Raesinia closed her eyes. She remembered lying in bed, every breath a labored agony, while a bearded priest had knelt beside her. He’d asked her to read something, and there had been pain. She’d never been sure whether the episode had been part of her fevered delusions. They gave me something like this to read. She stared, inwardly, at the binding. And it made me into . . . this.

“Can you . . . stop being a naathem? Is there a way to get rid of one?”

“Janus said you might ask that.” Feor sighed. “In short, I do not know, assuming you want to survive the process. I hope the answer may be here, somewhere.”

“Somewhere.” Raesinia looked up and down the massive plate. “It’s going to take a while, isn’t it?”

“Years, perhaps,” Feor said. “But I would persevere, even if Janus had not asked. It has become clear to me that Mother—the leader of our sect—concealed a great deal from us. This is the closest to the truth that I can get.”

“Do you know where these came from? How old they are?”

“Not precisely. The language is not Khandarai, though there are hints of an influence on modern Khandarai. Nor is it directly connected with any of the modern languages of your people, though again there are a few odd similarities. As best I can tell from events that are mentioned, the plates were carved sometime in the second or third century before the life of your prophet Karis.”

That made the Names at least fourteen hundred years old. Raesinia didn’t know much ancient history, behind what had made it into The Wisdoms and Church doctrine. The time between the Fall of the Tyrants and the Judgment was a vague era of chaos and destruction, where the lands were ruled by sorcerer-kings and demons of all sorts. All that wickedness had prompted God to send the Beast of Judgment to exterminate mankind, and only the intercession of Karis the Savior had convinced Him to stay His hand. Afterward, the Church had launched the beginning of its endless campaign against sorcery and sin, to prove to the Almighty that His continued mercy was warranted.

That was the version old Father Nuvell had taught her, anyway. There was nothing in there about the Priests of the Black employing sorcerous assassins, so she was pretty certain there were probably some other missing pieces.

“I’m interested to hear what you find,” Raesinia said. “Even apart from . . . my condition. If I ever get to be a proper queen, you’ll have any support I can offer. You won’t have to live in a basement, to start with.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Feor said. “But as long as the Black Priests exist, the Names will never be safe in the open. I am afraid hiding in basements may be my lot in life.”

“Then at least we can get you a nicer basement,” Raesinia said.