf Dhenykhare • candidate for Admiral (rumored senile)

Krassykh Dhenykhare (Honorable) • corrupt judge of the Fourth Court

Other Court personages

Amynne Ykhave (Mouse) • the ward of the Ykhave Councilor; director of the Free School

Essekh • a Glakhyre bodyguard

Yverakh Ambhere • Yverri Ambhere's father.

Arrekh Ambhere • one of Mylazhe Ambhere's bodyguards

Tharhyll • a pastry chef in the Palace kitchens

Orandhar Mebhare • a gentleman farmer from the region north of Cynteffarhe.

Alghaffen Ghytteve (Duke) • Duke of House Ghytteve

In the Temple District

Kerigden • High Priest of the Windbringer

Assakh • Kerigden's assistant

Lyffath • an acolyte of the Windbringer with Sight Gifts

Anakher (Bishop) • Bishop of the Horselord’s Temple

Razhynde • Healer priest attached to the Windbringer Temple

Thyzhecci • High Priestess of the Dark Lady

Anesstri • Priestess of the Dark Lady

Dedemar • a foreign mercenary in the Temple Guard

Sakhass (Captain) • head of the Temple Guard

Followers of the Bone King

Hassyth/Hassythe • an Adept of the Bone King who is able to appear either as a young man or a woman.

In the City

Captain Mannakh • a captain of the Watch, familiar with and sympathetic to the Free School.

Falkhan • a Watchman secretly in the pay of Rhydev Azhere

At the Free School

Mouse (Amynne Ykhave) • director and teacher at the Free School; ward of the Ykhave Councilor

Ghynna • a student at the Free School who was sold to the Dark Lady's Temple.

Penarh • a student at the Free School

Ghysse • a student at the Free School

Eghan • a student at the Free School

In the Slums

Anthagh • wealthy slave dealer

Arkhyd • tavern master of The Trollop's Smile; Thantor's uncle

Ferret • Master in the Thieves Guild

Khather • one of Ferret's bravos

Khorvan Nakhar • a waterfront tough in the pay of the Dhenykhare

Rhodh • one of Ferret's bravos

Rhynne • barmaid at the Rusty Anchor

Vekh • one of Khorvan Nakhar's sneaks

Vixen • Ferret's most promising Journeyman

Places

Slum/waterfront taverns

Trollop’s Smile

Beaten Cur

Ivory Comb (waterfront)

Rusty Anchor (waterfront)

Replete Feline (waterfront)

Kalledann • an island kingdom across the Sleeping Sea from Yrkhaffe; home of the Kellande School

The Kellande School • a college specializing in the training of magical, musical, philosophical and poetic talents

Fytria • a distant land on the continent beyond Kalledann

Eschadd • an ancient empire; modern Eschadd borders Fytria

Yrkhaffe • the capitol city of the Bharaghlafi Empire

Amarta (the Federated States of) • kingdom northeast of Bharaghlaf

Cynteffarhe • a northwestern port city, in Mebhare lands

Kharymasse • the Duke of Ghytteve's estate

Prologue

The Windbringer stood in the Hall of Stars; in the lofty dark and silence, her cloak and hair flapped in response to her private tempest. At the end of the Hall, the arched Worldgate was opaque as storm clouds.

Your champion is dead. The Windbringer's voice was supple as melody. Do you concede?

No. Her brother's tone was flat. "She was a piece on the khacce table; no more. And you have lost one of your precious children, as well. Even with your penchant for optimism, Sister, you can hardly argue that the Emperor of Bharaghlaf is secure on his throne. I say the matter is not decided; the results are—inconclusive."

The Windbringer smiled sourly. What evidence of security will you accept? Mortals die, and their influence fades. How long must my champions hold against yours before you will admit defeat?

