Sarat frowned in disapproval from across the chamber. It was clear how she felt about Nyssa and her work, but to Grandmother’s mind, Nyssa took a disagreeable but necessary task and turned it into an artform. She clearly loved her work as much as it disgusted Sarat.

“He was no longer productive,” Nyssa added, “so no great loss. But I saw that we may have a replacement. Varius told me how you traded with the groundmites for that fellow. It’s an odd thing.”

“Yes, it is,” Grandmother replied. “If he survives, then perhaps he’ll be suitable for the labor. I should like to find out how he came to be in the hands of groundmites in the first place.”

A tight smile formed on Nyssa’s face. “If he does not tell you, then I will get the answers for you.”

SONG OF THE STARRY CROSSING

In the dream, he drew the bowstring taut and aimed down the shaft of the arrow. He’d found the doe standing in a meadow at the edge of a wood, flicking her tail as she grazed, the golden sunshine of spring falling softly on her russet-brown back. She was a beautiful creature with a delicate face and limbs, every movement mesmerizing in its grace, but he was a hunter, and finally, in a moment of stillness, she was in range. If he was successful, she would be his. He let fly the arrow.

It arced through the air, its shadow flickering over meadow grasses, the sun stroking the shaft as it flew. The doe looked up, gazed across the meadow at him and tensed as though to flee, but it was too late. The arrow struck.

The doe flung herself into the woods, and he pursued, running across the meadow into the shade of leaf and limb. Her trail was obvious—broken branches, hoofprints, smears of blood on vegetation. He followed her trail over peat and duff and came upon her in a clearing as she took faltering steps, the arrow jutting from her ribs, blood darkening her side.

Her legs gave out, and she went down onto her chest on a deep bed of velvet green moss. He approached carefully. Now on her side, she thrust her legs out weakly, still fighting, still trying to flee. He knelt down and placed his hand gently upon her head. Her breaths came in raspy gusts and she looked up at him, but her right eye was not the brown of a deer, but the silver gleam of a mirror.

He realized in horror his mistake. No! No! No!

The arrow had rammed through Karigan’s ribs just below her heart. He held her in his arms as she took her last breaths and her mirror eye dulled to pewter, a single tear gliding down her cheek.

“NO!” He thrashed, fought against hands that pressed him back. “No! No! No!” How could he kill her? How? Pain clamped his skull, a terrible headache, and with it he realized he had been dreaming. No, he would not have killed her. Just a dream, just a dream. Then he said it aloud, his words slurring: “Jussst a dream.”

“Must have been some nightmare,” someone muttered.

Zachary opened his eyes to slits and jerked in surprise at a blurry face nose-to-nose with him. The vision made him feel sick, so he closed his eyes.

“Not quite with us yet,” a man said.

“Give him a little time.”

Zachary realized he was warm, wrapped in blankets. A fire radiated heat against his cheek. He was among people, so he had made it out of the cave somehow, unless the cave, too, had been a dream.

“Bruises both old and recent,” one of the men was saying, “and healing ribs. Looks like he’s been in a bad fight or two, and like someone tried to strangle him for good measure.”

“Keep an eye on him then,” said a woman. The resonant quality of her voice, like well-worn wood that has known years, suggested an older person. “We don’t need him starting brawls here.”

Had Zachary the energy, he’d laugh at the notion of himself as a brawler.

“Another thing that’s odd,” the man said, “is his clothing.”

The blanket peeled away, and Zachary shivered with the inrush of cold air. After a moment, the blanket was dropped back over him.

“I have not seen that style since my grandfather’s time,” the woman said. “Once fine garb, but very old. This one must have a very curious story. Let me know when he is ready to talk.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

Grandmother. Zachary stilled. What were the chances? No, there were grandmothers everywhere. This could not be his enemy, the leader of Second Empire. He, of course, did not ask, but he squinted once again, fighting the nausea. A man stood nearby staring down at him. Tall with golden hair, he was familiar to Zachary. He blinked trying to clear the blurriness from his eyes, trying to get the man to resolve in his vision. In a moment of clarity, he jerked up and almost spoke Fiori’s name.

Aaron Fiori shook his head and drew his finger to his lips. Then said, “I am called Arvyn. Mender Varius thinks you should rest for now.” He then glanced about as though to make sure he was not being observed and mouthed, Danger.

Zachary closed his eyes for a moment, and when he looked again, Fiori was gone. The pain in his head reinforced that this was not an extension of his dream.

Fiori had given him a false name, let him know he was not among friends. Perhaps he’d managed to fall into the clutches of Second Empire, after all. Even if it were not Second Empire, he knew enough not to reveal his true identity to strangers without good cause. Even the most well-meaning folk could be a danger, should they learn who he was. There was a reason he was guarded by Weapons. Unless any of these people had seen him in person, or his portrait in the castle, they would not recognize him. He was not pictured on the realm’s currency, nor were there statues of him. There was a wax mannequin of him in the Sacor City War Museum, but it was, to his mind, a poor likeness.