“The Amal’othala sent a carriage?” I asked weakly and followed her out of my office and along the hall to the main staircase, which I never ordinarily used. Too many people and all of them avid for gossip.

I reminded myself that there was nothing unusual or worthy of comment in the Amal’othala summoning a prelate to the Amalomeire. That was all this was.

It wasn’t, of course, but I didn’t think anyone could tell. I climbed into the carriage after the courier and tried not to look nervous.

It was a long drive, almost three-quarters of the length of the city. The courier and I did not speak. I had to make a deliberate effort not to let my hands fidget, and although I stared out the window of the carriage, I could have told an inquirer nothing about what I saw. It was almost a relief when we reached Osreian’s Spur, because as nerve-wracking and physically exhausting as the stairs were, at least climbing them was an action, and they required enough careful attention that I would not have much to spare for, as Tomasaran had said, fretting.

The courier climbed with me, and we stopped about halfway up in one of the copper-roofed turrets that marked the hairpin turns. Someone, probably centuries ago, had put a bench there, and I sat down on it gratefully. The courier sat beside me, and although we still did not speak, I was nonetheless heartened not to be treated like a plague-carrier.

At the top of the stairs, an elven canon was waiting. The courier and the canon bowed to each other, and the canon said, “Othala Celehar?”

“Yes,” I said.

“This way, please,” said the canon. “The Amal’othala is waiting.”

My heart sank even lower as I followed him down a spiral staircase into the Amalomeire. The stairs were narrow enough that I could put both hands on the walls without extending my arms, and the steps were treacherously slick. It was a relief that we did not descend very far. The Amal’othala had chosen, of the numerous audience rooms available to him, the one nearest the top. Another elven canon was standing at the entrance. The two canons bowed to each other, and both followed me into the room.

The Amal’othala was indeed waiting, seated at a lavishly carved secretary-desk that had been inset into the rock wall. As always, he was dressed in his formal robes, and his wig was elaborately wound with gold ribbon and blue lacquer beads, the same kind of beads that hung from his ears.

“There you are,” he said peevishly. “What have you been doing, Celehar, that you are permitted to see Prince Orchenis at all hours of the day?”

His informants in the Amal’theileian apparently couldn’t tell him everything, and I thought the word “permitted” was less accurate than the word “ordered,” but rather than saying either of those things, I said cautiously, “It is a very long story.”