Longer than this. Look, he said, sweeping an arm toward the Worldgate; the heavy grayness paled like the coming of dawn, and a shadowy scene filled its heavy arch. Even now, power and ruthlessness reassert their mastery. Come, Sister: agree to another round; for if we declare the contest a draw, then nothing changes. And surely, the status quo favors me and mine.

I will agree to another round, but with conditions: if you will not acknowledge my Ferret's triumph as anything more than a temporary setback, then I, too, must be allowed to disqualify any gains your players make, and proclaim that there is still hope. Hear my conditions: first, the contest isn't over until both of us agree that it has reached a resolution; and second, there shall be no stalemate, no draw. Whatever happens, Brother, the status quo is dead. Are we agreed?

Not without a third condition: there shall be no direct interference; no visitations unbidden; no miraculous weather, neither fair nor foul. Priests and seers may have what aid their faithfulness and talents demand, but no more. Now, Sister, is it a wager?

She nodded and they touched palms to signify the binding. The Windbringer's face was somber, but her brother laughed.

Haven't you learned, even yet, Sister, not to give your heart to your causes?

She managed a thin smile. It isn't the causes I love, but the people who embrace them.

He turned away, still laughing. More fool you. Mortals are too weak to bear a god's love. Use your people: teach them, challenge them, inspire them, even—but don't love them. Mortals die; it is their nature. They live their brief span and are forgotten. And then your love is wasted. He swept out of the Hall without waiting for her answer.

The Windbringer smiled faintly. You're wrong, she said to the empty hall. They die—oh yes, they die; but I remember. And love is never wasted.

From under her cloak, the Windbringer took a harp and pulled a phrase of music, poignant as memories, from the silvery strings. Under its stone arch, the Worldgate blazed gold, and the Windbringer stepped through into light.

Chapter One—Gathering the Players

With a carefully inaudible sigh, Khethyran, Emperor of Bharaghlaf, pushed back his chair and stood. He swept his amber gaze around the gathered Council and said quietly, That's enough for today. Thank you all. He moved to the window. The meeting broke up into small, milling eddies of power and politics as the twelve Council members began to leave. Cithanekh, the Emperor said without turning, stay.

The Council Lord for House Ghytteve, Cithanekh Anzhibhar-Ghytteve, returned to his seat as he waited for the room to empty. He was a tall young man, rather too thin; his sharp-chiseled features and expressive blue eyes showed strain and sleeplessness. His long-fingered hands moved restlessly on the polished mahogany surface of the table, making the green-gemmed ring he wore glint in the light.

The Scholar King leaned against the stone window ledge, listening absently to the noises in the room behind him. None of his concern showed in his clean, regular features—not even as a shadow in the depths of his beer-colored eyes; but he was troubled, and a little unsure. It was, he reflected wryly, the first time in a long while he had felt young and callow. Like a rank thorn hedge, Cithanekh's prickly reserve in matters personal deterred solicitude; but Cithanekh was visibly fraying. Someone had to raise the issue before the man was worn to tatters.

When the last of the other Councilors was gone and the doors were shut, the Emperor came back to the table. He sat opposite Cithanekh, studying him with unnerving intensity.

Send for him, the Scholar King said at last, gently.

For whom, Majesty? Cithanekh replied with freezing tonelessness.

The Emperor raised his eyebrows. After a moment he said, Don't you want him to come home?

Something anguished and desperate leapt in the young lord's expression, but what came out was bitterness: a choked, mirthless laugh. "Home? Who could possibly call this snake pit home?"

I rather think that Owl would call the place by your side home, no matter what country you were in. Send for him.

No. He's happy in Kalledann. Hasn't he suffered enough?

The Emperor sighed. Arre arrived with the dawn tide; did you know? She said her brother Torres is well, that Spring is late in Kalledann, and that she can't imagine Owl looking worse if he were being systematically starved and tortured. Cithanekh made mute protest, but Khethyran ground on remorselessly. She tried to convince him to come back to Court with her, but he refused. He said he didn't think you wanted him back, and that he'd be damned if he'd appear like the ghost of an old scandal to trade on your pity.

