Laken hovered about us like a mother hen every moment we were together. She sat in a corner of the room now while we ate, and made a tapestry. I offered her a cup of wine, but she would not drink with us She was a strange mixture, upholding lesser Chosen traditions, and breaking greater ones.

She measured me for new robes, and spent hours explaining the complex rites connected with the Firelord’s inauguration. She listened critically to the speech I would make, and helped me record the new laws And there was another thing she did, which meant more to me than all her other encouragements.

I asked her the next day, when we were alone together, why the libraries were guarded. Her face became intent, disquieted, as if something weighed heavy on her mind.

“It is worth more than my life to tell you,” she said.

“The Firelord had a son,” I said, “and he started to teach me the high language of the Chosen, so that I could read what is in those libraries.”

If my news shocked Laken, she did not show it. But she looked at me for a long time, and I had the feeling she was weighing me up, judging my intellect, my soul. Then very quietly she said: “In the third hour after nightfall, meet me in the infirmary. If you are questioned, say you are not well, and have sent for me. I will come, and we will wait till it is safe. There is a door between the infirmary and a library room where the medical books are held. From there, the libraries are ours. And woman – do not tell a soul, not even your Quelled friend.”

It was freezing in the corridors at night, and the wooden floors had ice on them. I took a torch with me, and the flamelight glimmered on the old stone walls as I hurried past. I had been to the infirmary before when I had a headache and needed herbal medicines, so I knew where to go. The infirmary was huge and dimly lit. There were about fifty beds here, though only three were occupied. The patients slept, while a physician dozed in a chair by the fire at the far end. The wall to my left was full of cupboards and shelves, and my torchlight flickered across thick glass bottles, ancient dried plants, and metal instruments. I thought again of Teraj, and longing swept over me.

I felt a hand brush my arm, and jumped. It was Laken. She held a finger to her lips, and signalled me to follow her. We passed the wall of shelves, the antiquated cupboards, and went on past half-open doors. Our torches briefly lit up tables inside, narrow and bare and scrubbed. We came to the final door. It was closed and bolted, but not locked. Laken glanced behind her at the physician. He still dozed. Soundlessly, she drew the bolt.