“Thank you,” Laren said quietly. They hadn’t come just to offer condolences, had they? If that were the case, wouldn’t their prince have sent one who knew the proper words?

“My companions,” Somial said, “Idris—” The woman nodded gravely. “—and Enver.”

The young man came forward and presented his hand. When Laren got over her surprise, she clasped it and shook.

“How do you do?” he asked in a practiced cadence.

“Well, thank you. And you?”

He smiled, his eyes alight. “I am fine.”

“Enver,” Somial explained with an indulgent smile, “has been studying the customs of your people. He is very pleased to use what he has learned.”

“Somial and his people have come to us,” Zachary said, “at the behest of Prince Jametari. Specifically, they wish to see you.”

“Me?” In a night of surprises, this was the biggest.

“Yes, Captain,” Somial replied. “He wishes you to send a message.”

Laren glanced at Zachary, who shrugged, their purpose as much a mystery to him as it was to her. “Surely Prince Jametari has his own messengers?”

“Yes.” Somial looked amused. “We tiendan serve that purpose, but our prince has had a vision. The message must be written in your hand. In fact, three messages.”

When Somial told her what she must write and what she must do with the messages, she thought the Eletians and their prince positively mad. Something like hope lit in Zachary’s eyes though he attempted to conceal it. Laren thought the scheme not only foolish but also cruel. If nothing came of it, it would only compound and extend their pain at losing Karigan.

Zachary must have sensed her hesitation, because he said, “I order you to do as they say, Captain. I feel that it is right.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. She bowed as he left the chamber. It was his final word on the matter.

The three Eletians remained behind and were all looking up. She followed their gazes to the lighted stained glass dome. Even with the scaffolding in the way, she could clearly tell the difference between the panel Master Goodgrave had cleaned and the ones he had not yet gotten to. The colors of Lil Ambrioth kneeling before a moon priest were brilliant, her green cloak never before so vibrant, King Jonaeus’ crown no longer dim, but a shining light. The uncleaned panels were subdued by comparison.

“The leaf you seek,” Somial said, as if pronouncing a vision of his own, “will be revealed to you in the panel of victorious battle.”

“What?”

But he was bowing away, his two companions after him. How did he know? Before she could ask, they were gone.

She gazed back up at the dome—not at the newly cleaned panel, but at the one that depicted Lil and her Riders in an aspect of victory over their enemies, the mountains rising behind them and the storm clouds of war receding. That was where she’d seen the symbol of the four-fold leaf, and it made sense that if more clues were to be found about the League’s major ally in the Long War, then it should be in that panel. She would leave a message for Master Goodgrave to clean that one next.

Then she would write the messages as relayed to her by Somial. And commanded by Zachary.

Karigan, I do not know what you would say to all this, she thought. Then revised, Or perhaps you, of anyone, would.

She decided to join Fastion up above and inspect the dome from that angle. As she left the records room, of all the oddities this evening had brought, she wondered why Eletians traveled in threes, or multiples of three.

It was one mystery among so many.

THE FIRST MESSAGE

Karigan barely listened as her two visitors prattled on and on about Dr. Silk’s dinner party the night before, evaluating the dress of this lady or that.

“And oh, those women of the Capital!” Mrs. Downey exclaimed. “No sense of decency among the lot of them with those short veils of theirs.”

Mrs. Greeling nodded in agreement. The two appeared to carry on the conversation quite adequately without the least input from Karigan, which was just fine with her. It had been this way all morning, since just after breakfast—ladies calling on her as if her appearance at Dr. Silk’s party had immediately rendered her acceptable to society. She assumed what lured them to the professor’s parlor were equal measures of curiosity about his reclusive niece and a desire to inspect her worthiness as a possible match for their sons. A number of callers had looked her up and down most intently, as if judging livestock suitable for breeding.

She thought that it was probably the professor’s Preferred status, more than anything else about her, that had drawn Mill City’s matrons, but they would want to make sure she was not defective physically and able to produce heirs for their sons. Female mental capacity, she guessed, was not terribly important in the empire. They would look past Kari Goodgrave’s madness if it meant aligning with a family as important as the professor’s.

Karigan’s own thoughts were immersed in the visit of Cloudy the cat in the very early morning hours, and so she became deaf to the indignation of Mrs. Downey and Mrs. Greeling over short veils and low necklines. Even now, in her mind’s eye, she could see the message Cloudy had borne, the loops and curves and angles of the handwriting that was so familiar to her, that of Captain Laren Mapstone. She’d sat there on the bed, stunned, staring at her own name written in faded black ink. The paper was yellowed, coarser in texture than that produced by the empire, indicating it was of some age. How had anyone known to send it to her? How had it come to her over so many years? Was it even real, or had someone forged the message, and if so, to what end?