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straightened, his father was watching him.
    â€œThere’s going to be a ceremony in the Meditary tonight.”
    Jordan’s forehead wrinkled. “What kind of ceremony?”
    â€œI don’t know . . . ”
    â€œBut where have they taken Mom and the others? When will they come back?”
    â€œWe’ll go to the Meditary tonight. We’ll find out what’s happened. Surely,” Elliott said. And then softly, again, as if to convince himself, “Surely someone will know.”

Four
S MOKE AND C EREMONY
    T HAT EVENING THEY JOINED A THRONG of Cirrans making the long climb up the uneven stone road to the plateau at the top of the mountain. No one regarded the holy tree, even though the feast day was over. People kept their eyes down. There was no music, no conversation, no ribbons or fancy dress. Jordan wore his short pants and Elliott his brown carver’s robes. Those whose sons or daughters had been members of Theophen’s guard were dressed in plain grey mourning garb.
    Jordan and his father followed the solemn crowd and crossed the courtyard gardens to the eastern archway that marked the entrance to the large domed temple known as the Meditary. Two guards were positioned there. The customary bowl of cleansing water, into which everyone dipped their fingers before entering, was gone. Elliott began slipping off his sandals but one of the guards tapped the ground with the end of his stick and barked, “Shoes on.”
    Jordan was bending to unfasten one of his sandals but his father held him back. “Do as he says.”
    Jordan peered through the archway. Inside, Landguards were clomping around on the marble floors in their boots. Elliott nudged him into the large round room.
    Gone were the small colourful kneeling carpets. The central font, which had always glowed with the orange of a firestone, was covered by pieces of wood. Burning torches lit the temple with unnatural brightness. Elliott’s lips were pressed into a thin stern line. Around them people spoke in hushed tones, their faces pale and eyes widened.
    Ophira stood with three of the seers, all three older women wearing their veils and saffron robes. Jordan knew them by their shapes. The shrunken Mama Manjuza leaned upon the tall girl’s arm for support. Behind the veil were wise eyes and an old-apple face, as well as long hairs upon her chin. To the average person, Manjuza seemed harmless. But anyone who knew her wouldn’t be fooled by her frail-old-lady act. Once she’d hexed a merchant for selling wormy tomatoes, and it had taken five years before he’d produced a good crop.
    Next to her stood the sturdy Mama Petsane, arms crossed and legs askance as if steadying herself for a fight. She hadn’t brought her stew spoon, but she still looked as if she were just waiting for someone to say the wrong thing so she could thump them with it. The third could only be Mama Bintou, for she was holding her knitting.
    When Ophira saw Jordan, she motioned for him and Elliott to come over. As they approached the women, Jordan and Elliott bowed, pressing three fingers to their forehead. “May the Great Light shine upon you,” they said.
    â€œAnd upon your family,” replied Ophira and the grandmas.
    â€œShame on you, Jordan,” growled Mama Manjuza.
    â€œTake off your sandals!” said Mama Bintou.
    â€œShow some respect,” added Mama Petsane.
    Each of the old women was barefoot, their sandals beside them on the floor. Jordan glanced at his father who was already surreptitiously removing his, then at Ophira whose eyes were fixed upon the Brinnian Landguards that stood stiffly against the walls, watching the gathering crowd.
    â€œYou don’t be listening to them black-booted boobies,” Petsane said. “They think they know what’s right for Cirrans. Bunch of clod-hopping donkeys, and in our Holy City.”
    â€œI knew it all along,” said Manjuza. “I knew it