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directed into the main compound, however, but was
led around another inner wall and across a lawn bisected by a smaller stone
path. The lanterns held by the guild slaves that shone on either side of him
lit his way and showed him mere glimpses of a carefully sculpted garden that
would have been marvelous to see by day's light.
    The path curved to
the left, and Kamen saw the water's edge. He looked out across the black
distance. A lake. He was escorted down another path, and just as his eyes made
out the shape of some structure near the water, the moons broke through the
clouds and revealed a tea-house built on stilts over the lake. A small bridge
connected it to land. Kamen's breath caught in his throat, and even though the
moons soon ducked back behind their veil, he did not soon forget the beauty of
that brief scene. The slanted roof, the charming slatted windows, a tiny house
of wood and paper perfectly situated.
    The slaves opened
the house for him, making careful fires in small, protected braziers in the
four corners of the room. In the middle of the depressed center of the floor
stood a table over which hung a fresh cut branch of white blossoms. Kamen took
off his shoes as directed and walked the perimeter of the house, which
consisted only of this room, as the slaves prepared his bedding of thick
blankets stuffed with down feathers.
    The guild servants
disappeared as quickly and quietly as they had worked, and Kamen suddenly found
himself alone. They had left him water boiling over a low fire, a tea set on
the table, and a variety of crackers and soft snacks. As Kamen ate a sweet, red
bean paste nestled in a wide leaf, there came a knock at the door.
    "Enter,"
Kamen said in Sunjaa.
    The door opened,
and a boy stood there with dulcimer in hand. The youth's face was striking, and
Kamen, expecting some nondescript music slave to appear, found himself staring
at the boy.
    "Come
in."
    The boy obeyed and
answered in flawless Sunjaa, though he clearly was not one of Kamen's kind.
"I am come to play for you." He cradled his dulcimer against his
chest. His skin was fair, his hair gold. And if that were not enough, his green
eyes told Kamen that the boy could not have been Zenji. Kamen had never seen a
blond Zenji. Had the Guildmaster purchased a foreign child? Had he been given
to the guild by his Fihdal or Vadal parents? Something about this boy did not
sit right with Kamen. His facial features were strange, the bone structure of
his cheeks, chin, and jaw too angular, his eyes too large for his face.
    Kamen poured hot
water into the tea-pot. "What is your name?"
    "Kaelmoro,
sir."
    "Kaelmoro?"
Certainly not a Zenji name. "And what are you going to play?"
    "What is your
pleasure, sir?"
    Kamen poured
himself a cup of tea, and as he blew across its steamy surface, he thought
about the question. He wanted to relax and get a good night's sleep. The next
morning he would have to stand between two warring Ausir factions and listen to
them babble on in a language he could not understand. "Something
soothing."
    Kaelmoro grabbed a
flat pillow, sat on it, and laid the dulcimer across his lap. He ran his
fingers up and down the instrument's neck, plucking the strings and tuning its
chords. And then after a single, clear strum of the dulcimer, the boy sang.
    My son, build
the temple, so I may rest
    This old
shell cannot keep warm
    Cannot keep
warm under the toil
    While the
lilies slowly drown
    And the sea
echoes, "build the temple"
    Carry me into
the temple
    And let me
know peace again
    I have shed
blood and may not touch its floor
    Carry me, and
suffer the lilies
    They contain the
memory of our fathers
    And our
nation
    Go and sing
the song of resurrection
    Sing, that
these bones might live and praise
    Kamen wept at the
heartbreaking beauty of the song, how the melody jumped the octave in the
middle of the phrase, and how it rose to a crescendo after the word
"nation" just before the final refrain. He wiped his tears from his
eyes, sipped