“You have lived in this city for three hundred years, and your house doesn’t have a rain room.”

“I keep meaning to have one put in. . . . I see your point. Yes, Zelion’s, and he’s open in the mornings.”

“Then.” Morlock closed his eyes. “Deortheorn. You will take Kelat here to Zelion’s bathhouse. See that he’s cleaned up—” there was a smear of dried blood on his temple “—and his wounds tended to. Get him some clean clothes to wear and get him breakfast. Then bring him to the Chamber of the Graith.”

“Akhram hav, rokhlan,” Deor replied. It was an act of significant discourtesy, according to dwarvish standards, to speak in a language not shared by all present. But Deor always claimed that courtesy was overrated, and this was one occasion when Morlock agreed with him.

“I forbid this,” Noreê said. Morlock turned to meet her ice-blue eyes.

“It doesn’t matter that you do,” Morlock said. “But if you choose to send one or more of your spearmen to keep watch on the prisoner, I won’t object.”

“No,” said Noreê thoughtfully. “Let it be on your head when the Graith calls for him and he is not found.”

Morlock grunted and gestured at Deor.

“Come along, you dangerous monster,” Deor said cheerily. “Let’s get you fixed up. I’m Deor syr Theorn, by the way.”

“I’m Kelat. At least . . . I think I am. . . .”

The dwarf led the mystified stranger away up Shortmarket Street. Morlock looked again at Noreê and strode through the spear-thains as if they were not there. He and the others walked on to the Chamber of the Graith while Noreê and her thains lagged a little behind.

“That was well done,” Jordel said in an unwontedly low tone of voice (for him). “I knew she was keeping this fellow prisoner, but I never thought to ask how they were treating him, I’m ashamed to say.”

“We all share that shame,” Morlock said.

“Was kind of hoping for a fight,” Baran admitted grudgingly. Morlock punched his massive arm and said, “Another time.”

“I wish you hadn’t knelt before him,” Aloê said, after a brief silence, and Jordel laughed as if this were a joke. But Morlock was pretty sure it was not. She cared much for appearances; they’d had many bitter conversations about such things.

They came at last to the city’s red, ruined wall, half as old as time. The Chamber of the Graith was there because in ancient days it had been a voluntary order to defend the city against its enemies. Now the city had better defenses than mere walls, but they remained as ruined monuments of those dark days.

The Chamber itself had its back up against the edge of a bluff over the River Ruleijn, the river that does not run into the sea.

A flight of twenty-two stone steps rose from the street to the Chamber entrance; on either side the stairs were flanked by bluestone plinths bearing granite statues of gryphons. Today, sitting beside or upon the gryphons, there were many figures cloaked in red or gray. It was the time of Station, when the Graith stood in council, and the war in the north was over. For many of the Guardians here, these were occasions for celebration. Morlock thought of the bloody mouth that had opened in Earno’s throat, and did not feel like celebrating.

Some friends of Aloê’s greeted her: Callion the Proud and Styrth Anvri, each with a single thain-attendant. Morlock exchanged polite words for a while, then clasped Aloê’s forearm and walked away. He was not in the mood for small talk. He rarely was.

He mounted the steps and entered the antechamber. Thain Maijarra was there, blocking the way to the domed inner chamber. It had been her place of honor since before Morlock was born.

“Vocate Morlock,” she said, and lifted her spear to let him pass. He nodded and entered.

The two remaining summoners, Lernaion and Bleys, were standing over by a window, conferring. Lernaion, dark-skinned, gray-haired, and lean, towered over the bent, hairless, turtle-like Bleys. They both looked over at Morlock and, apart from their snowy white mantles, the thing most alike about them was the displeasure stamped on both their faces.

“If you will pardon us, King of the North,” Bleys said in his warmest, most ironic tone, “my colleague and I would confer in private.”

Again Morlock felt the heat of anger mastering his strength. He was about to stride forward and do—something, he didn’t know what—when a hand firmly gripped his shoulder.

“Summoner Bleys,” said Naevros syr Tol, “this is the council chamber of the Graith of Guardians—that is to say, the vocates. The Summoner of the City may be here to convene us, but you are merely here by sufferance. Be a civil guest, or leave.”

Bleys smiled quietly and turned away, as if from a conversation of no consequence. No doubt he thought himself the victor, and Morlock, as he cooled, had to admit that the old man had drawn blood. But first blood was not last blood; he was an experienced enough duelist to know it.

“Thanks,” he muttered to his friend.

“It’s nothing,” said Naevros, and let him go.

The domed chamber began to fill with Guardians, red-cloaked vocates, and their attendant thains. Morlock and Naevros climbed the stairs of the dais and stood at the oval table, where only vocates and the Summoner of the City had a right to stand. They were joined presently by Aloê and her friends, and Illion the Wise soon followed.

“I met Noreê coming in,” he said to Morlock. “I’m afraid she is no longer your friend.”

Morlock smiled slightly, but did not feel amused. These bitter gray ancients and their undying hate for him. What had he ever done to earn it, except be the son of his ruthen father? But he was not like Merlin. He would never be. He had shown them and he would show them.

Summoner Lernaion mounted the steps and strode to the near end of the oval table. In a stand there rested the silver Staff of Exile. Opposite him stood the Witness Stone, and around the long empty oval stood the red-cloaked vocates.

The summoner lifted the Staff of Exile and pounded on the dais with the blunt end, calling the Station to order. The Guardians all fell silent and a few laggard vocates took up places at the long table.

As the room grew quiet, Morlock felt his spirit grow quiet. This was his place. He belonged here; he had earned it, in spite of Merlin and in spite of all the people who had hated him because of Merlin.

Lernaion said, “I summon you to stand and speak, for the safety of the land and the good of the Guarded. Maintain the Guard!”

“Maintain the Guard!” replied all the Guardians under the dome.

“The war in the north is over,” said Lernaion, “but the struggle to maintain the Guard goes on. We are met for at least three purposes today. We must decide the fate of the Khnauronts who survive: shall we kill them out of hand or expel them from our land, or is there some third choice? Then: one of our own order is dead, certainly murdered. We must chart a course of vengeance for this crime. And lastly we must investigate this stranger who came walking into the land under cover of the Khnauront’s invasion. Speak, vocates: what shall we settle first? Or is there some other more pressing matter for the Graith to consider?”

“The stranger Kelat is not here,” Morlock said. “He was in a bad way—hungry, wounded, filthy, bewildered. I sent him with my thain-attendant to be tended to. Thain Deor will bring him here presently.”

“Or not,” said Noreê drily. “In which case. . . .”

“Let’s deal with cases as they arise,” Naevros said. “I saw the man, and his condition shocked me. Are we homeless barbarians roving the unguarded lands? Even they know laws of hospitality and decency.”

“He’s not a guest,” observed Rild of Eastwall. “He’s a stranger, perhaps an enemy. Should we set him on cushions and feed him candied fruit?”

Illion the Wise said, “If we intend to put him on the Witness Stone, he should not be weak or weary. The rapport is a strain, even for the strong. What he deserves is irrelevant. We don’t judge; we defend.”