As the Emperor spoke, Cithanekh shut his eyes in pain; but when he opened them to answer, his face was blank as a mask. "I don't want him back. He's better off in Kalledann. He needs to make his home there."

I tried to tell Arre, once, that she would be better off if she could forget me, that I had no business putting her in danger—especially as we could never marry. Do you know what she said? She said there were some things worth dying for, and that one must be allowed to decide for herself which they were.

"Arre isn't blind," he said in a clipped, congested voice.

Owl is hardly helpless. Cithanekh, for the love of the wise gods, will you send for him?

Is that an order, Majesty? The cool, uninflected question sent alarms jangling along the Emperor's nerves.

Will you obey an order or defy it? he countered quietly.

I won't send for him. I can't. Don't you see? Kheth, I dare not. His life would be in danger from the instant he sets foot on Bharaghlafi soil. And if he's killed, because I called him home, it will be my fault. And it would destroy me.

"I do see, Cithanekh; believe me, the Scholar King insisted, in a soft, passionate voice. But don't you understand? If, in despair and loneliness, Owl starves himself to death, or leaps from a cliff, or slits his wrists, will that not also be your fault? And would it not also destroy you? Cithanekh, I need you both—whole-hearted and well; I cannot afford to squander allies—not ever, but especially not now."

"But he's happy there; his letters are—"

The Scholar King swore in two dead languages. Cithanekh, don't be obtuse! Do you tell Owl in your letters how unhappy you are? How little you're sleeping, and the last time you had a decent meal? If I were a gambling man, I'd wager you tell him amusing Court anecdotes, the milder sort of gossip, and good news about his friends. And I'd win, wouldn't I?

Yes, but—

Khethyran smoothed away his irritation and went on evenly, And Owl doubtless thinks that you don't miss him, that in your mind, he is slipping inexorably from dear friend to old acquaintance, that you would be, in fact, better off without a blind Seer and former slave, clinging to your sleeve.

Cithanekh covered his face with both hands. After a moment, he pushed his fingers into his hair. The mask was gone; he looked vulnerable and uncertain. "He's been gone six years, studying to master his power. What if he's different?"

Of course he'll be different. You're different yourself. People grow and change—but an acorn grows into an oak, not a hawthorn. Trust Owl to be more himself, not less.

Cithanekh's mouth quirked in a wry smile. I thought your scholarship encompassed history, literature and politics; where did you ever learn so much about the ways of the heart?

The Scholar King smiled back. I love you both; it gives me a certain insight. Will you send for him, now?

Cithanekh shook his head. "No. But I'll go to Kalledann; and if he wants to come back with me, I'll bring him home.

***

The salt-tanged wind hissed in the grasses. Owl lay on his back, feeling the sun's gentle touch against his face; the grasses whispered secrets in some eldritch tongue, while the sea breeze carried the faint echoes of the busy harbor's noise from the base of the headlands. He breathed the air as though tasting freedom and sighed.

He shouldn't feel like a prisoner. The instructors and students at the Kellande School were kind. They did their best to make him comfortable, to keep him safe—blind though he was. Everyone had made him welcome; if he was restless, dissatisfied, it was his own fault. In six years, he had learned much—much—about his Gift and the skills needed to master it. He had learned to speak, think, and even to dream in the Kalledanni tongue; but it wasn't home. He was a foreigner, a sojourner, an exile; and as he lay in the grass with the mild spring sunshine soft on him, he wished with his whole heart that he were elsewhere.

But where? he whispered. Mercilessly, his memory supplied his last conversation with Arre. She had been packed to return to Bharaghlaf, to her royal lover, and she had pleaded with Owl to come with her.

"It's your home, Owl, as much as anywhere. Why are you being so stubborn? Are you waiting for an invitation? She had stopped then, as though she could read something reflected in his sightless eyes. And she had added, in a very different tone, You can't be in doubt of your welcome."

