He was sitting in a chair beside me, the Elysium bird on his shoulder. It called to me, its cry echoing in the empty library. The Lord Protector smiled. His face was resolutely plain, features so smooth and unremarkable that I found I had a hard time looking in his face. “Well?” he said. “It is impolite not to answer a question.”

“No.”

“Mend your words, child. After all, this is my book. Surely you do not wish to offend me. Why doesn’t the story please you?”

Because he had made no move to hurt me and I was confident I could make him misremember me long enough to escape, I told him the truth. “Something bad is about to happen.”

“Oh, yes. Something is. Tell me, little one, what is the appropriate punishment for someone who sneaks, who lies, who steals?”

Warm with my power, proud of using it, I said, “I didn’t steal.”

“Shall we put you in a barrel studded with nails and have you dragged by horses through the streets?”

I paused, staring. Expression mild, he waited for an answer.

“I am a councilman,” I told him quickly, my voice high. “I have been your favored assistant for years. You were glad to see me when you entered the library.”

“Or put your hands in the fire until the skin crackles and the flesh cooks off the bone? A punishment most worthy for a thief.”

My heart beat hard and fast. I tried using magic again. “This book was always an ordinary book.”

“It is too bad your foreigner is gone. I could take her from you. I could squeeze her body down to a pin. I would carry the pin with me always, and drive it through the tongues of liars.”

I scraped my chair back, leaping to my feet. The bird shrieked. “I left already.” The words spilled out of my mouth in a tangled stutter. “The library was empty when you arrived.”

“Sit,” he said, “or I will show no mercy in how I chastise you.”

I sat. Fear crawled over my skin.

“A sneak may be a sneak,” he said. “A liar a liar, a thief a thief, and yet still show courtesy.”

“I—” I faltered, unsure what he wanted.

“Your name.”

“Nirrim.”

He waited.

“Nirrim,” I said, “my lord.”

“Ah,” he said. “Better.”

“May I”—the glass pot wobbled in my hand as I lifted it—“pour you some tea?”

He lifted his brows. I still could not quite tell the color of his hooded eyes. “How unexpected.” He accepted a cup and sipped. “It tastes like I imagine you do.” He drank deeply, and I tried not to show my relief. “It tastes like something else, too, but what?” He drained the cup.

I lowered the pot to the table, waiting.

“Poison.” He licked his lips. “Good try, my child, but poison is no way to kill a god.”

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