speak of the minor problems the city had faced in the bard’s absence. He spoke of the events of The Terafin’s funeral, his voice soft and steady; he spoke of the shift in the structure of Avantari. Kallandras stared as the mage chuckled.
“There was also the matter of the Kialli who chose to attack the The Terafin during the victory parade. But these are minor compared to what you are about to see.”
“I’m not entirely certain I anticipate major with any joy. Where exactly do you lead me?”
“The library, as it happens. You will not, however, be in danger here, and the Chosen frown upon the drawing of weapons that are not their own.” He paused in front of two of the Chosen. “Master Bard Kallandras of Senniel College, to see The Terafin.”
The Chosen nodded and allowed the mage to pass through the doors. Kallandras, frowning, followed.
* * *
He was silent when he entered the world. Meralonne had called it a library, and a quick glance at the standing trees in the near distance made truth of the statement; they appeared to be growing shelves, and on those shelves, books had been placed, spines of different heights, textures and colors clearly visible beneath the midday light. The sky was amethyst, not blue, but it was cloudless, and the light it shed, bright and clear.
Avandar met them at the standing arch. “The Terafin is waiting,” he said, bowing. “Please follow me.”
Kallandras had seen this man summon and control the wild earth; he had seen him wield a sword of gold that had a voice, however muted. He had built a bridge all of stone in a matter of minutes, and he had turned the tide of an ugly—and almost hopeless—battle singlehandedly, in the village of Damar.
Very little of that man remained in this one.
Kallandras felt wind. He could hear the whisper of its voice, distant but unmistakable. He had not summoned it; it had not come at his call. He nonetheless offered it a benediction, and felt it creep up to curl his hair. But he glanced at Meralonne as he followed the domicis, and saw that the wind also traveled through the mage’s hair. In this room, beneath this sky, Meralonne APhaniel looked like a young man—dangerous with youth and passion and intent.
“Have I amused you, Master Bard?”
“I so seldom feel kinship, APhaniel; you remind me of myself as a youth.”
“Perhaps you could keep this between us,” the mage replied, with a smile that was all edge. “My youth—and yours—are not generally appropriate conversational fare for appointments such as this one.”
Kallandras laughed. As Avandar crested the end of the rows upon rows of shelves, a plain wooden table came into view. Seated at it, her hair half in her eyes, her expression entirely despondent, was Jewel. Ah, no. The Terafin.
Avandar cleared his throat, and she looked up, bleary-eyed. Exhaustion was replaced by a surprisingly warm smile of recognition as she rose.
“Kallandras, it is you.”
“I should hope that men don’t generally apply to speak to you using my name,” he replied with mock gravity. He bowed. It was a graceful, swift motion that achieved the correct depth without descent into the obsequious. He was surprised by the delight he heard in her voice; it matched her tone. She knew that he was bard-born; she held nothing back. But she had never been good at disguising her feelings beneath an unbreakable patina of words.
“You look like you’ve barely left the desert.”
“That is unkind, Terafin. I have, however, barely left the road.” He glanced past her shoulder and frowned. “You have a fountain in your library.”
“It’s not much of a library,” she replied. “And yes. The fountain came with the trees and the open air.” She held out her hands and he took them, as if both gestures were entirely natural. Then again, for the bards who occupied the courts, they often were.
“It is, as you are aware, an impressive library. It is not, however, architecturally, as . . . closed . . . as many. You are well?”
“I am. If you have time—and you look as if time is an issue, I’m sorry—you should come to the West Wing. Adam is there. He’d be grateful for any sight of you, I think.”
“Adam is here?”
She nodded. “It’s complicated. How was Diora when you left?”
“She was well. No, she was better than well; she was very cautiously happy, I think. She has grown bold, for a Serra, and Valedan delights in it. Her first