It was time to bounce the light again. I stopped it on the Kai. Prysen Ol rose, swept his layered robe back with an elegant gesture, and descended the ramp. He always held himself with a quiet dignity. Even as he was walking now, his steps were small, and his right arm was bent at the elbow and held across his body. It was all very deliberate and restrained.

Self-control would be an excellent quality for an assassin.

Prysen Ol touched an orb. The insects spiraled out, floated over to the Gaheas, and danced around Nycati’s purple hair, matching the golden diadem on his head. The Gaheas candidate stood up, a flawless movement, and took the ramp to arena floor.

An appreciative murmur spread through the spectators and died down.

“Interesting,” Resven observed. “Those two appear well matched.”

I had looked through the footage from yesterday’s dinner, and something caught my eye. On paper, Nycati came from a scholar family, aristocratic, but mid-ranking, and all appearances indicated that he was selected to be their candidate for his merits and achievements. The head of the Gaheas delegation, Naeoma Thaste, was the equivalent of a duke, one step removed from the royal family. He outranked Nycati by a mile.

Yesterday at dinner, Naeoma made a disparaging remark about the Donkamins. Nycati looked at him for a moment, and the duke looked down. The Gaheas were psionics. They dueled by staring at each other. To look away was to back down, but to lower your gaze to the ground was like kneeling with your head bowed. Complete submission.

Only a prince could stare down a duke. Nycati was Gaheas royalty. I was sure of it.

A Gaheas prince, even if he had been raised in secret, would have survived dozens of attempts on his life. Most of them became efficient killers by adulthood, or they died. His delegation lied about who he really was. They could have done it because they secretly wanted to tie their bloodline to the leadership of the Dominion, or they could have done it because Kosandion was their target. Either way, Nycati’s chances of being the assassin had shot up into the stratosphere.

The First Scholar surveyed the two men. “The question before you is as follows: Why are you here?”

“Before I can answer,” Prysen Ol said, “would the Honored Scholar be so kind as to define ‘here’?”

“Indeed,” Nycati agreed. “It is a fair request. Does ‘here’ designate a physical location or a fixed point in time? Does it refer to our presence or our purpose?”

“How can we be sure that we are ‘here’ at all?” Prysen Ol added.

The First Scholar puffed to twice his size, looking positively giddy. His eyes sparkled. “The interpretation is entirely up to you. You have a hundred moments to compose your thoughts.”

15