For a heartbeat or two, she stared at Third Father’s wound. She could not look away. Then her head jerked back, smacked the wall. Her voice.

Still, she needed a moment to compose herself. Magister Avail had warned her against shouting. She had just seen what the full force of her power could do. She had to be sure of her control before she spoke.

Spreading her sorcery as widely as she could, she said, Third Father is hurt. The blade may be poisoned. Send help. Was that enough? No. Unsteadily, she added, We are in Tak Biondi’s quarters.

Glowering, Magister Rummage told her:

—Good. Shamans will come at once. And physicians.

She started to say, We have to stop the bleeding. But then she realized that his blood might carry some of the poison away. He was in no immediate danger from the cut itself. It was not deep. It would have been trivial if clotting had sealed the wound.

Softly, she pleaded, “Third Father? Can you hear me?”

With an effort, the monk nodded.

His face was growing pale. So that he would not fall, Queen Estie put her arms around him again; hugged him as if her embrace might keep him alive.

Soon she would have to think about what she had done to Tak Biondi.

She feared that her strength would fail, that she would lose Third Father before the Repository responded. Within moments, however, two shamans burst into the chamber. She hardly noticed the grime of their bare skins and loincloths, the beads and feathers woven into their hair and beards, the rattles and pouches in their hands. Instead, she watched their gruff care as they took Third Father from her and stretched him out on the floor.

One shaman squatted beside the monk, lifted one of his arms and let it fall, pulled up an eyelid, prodded his abdomen. The other retrieved Tak Biondi’s dagger. Cautiously, the shaman sniffed the blade, then touched it with the tip of his tongue and spat.

The two men appeared to growl a few words at Magister Rummage. He must have understood them. As soon as he nodded, they went to work. One of them stamped a foot on the floor and shook his rattles while the other opened three pouches.

From one, he dusted Third Father’s wound with a yellow powder that smelled like a latrine. Using a dirty cloth, he covered the cut. Prying open the monk’s mouth, he scattered colorless granules from a second pouch onto Third Father’s tongue. The third pouch held a thick liquid which he poured onto the granules. At once, he pushed the monk’s mouth shut and began stroking his throat to encourage swallowing.

Estie’s guts squirmed at the sight. The actions of the shamans looked like mummery, a performance designed to mystify the credulous. But she sensed their theurgy, a subtle tang that felt benign.