Roh clutched at his stomach, searching for a wound that was no longer there. He pulled at the front of his tunic and realized it wasn’t his. He wore a white tunic and trousers, like an invalid, instead of his novice clothes. When he raised up the tunic, he saw no wound, no scar.

“I was hurt, wasn’t I?”

“Someone attacked you,” Chali said. “We hoped you could say who it was.”

Roh searched his memory. He remembered pain and surprise; a deep betrayal. “I don’t know,” he said. “Chali, Ora Chali, I need to go north with you.”

“That’s not my decision, Roh.”

“But you’re going,” Roh said. “Ora Dasai asked you, didn’t he?”

“If I want to be an Elder Ora, travel abroad would help my case,” he said. “In eighty years–”

“Eighty years!” Roh said. “I don’t care about what happens in eighty years. I care about today.”

“I’m going to get Elder Ora Gaiso,” Chali said, and stood. He left Roh’s side before he could say any more.

Roh sat at the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. Something terrible had happened after Dasai sent him downstairs. Why couldn’t he remember?

He found a clean set of clothes on the other bed. They were drudge clothes – gray tunic and trousers, and no green apron. He expected to feel weaker, but his legs held his weight, and he did not tremble. It must have been a very skilled tirajista who saved him. He dressed carefully and waited. And waited.

Loud voices came from the hall. He crept to the door, barefoot, and opened it. The corridor outside the infirmary curved before reaching the foyer, so he couldn’t see anything from there. But he heard the strange sound of hissing weapons; the same sound two infused swords made on meeting. It was a sound he had never heard outside a practice yard.

Roh recited the Litany of Breath. He held the breath of Para close, just beneath his skin, and ran into the corridor, toward the sound of the fighting. He ran headlong into a massive clutch of whirling bodies – red-wrapped militia, green-aproned novices, and full Oras, all coming together in a violent melee. He saw the blue mist of Para’s breath suffusing the parajistas he knew, but saw no structures being built, no woven weapons. Using gifted arts against the non-gifted was the gravest of crimes. But as Roh watched blood spattering the temple floor, it seemed like a terrible prohibition.