The others were new to Estie. They turned to stare as Magister Oblique guided her into the center of the room. Some of them seemed to hold their breath. They ignored Commander Crayn.

Oblique indicated the monk with Lylin. “Fifth Daughter,” she said privately. “When Third Father is absent, she gives counsel in his place.”

Estie searched the room for some sign of Third Father, but did not find him. Instead, she noticed a dark brown man wearing nothing except a loincloth and several beaded necklaces. He had more beads knotted in his hair and beard, which had obviously not been washed for a long time. His lips moved as if he were muttering an incantation, but he said nothing aloud.

“A shaman,” murmured Magister Oblique. “A healer. His name will mean nothing to you.”

Beyond him were two tall individuals, a man and woman, wrapped in what appeared to be bedsheets. Both of them had the white skin and colorless hair of albinos. Estie identified them by their apparent inability to focus their eyes on anyone or anything nearby. They were Farsighted, watching people and events in distant places.

Near the entryway, two men stood apart from the gathering. Like Lylin’s companion, one was a monk. The other was a youngish man dressed in a blue tunic and pantaloons, with tough boots on his feet. A mess of untended black hair hung like a cowl around his head, shrouding his eyes.

“Servants,” explained Oblique. “I can ask them for lamps if you wish, Queen.”

Estie shook her head. She hoped earnestly that this meeting would not last until sunset.

Another brief flash of sunshine struck a long trestle-table piled with books and scrolls under the clerestories near Magister Rummage. In a heavy armchair behind the table sat an old man with long hair and a thick beard, both so white that they almost matched Lylin’s robe. He had a large volume open in front of him. Despite the gathering and Queen Estie’s arrival, he was engrossed in his reading.

Crayn left Estie’s side for a moment, returned with a tall stool. Since everyone else was standing, and she was the Queen of Amika, she decided to sit. From that lower vantage, she could see nothing of the man behind the table except the top of his head. Good, she thought. He could not see her either. If he wanted to speak with her, he would have to stand.

Finally, a woman near the table spoke. She was slight enough to be a girl. And small: her head would not have reached Estie’s shoulder. Despite the assertive sweep of her stark midnight hair, she resembled a mouse, too unassuming or timid to break the silence. But she wore the grey robe of a Magister.

As if the effort of making herself heard embarrassed her, she announced, “Magister Marrow, the Queen of Amika is here.”

The crown of white hair behind the piled books lifted. “Is she?” rasped a querulous voice. “I did not notice. I have been reading—”