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scribes.
    ‘I wonder what else is new about this version,’ I whispered to Sarlice.
    She nodded, sharing my curiosity. From time to time, the Jarian scribes announced a new version of the holy scrolls, usually when fragments were recovered from far off lands, verified and integrated with our master texts. I wondered how much the Jarian holy scrolls differed from the Tanzan holy scrolls. Although Tanzans were banned from entering Telby, that hadn’t stopped ambassadors like myself from journeying to Tanza and back again several times over the past decade.
    ‘The work done by our scribes is vital to our continuing efforts to serve Krii,’ Duke Alger was saying. ‘In many of the early books, Krii himself is equated with these words, as if it is his own blood written on the pages. Every word of the original holy scrolls was divinely inspired and as we uncover new manuscripts or codices for translating them, we glimpse the final days of our world. There are prophecies revealed in here…’ He tapped the golden cupboard, ‘that point to the destiny of all Kriites. We each have a duty to study it and determine what Krii requires of us in the days to come. The Zeikas are massing against us, so now, more than ever, is a time for us to be steadfast in our faith and strong in our understanding of Krii’s words. Let us now praise him for his love and for giving us this guide for how to conduct our lives.’
    Keryn Alger took his place in the front row of the audience and waited for the musicians to continue the service with songs of praise and worship. It wasn’t so different from home.
    A strange kind of peace descended over my heart. I concluded that anyone willing to go on living in this world knew and accepted the fact that it contained evil and suffering and, therefore, couldn’t blame Krii whenever something went wrong. For, if they valued their own life and accepted the chance to live it, how could they blame the creator for allowing the world to come into existence despite knowing that it would fall? Even though he had known what would happen, Krii gave us this chance to work things out for ourselves. That didn’t mean prayers were useless, just something to do continually with unswerving faith and loyalty no matter what happened. I directed my frustration about Jaria’s suffering at Zeidarb and his followers, but even that seemed unimportant in this place of worship.
    I visualised the white wolf form of Krii running across the face of a mountain with glittering snow spraying up from his claws. A dozen vigorous-looking wolves ran in his wake, frolicking almost like puppies in their joy. Some were sandy coloured, sorrel or brown and others were every shade of grey from silver to black.
    Krii reached a tumble of white-capped rocks and he perched himself on the very tip of one, looking down over the vast plain of snow beneath. The whiteness gave way to the green spruce trees of a tall wintry forest. Krii howled softly. Together, the rest of the pack sent their voices echoing across the valley.
    I blinked and came back to myself when the songs finished, fancying that I could still hear the haunting howls of the wolves from my vision. A prophet was on the stage waiting for a young woman to make her way through the crowd.
    ‘Thank you Escotia,’ he said once she was by his side. He began speaking a strange language. The woman’s voice rang out over the hall, interpreting his words. I watched in amazement—the gift of utterance was common in Jaria, but the gift of interpretation was very rare.
    ‘Krii calls on the people of Tanza to prepare themselves for change,’ she said. She concentrated on the prophet’s words for a moment. ‘A new calling has come to the Sleffion.’ She paused and listened. ‘Krii gives us a proverb: “Wise are they who exercise their faith, growing day by day in pursuit of their destiny. Foolish are they who are satisfied and wait for the end to ensnare them”.’
    On our way out after the