"Mother, he's talking about you," Heynok whispered sharply.

Aximaan Threysz shook her head uncomprehendingly. She had lost herself in the torrent of words.

"Why are we here? What is he saying?"

"What do you say, Aximaan Threysz? Has the blessing of the Divine been withdrawn from Prestimion Vale? You know it has! But not by your sin, or the sin of anyone here! I say to you that it is the wrath of the Divine, falling impartially upon the world, taking the lusavender from Prestimion Vale and the milaile from Ni-moya and the stajja from Falkynkip and who knows what crop will be next, what plague will be loosed upon us, and all because a false Coronal—"

"Treason! Treason!"

"A false Coronal, I tell you, sits upon the Mount and falsely rules—a golden-haired usurper who—"

"Ah, has the throne been usurped again?" Aximaan Threysz murmured. "It was just the other year, when we heard tales of it, that someone had taken the throne wrongfully—"

"I say, let him prove to us that he is the chosen of the Divine! Let him come amongst us on his grand processional and stand before us and show us that he is the true Coronal! I think he will not do it. I think he cannot do it. And I think that so long as we suffer him to hold the Castle, the wrath of the Divine will fall upon us in ever more dreadful ways, until—"

"Treason!"

"Let him speak!"

Heynok touched Aximaan Threysz's arm. "Mother, are you all right?"

"Why are they so angry? What are they shouting?"

"Perhaps I should take you home, mother."

"I say, down with the usurper!"

"And I say, call the proctors, arraign this man for treason."

Aximaan Threysz looked about her in confusion. It seemed that everyone was on his feet now, shouting.

Such noise! Such uproar! And that strange smell in the air—that smell of damp burned things, what was that? It stung her nostrils. Why were they shouting so much?

"Mother?"

"We'll begin putting in the new crop tomorrow, won't we? And so we should go home now. Isn't that so, Heynok?"

"Oh, mother, mother—"

"The new crop—"

"Yes," Heynok said. "We'll be planting in the morning. We should go now."

"Down with all usurpers! Long life to the true Coronal!"

"Long life to the true Coronal!" Aximaan Threysz cried suddenly, rising to her feet. Her eyes flashed; her tongue flickered. She felt young again, full of life and vigor. Into the fields at dawn tomorrow, spread the seeds and lovingly cover them, and offer the prayers, and—

No. No. No.

The mist cleared from her mind. She remembered everything. The fields were charred. They must lie fallow, the agricultural agent had said, for three more years, while the smut spores were being purged. That was the strange smell: the burned stems and leaves. Fires had raged for days. The rain stirred the odor and made it rise into the air. There would be no harvest this year, or the next, or the next.