Magister Avail was a plump man as tall as Commander Crayn. His hair made an unruly tangle on his head. In contrast, his chin was beardless. Estie had no way of knowing whether he had aged in twenty years. Perhaps he had not aged at all. According to Magister Facile, sorcerers or physicians in the library could give such gifts. In any case, he walked with a lift in his steps.

And he was smiling broadly. Before he had come halfway toward Estie and her men, he called, “Hail, Queen of Amika! You are well come! We have high hopes of you—and for you!”

Bifalt had told her that the plump sorcerer and Magister Rummage were not actually holding hands. Rather, the dark hunchback, glowering and bitter despite his obvious strength, gripped his companion’s hand so that he could tap words onto Avail’s palm. Magister Avail was deaf. His companion was mute.

No doubt, the hunchback had already informed the plump man that Queen Estie had not answered his salutation.

To ease her sense of diminishment, she remained in her saddle. Sitting above them in silence, she watched the theurgists approach.

A few steps later, they stopped. Abruptly, Magister Avail seemed to see something that alarmed him. Worse, it struck him with sudden pain. His smile twisted into anguish. For no apparent reason, tears filled his eyes. Snatching his hand away from Magister Rummage, he clutched at his chest like a man suffering a crisis of the heart.

Without warning, he whirled away; hurried back toward the gates as if he were fleeing.

From somewhere far away, Estie heard him. He was apparently shouting at someone else, but his words reached her mind. She knew his mental voice. She had heard it once before.

No! I cannot. This is wrong.

Rushing, he reentered the Repository.

What has that vile man done to her?

The hunchback froze. Consternation and crueler emotions writhed across his visage. Then he recoiled from some blow that the Queen could not see or hear.

Hunching his powerful shoulders, he turned to follow his companion.

Too stunned for words, Estie stared at the suppressed fury of Magister Rummage’s withdrawal and tried to breathe.

“Majesty?” whispered the Commander. “What was that? Have we offended them?”

She shook her head. To herself, she demanded, What vile man? My husband? Bifalt? Does that mad sorcerer call him vile?

Aloud, she countered, “How could we? We were expected.”

Bifalt had not been greeted like this.

Instead of responding, Crayn nodded toward the gates. “Someone else comes, Majesty.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Prepare for more rudeness.”

Grimly, Estie nodded.