It was an old chant and a simple one: it listed the names of Feria’s core clan for the last few generations, spooling out one by one like a thread pulled from a tapestry. The first names dropped into dead silence. Jainan had to clear his throat several times as he recited. Even after that, his voice was still irritatingly quiet and hoarse. He had not spoken in public in a long time. He caught sight of a priest who had frozen while she collected Taam’s pictures—had she been told

about this? Was Jainan ruining the ceremony? He felt prickles of mortification on his temples, but he couldn’t stop halfway through.

At last he came to the end of it. The final names—Jainan’s parents—fell into the hush. Jainan listened to the echoes die away. His mind had gone blank with relief; he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do next. There was an awkward pause. The priest in front of him coughed.

Pressure wrapped Jainan’s chest like an iron band. Iskat religious ceremonies ran on smooth rails with no pauses. The spectators would think he was going to pieces. He hurriedly looked down and remembered what he was supposed to do; he picked up the stick of charcoal that lay beside the incense burner and smudged a line on the table in front of each of the white-framed photos. Taam’s image stared calmly at him, oblivious to Jainan’s mistakes.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the priest said. Jainan tried not to hear the censure in it. “Please be seated.”

Jainan turned away from the central table. He had to get himself together. He couldn’t afford to let the palace think he was falling apart.

Before he could say the final blessing and move, there was a muted disturbance at the doors to the shrine. They opened halfway, letting in a sliver of pale light and a handful of people. Jainan felt cold; the press weren’t supposed to be let in yet. He had spoiled the timing of the ceremony.

But these weren’t reporters. Two of them had the oddly cut clothes and broad, folded collars of people from the wider galaxy. Each had a shimmer in front of their left eye, as if the light was diverting itself around an obstacle.

The last one must be the Auditor.

The Auditor was dressed unassumingly like his two staffers—Jainan couldn’t see any ornaments from here but knew his gender from reports—but the most startling thing was the shell of soft illumination that cut off his eyes and most of his face. It wrapped around his forehead and eyes like armor, a color that Jainan’s visual receptors refused to parse. Jainan thought he saw human features through it but couldn’t quite make them out; he felt nauseous when he looked at it.