After their afternoon of Ildiran jousting, Jora’h had politely but insistently asked Nira to dine with him. She knew Ambassador Otema wanted her to devote hours to reading aloud stanzas from the Saga, and yet when Nira began to make excuses to the Prime Designate, his face took on such a look of open disappointment that her heart felt close to breaking. So she had agreed.

Over a lavish and prolonged dinner, they talked more about Theroc, the green priests and the forest culture. Smiling, Jora’h raised a goblet filled with a honeyed green liqueur. “Though he isn’t here, I wish to toast my friend, Reynald, because he intrigued me. Otherwise, I might never have had the remarkable opportunity of meeting you, Nira.”

She laughed politely, not knowing how else to respond.

Though Otema had not explicitly chided her about her numerous distractions, the next day Nira promised to spend at least two-thirds of every waking period reading aloud to the treelings. The connected mind of the worldtrees drank up the Ildiran stories, growing in knowledge.

But when she decided that she had done enough work for the day, Nira allowed herself the luxury of exploring the Prism Palace. She learned how to recognize the ferocious-looking bodyguard kith, who would keep her away from where she wasn’t wanted. Nira wanted to experience everything she could, but not to anger the Mage-Imperator.

As she wandered through tunnels circling the skysphere reception hall where the great leader had first received them, she ventured into a set of crystalline passageways. The halls took her past chambers with faceted walls and jewel inlays, behind which she could see the silhouettes of bureaucrats and document specialists at work.

She pressed her face close to a garnet-colored pane, trying to make out details, but she saw only curious shapes and diligent workers. Some appeared to have odd body forms, different sizes and musculatures that she did not recognize from any familiar kith. But the garnet glass blurred the sharp outlines, and she had to squint to make out any details at all.

The halls were very quiet. The Mage-Imperator had withdrawn from his audiences to spend time in his contemplation chamber; the skysphere remained accessible to pilgrims and visitors, but without the leader present. Nira pressed her wide-eyed face against a crimson pane, trying to see more—when suddenly she heard a footstep in the corridor.

A tall man, obviously of noble kith like Jora’h, stepped out of the murky chamber and glared at her. His features were similar to the Prime Designate’s, and Nira recognized a family resemblance, but this man looked harder. His face was stern, his hair shorter and spikier, as if bristling with displeasure.

“What are you doing?” he said. “Spying?”