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young queen, for instance—would in time her soul reappear to add another knot to this puzzle piece? Jill felt that in its own way, the dweomer owed Bellyra a great deal to make up for that ancient tragedy. And what about those women who had helped move the tragedy along? They too had a debt to pay, perhaps, to the rose ring and its bearer. Otho the dwarf, of course, was still alive, though getting on in years even for one of the Mountain People. Did he still have some tie or bond with the ring he’d created so long ago? And then, of course, there was the soul once known as Maddyn—Rhodry of Aberwyn now—who’d been reunited with the rose ring and who wore it still … or again. With Nevyn gone, these problems were all hers to solve, these people hers to guard and guide. It was time she set about it.

Yawning and stretching, a servant came into the hut with a bowl of milk and bread and a fresh pitcher of wash water.

“Good morning, my lady. His holiness was wondering, by the bye, how long you were planning on staying with us? He’s in no hurry for you to leave, mind. Just a-wondering.”

“Tell him I’ll be on my way this afternoon. I’ve a long journey ahead of me.”

“Ah. Going to Aberwyn?”

“A bit farther than that. Bardek.”

“Fancy that! A long, long journey indeed! Not going there alone, are you now?”

“I am. I suppose.” She paused, considering. “Well, you know, there does happen to be someone I could ask to go with me, and it might be a good idea, at that. He knows the islands a fair bit better than I do. Hum. I’ll have to think about this.”

present

Consider the roots of a dimple and mundane action, for instance, buying bread for your breakfast. A farmer had grown the grain in a field carved from wilderness by his ancestors; in the ancient city a miller has ground the flour and a baker prepared the loaf; the vendor has transported it to your house in a cart built by a cartwright and his apprenticed. Even the donkey that draws the cart, what stories could she not tell if you could decipher her braying? And then you yourself hand over a coin of copper dug from the very heart of the earth, you who have risen from a bed of dreams and darkness to stand in the light of the vast and terrifying dun. Are there not a thousand strands woven together into this tapestry of a morning meal? How then can you expect that the omens of great events should be easy to unravel?

The Pseudo-Iamblichus Scroll

1.

The Knave of Flowers

Bardek,

1098

Down in the public square Luvilae’s market spread out, a lake of brightly colored sunshades and little stalls. Acrobats performed on improvised platforms; minstrels sat in the shade of trees and played for coppers. Wearing bronze helmets topped with red plumes, the archon’s men strolled through in pairs to keep order. A warm breeze carried the scents of incense and roast pork, flowered perfumes and spiced vegetables. Off to one side, behind a line of stalls that sold blue and purple pottery, a fortune-teller was doing a reading for a client. In the midst of striped and faded blue sunshades and curtains, the two women haggled over the price from either side of a low table. Draped in black as befitted her trade in omens, the elderly one sank onto her cushions with a moist sigh. Dressed like a boy in a linen tunic and sandals, the young woman knelt on a pounded bark mat and ran both hands through her mop of frizzy black hair before she settled back on her heels. Wheezing a little in the heat, Akantha took an ebony box from under the table and slid out the ninety-six tiles of polished bone. Most fell facedown, a good omen, but as Akantha turned the few wayward tiles over, one slid to the ground. With a frown she snatched it back.

“Help me mix them up, little one. Bring them over to the right side of the table—my right, that is.”

Marka laid both hands flat on the layer of tiles and mixed with a sound like thunder.

“Enough,” Akantha said at last. “Draw five to start with.”

The old woman turned the chosen tiles faceup to form a square. The two of spears and the four of golds appeared, followed