Oh, come, Arre, he'd said in a cool, bitter voice. You aren't really fool enough to imagine that the nobility of Bharaghlaf owes me a welcome? They would spit in my lowborn face.

I'm not talking about the nobles; I'm talking about Cithanekh. You can't think he wouldn't be glad to see you.

He'd act glad, I'm sure. He has superlative manners; and for some reason, he seems to think he owes me something. But he doesn't really want me back. It's clear from his letters.

You wrong him. He's not so shallow. Why don't you at least come for a visit, to see if you can't straighten things out with him?

No. His refusal had been flat. He had felt shaming tears very close, and so had added in the scalding bitterness which he used as a shield, "I'll be damned, Arre, before I'll appear on his threshold like the ghost of an antique scandal, to trade on his pity. I would rather die than feel I'd tricked some kindness from him by reminding him of deeds long done, or ancient dangers shared."

Even knowing he didn't like it, she had gripped his shoulders and shaken him gently. "Owl." Her tone was freighted with feelings she could not find words to express.

Then Torres, the Master of the Kellande School, had interrupted. Arre? If you plan to make the tide, you must be going.

She had hugged Owl suddenly, unbalancing him; and he had had to hold hard to her until he steadied himself. I don't like to leave you like this, she had said.

His lips had quirked in an odd, rueful smile. Don't worry about me. I'm a tough little Slum-rat—remember?

Remember? Remember? The word, and its sarcastic inflection, rang in his mind as he lay in the grass. Arre had not answered him; he had listened to her and Torres's receding footsteps until they were out of earshot. Now, he wished he had at least said goodbye.

The wind sighed; he echoed it. So many regrets. Perhaps he should have unburdened himself to Arre; the wise gods knew he couldn't talk to Torres. For all that the man was Arre's twin, Owl had never met anyone as infuriatingly single-minded: Gifts, Great Talents, and Magic, and never the faintest acknowledgment of burdens, uncertainty, or goals beyond the mastery of power. For Arre's entire visit, Owl had walked wary of her, afraid she might see beyond the mask he wore to the hurting child within. But now, he missed her. He wished he had dared to cry on her shoulder. She would have understood.

An image flashed across his inner vision: Cithanekh. He closed his eyes as if he could shut out the picture—and the pain. He missed him so much; and here, his malicious Gift offered him a mocking glimpse of Cithanekh, looking as miserable and lost as Owl felt. The Seer flung an arm across his face as though to ward off a blow; but undeterred, Cithanekh burned in his inner sight, a thin figure against the sky, the wind lifting his hair as he looked down at something with pain and longing in his face. Owl tried to rein in his Gift; he strove to send the image back to the swamp of need and pain which had spawned it; but the vision wouldn't go. Owl's lips twisted in a bitter smile. Even after all the schooling, his prophetic Gift was no trained hound to come—and go—at his command. His visions stalked him, attacking in unguarded moments; and only the skill and practice which the Kellande School had given him allowed him to emerge sane and reasonably whole.

The scuff of footsteps shattered the painful image, leaving Owl to his more usual, listening darkness. He had come up on the headlands to be alone; few people came here besides the occasional shepherd. This didn't sound like a shepherd's step. There was no accompanying thud of his crook, and not a hint of dogs, nor for that matter, sheep. Owl stifled irritation. Torres must have sent someone up to make sure he didn't wander over the cliffs.

Perhaps Torres should build me a pen in the yard, Owl said in his lightly accented Kalledanni, since he's so afraid I'll lose myself.

Cyfrar? Owl. His name: in Bharaghlafi, without the usual Kalledanni inflection. Owl froze in shock. Bhaghlari. Khen yzhakh af frenykhar. Gods. You're so thin.

Owl sat up, his head tilting toward the voice. Cithanekh. His voice was tight with the effort of holding feelings in. Why have you come? Has Arre been meddling? It came out sounding sourer than he meant it to.

