—Queen of Amika, I am glad to see you. I have been concerned for you. We all have. You have suffered a cruel blow. I hoped that you would sleep longer. How else can you bear the first rush of pain? But now I find that I was wrong. You have other needs.

The sorceress paused, then tapped:

—You have reserves, Queen. You keep them hidden, but they will serve you well.

As if in response to a threat, Estie’s balance faltered. The lines of Oblique’s face blurred. The walls leaned their tapestries at impossible angles.

The Magister nodded.

—It will pass, Queen. Your life has taught you to rely on sound. But your ears have not been damaged. You will feel stronger as you grow accustomed to silence.

Estie breathed deeply until her dizziness faded. Seeking reassurance, she asked the first question that occurred to her.

“How is Travail?”

The Magister frowned unhappily.

—Your shout was powerful, Queen. It was heard everywhere. For some, it was too loud to be endured. It damaged his eardrums.

At once, she added:

—They will heal. The shamans know how to care for him.

Oblique’s expression said, Do not blame yourself.

At some cost to himself, the Apprentice had given Estie a necessary gift. She hated to think that she had hurt him. But the Magister had not answered her underlying question.

She tried again.

“Before that. He was sweating. He may have been weeping. He looked sick.”

Had he been poisoned a second time?

Oblique nodded as she replied.

—As did you, Queen. Travail is not a Magister, but he is a sorcerer. He feels the presence of sorcery. It filled the librarian’s workroom. And Magister Avail had asked the Apprentice to translate for him. Travail is too brave to refuse, despite his weakness.

“But why?” protested Estie. “Why was I affected? My gift was still asleep. How could any sorcery affect me like a fever?”

Oblique’s mouth formed an Ah of comprehension. At once, she tapped her answer.

—I have seen that effect before. What you felt, Queen, was the struggle of your talent to awaken itself. It is a part of you, an essential part. It wanted to express itself.

—In some form, every talent yearns for use. This is as true for an impulse to carve wood as it is for any sorcerous gift. Men and women feel compelled to pursue their gifts. If their gifts are not awakened, they themselves are never fully awake.

Without warning, Queen Estie was angry. Fear gave her the force of fury. Deliberately, she used her other voice.

Then why were you so reluctant to rouse me? Why did you twist and squirm when you could have helped me? Did you consider me unworthy of my gift? Did you fear me?

Stung, Magister Oblique sprang from her chair, strode away to the far side of the room.