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could kill as effectively as he could.
    “And our revered founders—what of their harmonious life together? They squabbled and fought the whole way from Montgren to Recluce. They refused to share bedrooms until well beyond a year after they were married, and the lightnings and storms of their final fight were seen from dozens of kays away. Admittedly, they seemed to have settled into a less conflicting relationship thereafter, but I can guarantee it was scarcely one of sweetness and light portrayed by your teachers or conveyed by the Brotherhood.”
    Lortren jabs a finger at Edil. “What does this tale tell you?”
    “…Ah…that things are not always what they seem…”
    “You can do better than that.” The magistra fixes her eyes upon Jyll. “You, merchant princess, what does the story tell you?”
    “I think you are out to shock us with the truth—”
    “Be very careful when you use the word ‘truth,’ child. Facts and truth are not exactly the same.” Lortren looks at Dorrin. “You, toy-maker. What do you think the purpose of my story is?”
    Dorrin tries to gather his scattered thoughts. “Besides trying to shock us, you’re trying to show that you, and I’d guess the world as well, doesn’t care very much who or where we came from, and that we have lived a very…sheltered life.”
    Lortren smiles, coldly. “That’s not too bad, for a start. All of that is correct. I am also trying to make you think. To reason, if you will.”
    Dorrin thinks about how cool and detached Lortren appears, and wonders whether his father has seen this side of the magistra. Then he recalls how carefully the weather wizard had addressed Lortren.
    “Remember this. There are two sides to reality. There is what is, and there is what people believe. Seldom are they exactly the same. Why not?” This time the magistra’s eyes fix on Tyren, the shaggy and brown-haired young poet who had attempted to charm Jyll the night before after dinner.
    “Is it…because…people find what is…real…I mean, what is…I mean, is it too hard for them to believe in it?”
    “That is correct.” Lortren’s voice softens. “All of us find some aspect of reality too hard to see as it is—even when we know better. That usually isn’t a problem when it remains personal, but it can be a problem when a village or a duchy all accepts unreality.”
    Dorrin’s eyes flicker to the window and to the deep green-blue and fast-moving white clouds. His thoughts move to the question of machines and the unthinking belief by his father and Lortren that such devices are of chaos.
    “You do not agree, Dorrin?”
    “No…I mean, yes. I agree, but I was thinking that even people on Recluce might have beliefs like that.”
    “I just gave you some, didn’t I? About the Founders?”
    Dorrin nods.
    “You look doubtful. Did you have something else in mind?”
    “That’s different,” Dorrin stumbles, realizing he does not want to state the machine argument, but he is unable to find another.
    “What about the rest of you?” Lortren’s eyes sweep the others.
    Finally, the tall dark-haired girl—Lisabet—clears her throat, then begins in a voice so quiet that Dorrin leans toward her. “Maybe Dorrin is saying that what we believe about the past and what we believe about today are two different kinds of beliefs.”
    “Huhhh…” The involuntary grunt comes from Shendr.
    “I’m not sure it matters,” answers Lortren. “Whatever the cause, people have trouble accepting certain actions, events, or behaviors. Part of what I hope to teach you is to learn your own weaknesses and to guard against them.”
    Dorrin tries not to frown. He is more interested in learning how to get other people to change their minds about their weaknesses than in learning about any more of his own weaknesses.
    “Now,” continues Lortren, “why is the difference between what we have heard about the Founders and the sort of peoplethey actually were important?”
    Dorrin