At intervals I attended Bee, who sat for hours in the village’s festival house acting as mediator. I admired her fair-minded intercessions between the demands of the Houseborn, many of whom had never set foot in so rustic a situation, and the complaints of the burdened villagers. Disputes were also sparked between the younger generation in the village, who agitated for resistance, saying this was their chance to throw off the yoke of clientage, and the elders, who refused to offend the ancestors and the gods by violating guest rights.

I just wanted to stab everyone when they started to argue. My foot got bruised from Bee stepping on it.

The mansa was dying. Everyone knew it but no one spoke of it. Rory had taken a violent liking to the old djeli, Bakary, and prowled around him seeking any pat of attention, which meant he spent most of his day in Grandmother’s cottage listening to the old bard sing the story of the mansa’s life and deeds, the tale of the Diarisso lineage, and the history of the world.

The history of the world begins with a seed. The seed is the kernel of what you are, but it is also the promise of what you can become.

On the fourth day a delegation arrived from Trecon, where the rest of the House refugees languished. The mansa’s nephew had arrived with the mage House troop from Lutetia. Because the mansa had not regained consciousness, his nephew wanted to immediately convene the House council of elders to vote on the matter of the heirship.

I returned to Vai’s mother’s room to find Vai sitting on the edge of the bed clad in trousers and nothing else. With a hand braced on the wall he stood, trembling across his entire body as he steadied himself to take a step, another step, and a third. It was obvious he was headed for the screen behind which we washed and dressed and kept the chamber pot. He had not yet seen me.

He said in a strikingly peevish tone, “I will manage the business myself, Mama.”

Twice I thought he would topple right over, but he got behind the screen without mishap.

I crossed to where his mother sat on a chair, knelt beside her, took her hand, and smiled up at her.

“He was never a patient invalid as a child,” she remarked. “Fortunately he did not get sick often.”

The girls were sitting at the table beside a window, perusing a book. Wasa elbowed her sister. “Kayleigh used to say no one whined like Vai when he was sick.”

“I heard that!” said Vai from behind the screen, not in a jocular tone.