Arre? Cithanekh sounded blank; then he went on wryly, Well, a bit, I suppose. She suggested that you might not actually be as carefree as your letters sounded.

And you came to see for yourself? Owl put in. I don't need your pity.

Cithanekh didn't answer for a moment, then Owl heard rustling movement as the young lord sat down beside him. I cannot imagine you needing pity, Owl, he said finally, his voice little above a whisper. Even seeing you so thin, it isn't pity I feel.

No? The cool bite in his tone was savage. "What, then? Shock? Chagrin? Guilt?"

"No. Gods. Cithanekh's voice caught, like tearing cloth; then he steadied himself. I've missed you so much. I used to comfort myself, sometimes, by imagining this meeting, picturing how your smile would spread over your face. I never guessed you were so angry with me. Owl, I never meant to hurt you, only to keep you safe."

Carefully, the blind Seer put out a hand and touched the other's face. His cheeks were wet. Tears, he said gently. You're weeping. Cithanekh, I'm not worth your tears.

Cithanekh put his arm around Owl's shoulders and hugged him fiercely. You are worth my heart's blood, Owl, he whispered.

Owl returned the embrace, pressing his face against Cithanekh's chest. He swore softly in Kalledanni. Cithanekh's arms tightened protectively as the Seer began to cry. They sat like that for several minutes, as Owl's breathing steadied and the slow tears stopped running down Cithanekh's cheeks.

"Why did you come, if not because of Arre?" Owl asked at last, the words rather muffled. When Cithanekh didn't answer immediately, he freed one of his hands and touched his friend's face to read his expression. When his fingers found the smile, Cithanekh spoke.

You're usually quicker, Owl. Can't you guess?

I want to hear you say it.

Cithanekh caught Owl's questing hand and pressed a kiss into the palm. Will you come home with me? Back to Bharaghlaf?

Owl answered with the smile Cithanekh had imagined; it spread over his face like sunlight. Won't the other nobles talk?

"If they only talk, we'll be lucky, Cithanekh said, suddenly serious. They'll probably try to poison you. Owl, Court is a terrible place, and the courtiers are self-serving and vicious. I have no safety to offer, no right to ask you into danger; but will you come, anyway?"

Don't you understand? Cithanekh, for you I would go to the mouth of Hell and beyond. Khethyran's Court will seem tame by comparison.

Chapter Two—The Woman with the Red Hair

Five days later, Owl and Cithanekh arrived in Yrkhaffe, the King's City, in the Empire of Bharaghlaf. The waterfront was crowded and noisy; though he carried in one hand the cane which helped him to maneuver, Owl was grateful for Cithanekh's steady arm and skilled guidance through the busy throng. The scents and noises tugged at his memory: the odor of the fishmonger's stall; the smell of fried bread cakes; the cries of vendors; the curses of longshoremen; people speaking the rapid cant and patter of the Slums, instead of the stilted Court pleasantries. Owl was rather taken aback by the power with which it called to mind his friends and his past.

Over the noise of the open-air market, Cithanekh said, I'm looking for a chair—I just haven't seen one, yet.

Could we walk? Owl asked quickly. I'd rather, if it isn't too dangerous.

"If you'd like. I thought it all might be overwhelming; the Kellande School is such a quiet place."

Owl smiled wickedly. "It isn't always that quiet. I think we shocked them to silence."

Oh, Cithanekh said. You've made me blush, he added as he realized Owl couldn't see his flushed face.

Good. I meant to. The satisfaction on Owl's face vanished suddenly as he stopped short in the street, his hand tightening on Cithanekh's arm.

What is it? Cithanekh asked, alarmed. Owl?

They were standing near the center of a little cluster of slavers' stalls. Most of the human merchandise lolled in the scant shade of brightly colored awnings under the dealers' shrewd eyes.

The woman, Owl said quietly to Cithanekh. With the red hair. Buy her.

