They finished A Wanderer’s Tale the next morning and moved on to Corridor of Fire, a stately and tragic story of one man’s slow dissipation. This one had never come Nolan’s way, either, and he found the subject both depressing and distasteful, but the language was so beautiful that he kept pausing at the end of sentences just to recover from the intoxication of the words. It was strange to him that he would be reading one of his culture’s literary masterpieces while being held under guard in the palace of a foreign dignitary. But no less strange than anything else that had happened to him in the past few weeks.

On the morning of the fourth day, Chay sent for them.

When the guards appeared at the door, Kit was unprepared. She had dressed in some of the laundered indigo clothes she had purchased in the city, and she had not troubled to style her hair. “How do I look? Am I all right?” she asked nervously, though Nolan could not tell if she directed the questions at him or the guards.

“You’re fine,” he said.

“Maybe if I put a scarf on—”

“He’s not calling us in to inspect your clothes.”

They followed the guards down the sunny corridors, Nolan happy to be out of his quarters for the first time since their arrival. Kit seemed so tense that he wanted to take her hand just for reassurance, but he had no illusions that she would find this a comfort. The guards had said they were taking the prisoners to see Chay, but Nolan wondered. They could be heading straight for execution. He tried to summon dread but could not. On this trip, he had become a fatalist. What had been set in motion, even by his own hand, could not be altered now by his words or desires. He strolled through the passageways and felt remarkably calm.

Once they entered Chay’s living quarters, they had to pass through a series of anterooms and sitting rooms, all of them empty. The last chamber they came to was airy, colorfully decorated with tapestries, rugs, and flowers, and clearly set up as a sickroom. For there was Chay, half-reclined on a lounge chair, bundled in robes and blankets against the slight chill of the outside air, and pale unto death. Despite the open window, the room smelled of potions and sickness. Even Chay’s gray eyes seemed siphoned of color, almost transparent. His golden skin seemed diluted, mixed with opaque white. His gestures were those of a man whose bones had grown frail.

“Kitrini. Nolan Adelpho,” he greeted them, waving toward a set of chairs. “Sit down.”

Kit sat, but she looked as if she would have preferred to fling herself to the floor before him. “Chay,” she said in a pitiful voice. “You do not look well.”