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the background uncannily similar to the one he had seen from his ship. “To the right,” she continued, directing his gaze, “is Aén’Tedrel , the Battle of Blood Valley, the only major conflict we ever lost.”
    “The only one? Seems an odd choice for a place of honor.”
    Telai shot him a quick stare. “Depends on your definition of honor. Gargáed, the Overseer who first occupied Wsaytchen nearly four hundred years ago, insisted on it.” She pointed. “Notice the inscription along the bottom? It reads: The only sacrifice in vain is a sacrifice forgotten. ”
    Caleb’s shame rendered him speechless for a moment. He glanced back at the statue. “I assume that’s her?”
    “No. That’s Etrenga, the very first Overseer, long before Gargaéd was born.” A trace of doubt lingered in her eyes. “Come. There’s something I think you should see before you meet the Council.”
    Their footfalls echoed as they passed through the largest arch, and into a less lofty but more spacious hall. Two rows of polished marble columns marched away on either side, while a collection of massive sculptures occupied the wide space between, all illuminated by a set of louvered windows near the ceiling. A team of steel-gray horses reared above, larger than life, their manes like wind-swept flames and their eyes wild with the fever of battle. Behind stood an old, austere man in a great chariot, his hands gripping the reins with sinews of stone. Caleb could almost hear the thunder of his passing.
    Other stately figures of heroes or philosophers loomed between the columns, but the image of a giant bird dominated the far end of the hall. It was no eagle or hawk but a lesser bird, perhaps a sparrow or a thrush. Its wings spread wide over their heads; a long arrow like a giant spear ran through its breast, and the creature gaped its beak in the last of its throes. Beneath its circular pedestal, fine rays etched in the marble floor and inlaid with silver radiated like a sunburst to the farthest parts of the hall.
    Caleb stood awed by the sight. “An important symbol, I imagine.”
    “We stand in the Hall of Memories, and this is La’hegré, the Adan Symbol of Sacrifice,” Telai answered. “It honors Grondolos and many others like him. But what I really wanted you to see is this.”
    Telai crouched by the pedestaled base. Engraved lettering circled the stone, each word separated by a tiny feather, and she ran her fingers across them, her voice barely above a whisper.
    “Urman … Grondolos … Etrenga … Teneda … each name is a tale of sacrifice.” Then her hand stopped.
    “Who is that?” Caleb asked.
    “Ranlé,” she answered, “fourth Overseer of Ada. He was a very old man when news arrived of the tragedy of Aén’Tedrel. He was so overcome with grief and guilt that he refused to eat or drink, and died three days later.”
    She stood. “No one at the Judgment will expect you to know all our history, Caleb Stenger. They will expect you to understand why we teach it to our children.” She looked down at Warren, then at the passage behind. “We’d better get going. We have a long walk ahead of us.”
    They followed Telai through an arched exit and down a flight of wide, shallow steps. Caleb felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. A corridor stretched into the distance beyond the stairs, its walls dimly lit by iron sconces, each passing flame drawing him nearer to his fate.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have paid more attention to your lessons. I’m not very good at that sort of thing, unfortunately. I hope I still qualify for the Judgment.”
    “That’s up to you. If what I just told you isn’t enough, waiting won’t matter.”
    Caleb took a deep breath, knowing he had disappointed her. “I won’t let you down, Telai—I promise. Or Warren.” This seemed to please her, and he added, “Still—maybe it’s a good idea if you gave me a quick refresher.”
    “Now?”
    “Just because I’ve learned