Cithanekh caught his breath. No matter how often he spoke of Owl's prophetic Gift, the reality of it always caught him off guard. The woman... He scanned the merchandise; there were lots of women, but none with red hair. Then he saw her. She was all but naked, skeletal, with ugly, crusted welts marring her back and shoulders; her wrists, cuffed together, were attached to a hook in a tall post, holding her slumped body uncomfortably upright. She's been badly treated.

Yes, tortured. I want to buy her. Do you have money?

Some. She doesn't look as if she'd be too expensive. Owl, are you sure—?

Yes; trust me. Then he turned, unerringly, toward the approaching slave dealer. The woman—red haired. How much?

The young master has an eye for a bargain. Thirty Nobles.

Owl laughed. The 'young master' is blind, but not stupid. I'll take her off your hands for three.

Cithanekh saw the woman's head lift, while wide, startled eyes took in Owl. An instant later, when the slaver turned toward her, she was slumped again, apparently lost in misery and indifference.

Cithanekh listened to the bargaining. Owl's acerbic wit scoured holes in the slaver's fulsome manner. They concluded the deal at a price far smaller than the slaver's opening request. When the bargaining was done, the man fetched the woman, unhooking her cuffed wrists from the post and dragging her roughly to Owl's feet.

Loose her, Owl instructed, but the slaver refused.

I will give you the key to her wrist bindings, he said, but I will not free her for you. She can be violent.

Starved and beaten, and you are still afraid of her? Owl asked quietly. I paid you too much.

Fetch something to wrap her in, please, Cithanekh put in, and find us a chair. Then, we will take her away.

The slaver produced a tattered sheet. By the time Cithanekh had wrapped her decently, the man had also summoned a sedan chair for them. Cithanekh lifted her and settled her carefully in the chair. She wasn't very heavy. Then, he helped Owl in. Just as he was about to get in himself, the slaver put a small key into his hand and bowed farewell.

To the palace, Cithanekh told the bearers, and the chair lurched off.

After a moment's silence, Owl said, Not even a question?

You said to trust you: I do. You'll explain when you're ready.

If you are always this obedient, I shall turn into a tyrant.

Owl heard the smile in Cithanekh's voice. I'll risk it. She's watching you, he added in a different tone.

Owl nodded, tilting his head like a listening bird. Will you tell us about yourself? Do you speak Bharaghlafi?

When she made no reply, Owl probed his Gift, seeking to unearth some deeper insight. She was important—he had seen it, seen her in Ghytteve livery, padding silently at his side—but his fragmented visions had given him no sense of how she fit into the larger whole. Frustrated, knowing it was likely futile—for he had never been able to master the knack of reading the surface thoughts of those without any mind gifts—he reached gently with his mind, trying to coax some insight from her which would help him to put her at ease. To his surprise, he brushed against her mind—a brief, jolting contact like bumping something too hot to touch—and he realized the woman had her own mind gifts and wards.

Forgive me, he said meekly. I have no right to pry.

Cithanekh saw a ripple of puzzlement in her eyes before her face became again as unrevealing as the surface of a pool. Beside him, Owl sighed.

I don't know how to reassure her. I can't even tell if she understands.

Even if she understands, Owl, it will take time before she trusts. She's been very roughly treated.

Owl nodded. Do you suppose she's Fytrian? Maybe Kerigden could talk to her.

Cithanekh glanced at her, to see whether he could read any reaction—either to the mention of that distant land, or to the name of the High Priest of the Windbringer's Temple—but the woman had shut her eyes. Without their brilliance and life, her face looked like a sculptor's representation of Famine.

At last, the chair halted at the Palace gates. Cithanekh paid the bearers and gently lifted the woman out. The Imperial Guardsman on duty raised eyebrows but made no comment as they passed through the gates into the elaborate and elegant warren of corridors and galleries.

