“Ah.” Nicomidi gave a quick, humorless smile. “The Forge can be confusing, if you’re not accustomed to it.” He paused. “You’re Maya, aren’t you? Jaedia’s agathios.”

Maya blinked. While she’d memorized the names of all the centarchs, she hardly expected them to have heard of her. She nodded cautiously.

“I am, Kyriliarch. Have we met? I apologize for not remembering.”

“No apology needed. I know you by … reputation.” He pointed down one of the corridors. “That way, and take the first left. Hurry, now, you wouldn’t want to keep old Basel waiting.”

“My thanks, Kyriliarch.”

Maya bowed again and hurried in the direction he’d indicated. The back of her neck itched, and she was certain he watched her until she turned out of sight. Reputation? What’s that supposed to mean?

Basel’s office door stood open a fraction. Maya slowed as she approached, brushing stray crumbs from her shirt and wishing she’d had time to do something about her hair. She went to knock, then froze at the sound of her mentor’s voice.

“It’s too soon.” Jaedia sounded angrier than Maya had ever heard her. “I won’t stand for it, Basel.”

“It is the Council’s decision to make.” Baselanthus’ voice, scratchy with age, sounded resigned. “If you fight them, it will only make things worse for everyone.”

“You promised me that you’d keep her out of this.”

“I promised you that I would keep her away from it as long as I could,” Baselanthus said. “I have done all that I can.”

“But—”

“Jaedia.” There was a hint of steel in his tone. Then, raising his voice, he said, “Maya, is that you, dear?”

I shouldn’t have heard that. Maya’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her hand came up, automatically, to touch the Thing, but after a few quick breaths she forced it down again.

“Yes, Kyriliarch,” she managed, in an almost normal tone.

“Come in, dear.”

Maya pushed the door open. Basel’s office was small and crowded with bits and pieces of arcana. He collected Elder artifacts, especially those with no obvious purpose, and every square inch had been turned into a shelf for strange little creations with smooth white curves and gemlike protrusions. A few of these were obviously broken, like the gold-veined staff with a broad crack through the center that hung just behind Basel’s desk, but most seemed intact.

Basel himself sat behind an unmetal desk, repurposed from some ancient facility. He was surprisingly tall and broad-shouldered for someone with his intellectual reputation, and must have been a powerful man in his youth. Now his skin was spotted and wrinkled, and all the hair from the top of his head seemed to have moved to his chin. His eyes were a bright crimson and showed no signs of softening with age.