Three men and three women sit around the table. A young woman—I think in her twenties, like Gabe—with an aquiline nose and spiky black hair. An Asian man, older, jade rings on his fingers. A beautiful, fine-boned woman with high cheekbones and caramel skin. A silver-haired man, prim and upright. A bearded man, dark-skinned and barrel-chested, who looks strong as an ox. And a heavily tattooed and muscled white woman, swigging liberally from her wine glass.

All six wear robes identical to Gabe’s. All six have eyes that express alertness and intelligence, but also sorrow.

“So,” Silver-Hair says, leaning forward—first to look at the sword and then to eye me up and down (by his expression, I presume he reaches an unfavourable opinion of the latter). “Ana Moon,” he says. “It is a fine weapon.”

I swallow and say nothing. I feel tense but I won’t let them see my discomfort. I sit with my shoulders back. Hands on the table.

“Gabe tells us Ra chose you,” Silver-Hair says.

I look straight back at him, unsmiling. “Yeah. I chose the sword.”

“No, no,” the young woman with the aquiline nose says, also leaning forward. “The sword chose you, Ana. The distinction matters.”

I turn my head to her, keeping my body stiff. “If you say so.”

“You felt it,” the woman says. “The pull. It’s the same for us all. The Pathfinder never chooses the weapon. The weapon chooses the Pathfinder.”

“You’re all masters, is that it?” I look around the table, at each of their faces, and—determined to give off a cool, aloof impression—I lean back into my chair, loosening my shoulders. “And this is a Collective Council Meeting,” I add.

“That’s right,” Gabe answers, also leaning back. But while my body language is fake, his is clearly genuine. He’s utterly at ease and I get the impression he’s always that way, someone who doesn’t panic. No matter what. Like Malik.

“Are you interviewing me?” I ask. “An inquisition, is that what this is?”

Gabe laughs. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s pretty intense.”

“Well, I’m sorry. That’s not our intention.”

“You treat her like a child,” Silver-Hair interjects, all business. “If she has the sword, she must understand what is required. We have no time to mollycoddle.”

“This is a mistake,” the Asian man says. “It cannot be her.”

“Why not?” the tattooed woman says. “You judge her on sight?”

“Man, look, there’s no mistake,” Gabe says, placating them with his hands in the air. “She has the sword, as you well see. It’s her. She is the one.”

“What’s everyone getting at?” I demand. “I mean, OK, I have this famous sword. But so what? I’m just trying to get my friend back.”

Barrel-chested beard-man grunts and says something under his breath.

Gabe looks at me evenly. “Your friend,” he repeats.

“Yeah. My friend. Bea. Beatrice Gold.”