Their arrival in the Ghytteve apartments precipitated a tempest of activity. Owl was greeted, hugged and tutted over; someone fetched the woman some water, which she drank with reverential attention; a messenger was dispatched to the wharves to coordinate the transport of Owl's belongings; lunch, baths, and rooms were arranged for; the woman (with the key to her shackles) was given into the care of the two female bodyguards; and finally, the bulk of the Ghytteve staff bustled off, leaving only two who waited to make reports.

As the flurried activity subsided, Owl made his way to a brocaded hassock and sat down. He heard the door shut, closing out voices and footsteps; and he listened to the reports. The steward, Effryn, spoke in rapid bursts—the only trace Owl could hear of his Slum roots. Squirrel, as he had been called then, and Owl went way back; Owl could barely recognize his boyhood friend in this brisk, efficient man. When he was finished, the captain of Cithanekh's bodyguard, Cezhar, reported. He was annoyed; Owl could hear the man's underlying grievance through his deferential wording. Cithanekh heard it, too, for after a moment, the Ghytteve Council Lord interrupted.

Cezh, he said, his tone equal parts pleading and laughter. Won't you forgive me for going without you? We're back safely, and I promise not to do it again.

I don't like needless risks, Cezhar replied, abandoning his careful report. "And you even walked as far as the open-air slave market, without any escort at all. Are you trying to get yourself—and Owl—assassinated?"

Is it really that bad, Cezhar? Owl asked. When last I was home, you weren't dogging our every step.

It's that bad, the bodyguard said bleakly. Court seems the same, outwardly, but there are ugly things beneath the surface: blood in the water, and the circling sharks. It's a feeling—instability; the tang of ruthlessness in the air.

Yes, Cithanekh agreed. "I feel it, too: but why now?"

With the young lord's question, a face invaded Owl's inner sight: an old man, familiar, powerful: the Prime Minister, Zherekhaf Azhere. He was drastically changed from Owl's memory of him—a memory from before he was blinded. Zherekhaf looked frail and ill. Spindrift images surged through Owl; he sorted and channeled them with grim concentration. Zherekhaf is dying, he said at last.

"Sweet Lady Windbringer, Cithanekh whispered. No wonder the vultures are gathering. There will be a host of contenders for his chain of office—and his power."

That's not the whole of it, Owl went on, grim. Queen Celave is pregnant, no?

She's due any day, Cithanekh affirmed.

It will be a boy: an heir.

Cezhar made a soft growling noise, and Cithanekh began to pace. Owl smiled. Cithanekh didn't like to hold still while he thought. Owl listened to his friend's measured tread, as they both contemplated implications. The Scholar King, 'til now, had sired only daughters: four girls, no heir. A Royal son—while cause for rejoicing—presented a temptation to the Emperor's enemies. There was precedent in Bharaghlaf for assassinations and long regencies. The Emperor's progressive policies, his efforts in founding and supporting The Free School, his unwillingness to protect noble privileges at the expense of the poor made him beloved of the common people, but had earned him bitter enmity among the nobles of the Council Houses.

No wonder the Court feels like a mob poised for riot, Effryn said quietly.

Yes, the bodyguard agreed. And you'll stir things up, Owl; ugly things, dangerous things.

I'll be as popular as a wasp at a garden party, the Seer agreed dryly, but there's nothing new in that.

We'll have our work laid out keeping you safe, Cezhar said. See that you don't make the task more difficult by taking foolish risks.

Cithanekh's pacing had brought him behind Owl's seat. He rested his hands on the Seer's shoulders. We'll be careful, he promised, and Effryn and Cezhar bowed and departed.

Cithanekh kneaded the tense muscles in Owl's neck and shoulders. What best to do? he asked at last. Can you look into the future and chart a safe course for us and our Emperor?

It isn't that simple, Owl protested. "There are always choices—and consequences; and the glimpses of the future granted me are mere fragments, out of sequence and often unrelated. Damn it, I'm not an oracle; I haven't answers—only hints and possibilities. He drove his fist into his open palm. At the Kellande School they call prophecy a gift; but it's a burden, too, and a responsibility—and I am neither very strong nor very wise."

