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such remarkable visions that some of the ladies of the Shelf were already calling her a seer. Nafai didn’t put much stock in such magical stories—the Oversoul couldn’t know the future any more than a human being could, and as far as visions were concerned, people only remembered the ones that by sheer luck happened to match reality at some point.
    “You’re the one who’s covered with fire,” she said.
    What was she talking about? How was he supposed to answer this kind of thing?
    “No, I’m Nafai,” he said.
    “Not really fire. Little diamond sparks that turn to lightning when you’re angry.”
    “I’ve got to go in.”
    She touched his sleeve; it held him as surely as if she had gripped his arm. “She’ll never mate with you, you know.”
    “Who?”
    “Eiadh. She’ll offer, but you’ll refuse her.”
    This was humiliating. How did this girl, probably only twelve, and from her size and shape
definitely
not a young woman yet, know anything about his feelings toward Eiadh? Was his love that obvious to everyone? Well, fine, so be it—he had nothing to hide. There was only honor in being known to love such a woman. And as for this girl being a seer, it wasn’t too likely, not if she said that Eiadh would actually
offer
herself to him and he would turn her down! I’m more likely to bite my own finger off than to refuse take the most perfect woman in Basilica as my mate.
    “Excuse me,” Nafai said, pulling his arm away. He didn’t like this girl touching him anyway. They said that her mother was a wilder, one of those filthy naked solitary women who came into Basilica from the desert; supposedly they were holy women, but Nafai well knew that they also would sleep with any man who asked, right on the streets of the city, and it was permissible for any man to take one, even when he was in a contract with a mate. Decent and highborn men didn’t do it, of course—even Meb had never bragged about “desert worship” or going on a “dust party,” as couplings with wilders were crudely called. Nafai saw nothing holy in the whole business, and as far as he was concerned, this Luet was abastard, conceived by a madwoman and a bestial man in a coupling that was closer to rape than love. There was no chance that the Oversoul really had anything to do with
that.
    “
You’re
the bastard,” said the girl. Then she walked away. The others had finished their devotions—or perhaps had stopped them in order to listen to what Luet was saying to him. Which meant that the story would be spread all over the house by dinnertime and all over Basilica before supper and no doubt Issib would tease him about it all the way home and then Elemak and Mebbekew would
never
let him forget it and he wished that the women of Basilica would keep crazy people like Luet under lock and key instead of taking their stupid nonsense seriously all the time.

THREE

FIRE
    When he got inside he headed for the fountain room, where his class would be meeting all through the autumn. From the kitchen he could smell the preparations for dinner, and with a pang he remembered that, what with his argument with Elemak, he had completely forgotten to eat. Until this moment he hadn’t felt even the tiniest bit hungry; but now that he realized it, he was completely famished. In fact, he felt just a little lightheaded. He should sit down. The fountain room was only a few steps away; surely they would understand why he was late if he arrived not feeling well. No one could be angry at him. No one could think he was a lazy slackwit if he was
sick.
They didn’t have to know that he was sick with hunger.
    He shuffled miserably into the room, playing his faintness to the hilt, leaning against a wall for a moment as he passed. He could feel their eyes on him, but he didn’t look; he had a vague idea that genuinely sickpeople didn’t easily meet other people’s gaze. He half-expected the teacher of the day to speak up. What’s wrong, Nafai? Aren’t you