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hundredth time, one day he’d find out what it was, this thing that only he could sense, find it and beat it back out of his nightmares.
    Over the years, the Starhall had shifted in Terricel’s imagination from an implacable enemy to a tool against which he honed his will. He’d learned to sit absolutely still through the long meetings, not a muscle quivering. Learned to keep his breathing slow and deep, his hands steady, his eyes unflinching as he followed the debate. It became a matter of pride that he let nothing show of what he truly felt.
o0o
    Pateros entered the central chamber first, followed by the Inner Council and their various assistants. Green silk robes rustled as they took their places around the oval table. Last to enter was the gaea-priest. The tree and sunburst charms on his breast clinked gently with each step. Above his lined face, cheeks sunk almost to the bone, his head was smoothly shaved. His eyes bore a glazed expression, as if he hadn’t quite emerged from his morning meditations. Carefully he set the ritual silver bowl and planter on the table. The bowl was filled with water. He dipped his fingers into the water and touched his lips, then dipped again and sprinkled the drops over the miniature tree.
    â€œIn the name of all oneness,
    Which we pledge to preserve
    In thought and deed.
    May the cycle of life
    Bless these proceedings.”
    He placed the tree in the center of the table and passed the bowl to Pateros.
    Pateros dipped into the water with his tapering, big-knuckled fingers. With his silvery-gold hair and strong-boned features, he had not aged visibly since Terricel was a boy. Like most Laurean men, he used a beard suppressant that kept his face smooth for months at a time. He wore a single ring, a river-opal set in silver. The gemstone, wet, shone as if it had been set afire. As he stooped to reach the planter, his hair fell forward across his eyes. He brushed it back absently as he handed the bowl to Esmelda, who stood in her usual place at his right side. When his eyes met Terricel’s, they crinkled in a fleeting smile.
    When the bowl had passed around the circle, the gaea-priest received it again and indicated the dedication had been properly performed. With sighs and scrapings of chair legs, the members of the Council sat down in their padded armchairs. The aides and adjutants, Terricel included, settled into their seats behind their principals.
    â€œIt’s good to see you again, Markus. I trust your retreat was restful,” said Pateros, nodding to the gaea-priest. His hazel eyes flickered across the table. “Hobart, what’s happening with the Cathyne tariff debate?”
    The Senate presidio drew in his breath, his shoulders hunching under the brocaded yoke of his robe. His rank medallion, an ornate disc of copper and gold, glittered in the bright light. Terricel had heard rumors that he was scheming to get his daughter married to Pateros, who did not yet have an heir, which had recently become a cause for some uneasiness.
    Terricel bent over his note pad, transcribing the discussion for Esmelda’s records. His pen skimmed the paper in line after line of his precise cursive script, each letter sloping at exactly the same angle as its neighbor, each descender brief and unflourished. The rhythmic movement helped steady him, pushing back the enveloping presence of the Starhall from his consciousness.
    Hobart made a small, almost apologetic gesture. “It’s hard to say at this point. The Traders Guild wants one thing, the city fathers another. And of course Redding and the other river towns have got their own interests. If the traders win too many concessions here, they’ll start aiming for other ports.”
    â€œWhat you’re saying,” Pateros observed dryly, “is that the problem’s bogged down in the usual endless debate and whatever gets decided — if anything — will be some hopelessly inept