My dear, amazing Owl, Cithanekh whispered. You are the strongest person I know.

Owl leaned his cheek against Cithanekh's forearm. High praise, he said, striving for lightness. "But then, your acquaintance is made up of courtiers—and we all know how weak and dissolute they are."

Before Cithanekh could reply to this sally, the door opened to admit Marhysse, one of the bodyguards. We've finished with the slave, my lords, she reported crisply. She's washed, bandaged, fed and sleeping. Awe colored her professional tone. "Gods, she was a mess; someone did a thorough job: not just a whipping, but burns and bruises as well. She let us tend her, though, and didn't make so much as a squeak. Is she mute?"

Owl shrugged. Send for me when she wakes and I'll try to talk with her.

As the door closed behind the woman, Cithanekh gave Owl's shoulders a final pat. Do you want to bathe before lunch?

Yes; and could you take me through the apartments so I can memorize the new furniture arrangements?

Perhaps Rhan can do it after lunch—or Effryn. I have a Council meeting.

Owl suppressed a sigh. He knew better than to expect Cithanekh's responsibilities to suspend themselves, but he couldn't help wishing the vortex of events wouldn't suck his friend in so quickly. Despite his care, something must have shown in his face, for Cithanekh took his hand suddenly.

Owl? Are you all right?

Of course.

Cithanekh squeezed lightly. Are you sure?

Owl smiled wryly. Give me a little time to find my own place, my own tasks. I promise I won't cling to your sleeve.

That isn't what I meant, Cithanekh protested. When Owl offered no further comment, he sighed. Let's find that bath.

Chapter Three—The Windbringer's High Priest

Owl sat with his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. He was alone; Cithanekh had gone off to the Council meeting, and the impeccably trained Ghytteve staff would not intrude on the young man to clear the luncheon debris. Despite his pose, Owl was not despairing; he was thinking, trying to weave the threads of his visions into the tapestry of events. He wasn't having much luck. There were too many apparently unrelated bits. The woman, for example: he had seen her in Ghytteve livery, but beyond that, he had not a hint of how she fit. There was a ship, under full sail in a strong wind with a crescent moon scudding through low clouds above it; Owl felt danger, though he couldn't tell whether the ship was threatened, or was itself a threat. As he had been taught to do, Owl called the images back, let them all spill through his memory like bright beads in a box lid: the constellation known as The Harp; Zherekhaf's frail face; a knife spinning out of capable fingers toward shadowy figure; a heavily pregnant woman, whom he knew to be Queen Celave; a crystal goblet brimming with wine dark as garnets; a young woman with a strong, sun-browned face, who wore House Dhenykhare colors and an angry expression; a burning house; a ring of red haired youths playing a throwing and catching game with wicked, razor-edged blades; dark streets and running figures; Rhydev Azhere, his Councilor's medallion glinting on his chest; a coiled snake; a pair of hands, shackled together; a series of unfamiliar faces; Arre, with an infant in her arms; the pallid face of the full moon, shrouded in mist; an isolated tower, pale as bone against a heavy sky; a dark-haired woman in a rain-gray cloak; thin, scarred hands playing an ebony harp; the quizzical face of the High Priest of the Windbringer.

Kerigden, Owl said aloud, feeling a fragment click into place. But the priest's vibrant mind was not reaching out to Owl; only the memory of his face lingered in back of Owl's eyes. His questing fingers found the table cymbal, which he rang. Please send Rhan to me, he told the servant who answered the summons. I would like to go out.

"Out? Rhan demanded, five minute later. He and Cezhar were brothers, and while they were alike in some ways, Rhan had never learned to bridle his feelings out of respect. He was blunt and outspoken, and Owl liked him for it, though many courtiers couldn't imagine why the Ghytteve Councilor allowed Rhan to stay at Court. Owl, don't you