another; I walk between your past, your present and your future as if time is a path on which I am trapped and forced to wander.
“I see death—almost always—and I remember it, and I work to prevent what can be prevented. That’s simple. It’s clean. It’s the deaths that can’t be prevented, the deaths that must occur, that are harder. I confess that I do not understand why I am here today. You are not yet ready to walk the Oracle’s path; if I am not mistaken, you will not even be able to find it, yet.
“You are not in danger, and were you, you have all of your escort.” She glanced at the table again, and this time, she paused. “Terafin.”
“Call me Jewel.”
“That is not what you have said in my past and your future.”
Jewel folded her hands together to prevent them from trembling. “No, probably not. You don’t tend to appear when things are either peaceful or happy. The previous Terafin wasn’t easily angered. I am. What I say in anger—”
“Or sorrow, or loss,” the seer said softly.
Thinking of Arann and what Lefty’s loss had done to him, she said, “Or sorrow, or loss.” Her fingers tightened in their loose clasp, as if she were praying. She suddenly knew that she could not be—or do—what Evayne a’Nolan had been and done. No flash of visceral insight followed; she didn’t know if Evayne’s choices were the right ones or the wrong ones. She only knew they were acts of desperation.
Evayne once again turned her attention to the table—or rather, to the books stacked in a careful pile in front of The Terafin’s chair. “Jewel,” she said, although it was clear the name did not come easily, “these books—do you recognize them?”
Jewel frowned. “I haven’t had a chance to inspect the library; both I and the library only just arrived here. But at least a shelf’s worth of books are the same.” A creeping anxiety made her turn to look over her shoulder at the shelves she had passed. “. . . I won’t know until I’m brave enough to summon the archivists. Why?”
“At least three of these texts are forbidden works.”
Jewel frowned. “Forbidden?” The frown opened into something rounder. “You mean, as in forbidden by the Order of Knowledge?”
“Yes. I thought them all destroyed,” she added.
“You’ve seen these books before.”
“Yes—but not in the current incarnation of this city.” She reached out and touched one page of the open book. Violet light, sharp and sudden, struck both book and reader, encircling them. “I see.”
“Evayne, are you—”
“I am unharmed. The book is unharmed.”
Jewel quickly approached Evayne’s side. This time, all three of the cats stayed put. They didn’t exactly move out of the way, but for the cats, they were positively well-behaved. Evayne withdrew her hand and the light faded—but it was slow to fade, and it left an afterimage, the way sun did if you looked at it for too long.
“What is this book?” Jewel asked, without touching it. She felt—of all things—resentful. No part of her believed that these books had been any part of the Terafin collection. The library had already been so transformed, the sight of a familiar table had brought her to the brink of tears.
Evayne didn’t reply; Jewel wasn’t certain that she had even heard the question. She was staring at a page that seemed to have been written by a man—or woman—in a hurry. The ink was faded but remained dark enough to read; the hand was a strong scrawl in places, but cramped, precise and tiny in others.
“Evayne?” Jewel reached out to touch the older woman’s arm to catch her attention; her palm froze an inch from a swath of midnight blue. Evayne’s eyes widened as folds of cloth began to rustle at her feet. Jewel quickly withdrew her hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“It is . . . not safe . . . to touch me if I am not prepared.”
“The robes?”
Evayne nodded.
“I could have used those, once.”
“In the streets of a different city,” was the quiet reply.
“In the streets of this one.” It was a declaration they both understood. “Is it safe?”
Evayne nodded and Jewel brushed past her, but only as far as the table’s edge. There, the book lay, two pages exposed, as if it were any other personal journal. There were dates, but she recognized neither the month nor the year; she knew them as dates because of the numbers and the placement—and the numbers, she did recognize.