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that pervaded such afternoons? But that was the irony. Kuramos wanted to escape but could not, while those without responsibilities here attended of their own accord. Even his foes.
    Especially his foes. But they were always looking for a stumble, a misjudgment they could use to their advantage. Seeking out malcontents they could entice to their cause. And with petty cases like these, someone would always be dissatisfied.
    “O Lord,” the latest complainer shrilled as his forehead touched the floor, “I beg of you: please do not allow my neighbor to insult my family! Last week he built a fence that cuts off our access to our own lirrfruit trees! My cook can no longer gather our own fruits to brew for breakfast…”
    Kuramos’s hands twitched, aching to curl into fists. Tradition, indeed—ancient family conflicts and jealousies played out again and again, differing only in the details. Today Death stalked the corridors of his palace, yet here he must sit, pretending all was well. If he did not, if word of the illness reached his foes, the strength of his rule and of his very dynasty would be shredded by poisonous treachery.
    And how well his enemies had already pruned that dynasty! They’d sliced off its leaves and branches, burned and hacked at it until only twigs remained to shake in the oncoming gale.
    The goddess would have Her revenge at last.
    “But O Lord,” whined the neighbor who’d built the offending fence, “consider what he keeps from you: his own father sold me that land and those trees! A handshake sealed the bargain thirty years ago, and though I have permitted his cook to take fruit from our trees until now, it is within my right to fence my own property. Furthermore—”
    At precisely the moment when the sultan knew he would burst a vein if he didn’t wrap his hands around both neighbors’ necks, a shriek echoed through the great hall.
    Kuramos’s gaze streaked to the open doorway of the antechamber and he shot to his feet, palming the hilt of the scimitar belted at his waist. His guards had leapt to attention at the scream, then relaxed at what they saw. Kuramos, however, remained in a fighter’s stance as he took in the spectacle.
    A splendid blonde in foreign garb wrestled with three palace guards for control of a well-stuffed travel pack. Her prudishly long skirts swirled around her as she gave one man an impressive clout across the chin. Adding to the confusion was Kuramos’s own jencel, dive-bombing the guard who gripped the hellcat’s squirming waist.
    “You fools!” the woman yelled. “You’ll crush them! Lay one more hand on that pack and you’ll wish your life were over!”
    Amazingly, the guards’ faces reflected a curious mixture of contempt and…fear.
    The woman turned toward the crowd of astonished courtiers but her gaze raced past them all to slam headlong into Kuramos’s. The impact sent his pulse staggering. Eyes blue as cornflowers, and as cutting as tempered steel…
    “You!” she shouted into the room. “Is this how you treat the Healers you beg to come to your family’s aid? Call off your dogs!”
    Murmurs shot through the room. The nobles stared at the disheveled and furious woman, and then their gazes rose to their sultan—some with horror, others with venomous pleasure.
    But Kuramos’s mind was already roaring like wind over desert dunes. The woman’s indigo skirts were Tegannese in style… Gunjan, who’d been sent to fetch the Royal Healer of Prince Alvarr, was with her…
    His jaws ground together. Aghast and furious, he finally understood the last words of Dabir ib Rubai.
    “She” had come.
     

     
    T he dark, empty blur of the magical Crossing from Teganne had lasted only a few moments, with Varene’s unease lightened by the pinpricks of Gunjan’s talons on her shoulder and the rough canvas of the pack she clutched in both hands. But when she emerged in Kad’s FireRing, everything went wrong.
    Through the blur, an incredulous male voice