Ambrosia grabbed Morlock by the elbow. He turned to look at her. She was in rapture, eyes closed and faintly glowing, the focus-amulet at her throat throbbing with pulses of light.

The light faded. She opened her eyes.

“Then?” he said.

“The body is not dead, but neither is it the residence of a soul any longer. There is nothing else alive between here and the edge of the sky except us—and except that.” She pointed at the Soul Bridge.

He grunted. “Alive?”

“It is tal interwoven with matter, like your blade Tyrfing there. Or, for that matter, like you.”

“Odd, but not unexpected. What’s troubling you?”

“That.” She pointed at something on the first step of the bridgehead: sheets of crystal, pinned with something like ice to the stone. There was dark writing on the crystal in a language that he knew, by a hand that he recognized.

It was a letter. And it was addressed to him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Graith Divided

The battle outside the Dome of the Graith grew louder, but it was hard to tell who was winning. Apart from cries of pain, no one spoke: there were no pleas for mercy, no offers of quarter, no boasts or war cries.

“Aloê,” Lernaion began.

“Shut up, and I mean both of you. Any talking you do you can do to the Graith at Station. It sounds like it won’t be long now.”

“You’re very confident your allies will win.”

“Fairly confident. You’d better hope I’m right. If that door opens and your servant Maijarra lets in your band of thugs, then I’ll kill you both and have done.”

Lernaion allowed himself a cold smile. “Very confident. But how will you justify yourself to your peers in the Graith.”

“I have the Graith’s mandate, you old fool! I am the Graith’s vengeancer, and you three are the murderers of a summoner. Your lives are mine whenever I choose to take them.”

Bleys was looking toward the double doors. The sound of the battle was fading, gone. Booted feet came striding up the hallway.

The doors were unbarred from the outside and Maijarra swung them open. Her silver spear was deeply stained with blood.

Aloê tensed and Bleys laughed aloud.

Through the open doors strode Noreê, Jordel, Illion, Styrth Anvri, Sundra, Callion, Keluaê Hendaij—bloody weapons in their hands, grim looks on their faces. The Awkward Bastards were victorious, but not triumphant. Aloê knew how they felt.

“Vocate Maijarra!” cried Bleys. “How could you betray us?”

Maijarra’s milk-pale face was motionless, unmoved. “I am thain to the Graith of Guardians,” she said, “not to you.”

And, at Aloê’s command, she put the summoners in chains and led them away to the lockhouse.

The trial of the summoners had to wait for the healing of the Witness Stone. (Illion and Noreê were taking up that task.) But other strings in the conspiratorial web snapped more easily.

Aloê got a writ of authority from the High Arbitrate and rode on Raudhfax up to Big Rock to apprehend Ulvana. She anticipated some difficulty finding Ulvana: the woman must have heard of Naevros’ exposure, and she had many places to hide in.

But when Aloê arrived at Big Rock House, the householder told her that Ulvana was being held prisoner at the Arbiter’s House . . . by Noreê, who had appeared with a company of thains the night before.

“Thanks, Goodman Parell,” Aloê said.

“Will you be staying with us long, I hope?”

“Only overnight, I think.”

“Are you going to the Arbiter’s House instanter?”

“Yes, goodman, if that means what I think it means.”

Parell hesitated a moment and said, “Will you please tell Vocate Noreê to have her things removed from here? It’s just that—well, if she wants an explanation, I will make one to her.”

“I’ll tell her, Parell.”

“Thanks to you for that. Vocate, I don’t know if I’m too old-fashioned or not old-fashioned enough. . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Which would you rather be, goodman?”

“What? What? Oh, too old-fashioned, I suppose. I’m too decrepit to be taking on modish airs—wearing purple shoes and talking about the latest ballads as if I could tell one note from another anymore. But I tell you, Guardian, in the old days it was not done. Your Graith didn’t ride into a town like they were a conquering army and we were peasants who had to . . . well, do something peasanty. But I suppose I’m talking too much.”

“Not too much for me. Say it loud and say it often, goodman.”

“Have been. Good day to you, Vocate.”

“Good day, Parell.”

Aloê left the inn and walked across the way to the Arbiter’s House. There was a cloud of thains surrounding it, leaning on their spears. There were no townfolk in the street.

A thain held out his spear to prevent Aloê from entering the Arbiter’s House. “You’ll have to wait here, Vocate. And leave your weapon. Vocate Noreê’s orders.”

Aloê always carried her songbow of the runic rose these days, slung over her shoulder. She took it in her hands and struck the thain blocking her to the ground. The others started forward but she ignored them, bending over to rip the gray cape from the fastenings at the fallen man’s shoulders.

“I expel you from the Graith,” she said to him, as he stared vacantly up at her. “Hinder me again, and I’ll expel you from the Wardlands. Resist me, and I’ll banish you from the land of the living. Now get out of my way. Get out of my way, all of you.”

They hesitated.

She grabbed the spear from the ex-thain and said, “By God Avenger, from this moment forward you will give way before a red cloak if it’s only hanging on a clothesline. Clear off!”

The fallen man scrambled to one side and the rest stood back, their eyes resentful. She felt they were yielding to her personally, not to the principle. And that wasn’t enough. But it was a problem for another day. She cast the spear into the dust of the street and walked past them into the Arbiter’s House.

Noreê was walking toward the door, and her pale eyes crossed gazes with Aloê’s in an almost audible clash. “You had some trouble getting in?” asked Noreê.

“Yes. Your private army is a problem, Noreê. For the Guarded—the Guardians—the Guard itself.”

Noreê waved a scarred, ice-pale hand. “A temporary measure. I’ve no longing for kingship, I assure you.”

“What if others long to make you king?” Aloê replied.

“Nonsense. I’m no Ambrose. You came to talk to Ulvana, I guess?”

“I don’t speak nonsense, Noreê. I’m telling you something you need to hear. And, yes, I came to speak to Ulvana. If it suits you to permit it, of course.”

“You have the wrong idea about me, Aloê. I was maintaining the Guard before you were born.”

“As Merlin was before you were born. It is you who has the wrong idea about you, Guardian. Look to it.”

Noreê’s pale eyes looked on her patiently and her pale lips actually smiled. She had heard what Aloê had said; she did not regard it in the least.

“This emergency will be over soon,” she said, patting Aloê on the arm. “Let’s not quarrel about it.”

It was maddening to Aloê that Noreê didn’t take the issue seriously—as if it were a matter of taste, like a disagreement about after-dinner cheeses. If she would not listen to Aloê now, there would come a time soon when she must be made to listen.

They went together, but not in the same mind, to the Arbiter’s Hall of Audience.

Ulvana was sitting in the Arbiter’s chair. There was no one in the room with her; she was not reading or writing or doing anything—just sitting there with a vacant look on her face.

“Ulvana,” said Aloê, “the Graith of Guardians has a claim of vengeance against you. I have a writ from the Arbitrate deposing you from your rank as Arbiter and waiving vengeance on your behalf. Do you have anyone else who would choose to act for you?”