The sun had long since set, but there was still a glow in the western sky when Thalias finally emerged from the path. Thurfian had clearly been watching, and as she walked toward the mansion he appeared through the door and motioned her toward a tunnel car waiting by the mosaic map.

“Change of plans,” he called as she came within earshot. “I’m needed back at the Syndicure, and the Patriarch said I should take you with me.”

“Is there trouble?” Thalias asked.

“None that I’m aware of,” Thurfian said. “But Admiral Ar’alani sent a message asking that you be returned to the Vigilant as soon as possible.” He gave her a suspicious look. “I also note that while I was conveniently distracted, Thrawn managed to slip away.”

“That was certainly not my intent,” Thalias said, knowing full well that she wasn’t fooling him in the slightest. “But since you bring up the Trials, when will I know if I passed them?”

“You think too much like a schoolgirl,” Thurfian said sourly. “The Trials aren’t an essay to be graded and returned after class.” His lip twisted. “Yes, you passed. You’re now a Trial-born of the Mitth. Congratulations. Get in.”

“Thank you,” Thalias murmured.

She sat sideways in her seat as they headed out, watching the mansion, the mountain, and the homestead fading in the distance behind them, until the tunnel wall abruptly blocked it from her sight. She’d never dreamed she would actually meet the Patriarch of her adoptive family, let alone have a long and serious conversation with him. She would hold that meeting, and her promises to him, locked away in her heart.

And even as a new chapter of her life was beginning, so now did an era in the Mitth family’s life draw to a close.

Memories XI

Once, it was said, the March of Silence in Convocate Hall had been used by leaders of the Ruling Families to arrange for their enemies’ censure, imprisonment, or execution. Its construction and acoustics were such that a conversation could realistically hold no more than four or five people without those on the outside edge being unable to hear what was being said in the center.

But that had been thousands of years ago. Now, with the enlightenment that came from political maturity, the March had become a gathering place for Speakers and syndics who wished to discuss political matters without one of them having to show the weakness inherent in meeting in another’s office.

As Councilor Thurfian watched Councilor Zistalmu approaching from the other end of the March, he wondered if the Irizi would appreciate the irony of the proposal he was about to lay out.

Zistalmu’s path was by necessity somewhat meandering as he carefully skirted the other conversational groups at distances calculated to avoid unintentional eavesdropping. Finally, he reached Thurfian and stepped up beside him. “Aristocra Thurfian,” he said, nodding.