Devorah agreed to allow Princess Gitonga to tutor her in Imperial Graces. It was a delicate game with intricate rules. The first thing she learned was that she needed a new wardrobe.

Madam Iyabo had woken with a cough. She had ordered Devorah to summon a healer and then to go with Princess Gitonga. Devorah had balked at the command.

“I cannot leave you like this, Madam Iyabo.”

“Bah.” The old woman waved her hand. “You are not a healer. There’s nothing you can do for me. Go with Gitonga. She will help you.”

Concerned, but knowing Madam Iyabo was implacable, Devorah met Princess Gitonga outside Madam Iyabo’s suite.

“A diplomat to the Taranaki Empire must be humble before the council, but glamorous at dinner, polite during the day and bold at night. And your clothing must reflect this.”

Devorah didn't like the idea of playing dress up for self-important aristocrats, so she tried to remind herself that wearing a military uniform and sword for her aunt was no different. Certain situations called for certain dress. It was just another move in the game, and she'd be foolish to ignore such an obvious move just because it made her feel silly.

She nodded. “All right.”

The dressmaker’s receiving room was tiny with high shelves stacked with bolts of cloth, manaquins clad in gowns, everything placed so as to impress and entice but also show a distinct appreciation for order.

Princess Gitonga spoke in a low voice. “There are some who say the dressmakers are the most powerful women in the capital, not the princesses. The right dress, the dress that makes a woman look beautiful, can set her the advantage, but the dress that makes her look silly can destroy her reputation.” Devorah knew Princess Gitonga was speaking from experience. “Dressmakers determine the fashion of the season and the cut of the dress. If she so chooses, the slightest alteration will make your clothing entirely inappropriate.

“The most influential princesses and other dignitaries retain their own dressmakers, but this is the most popular shop amongst those who haven't the time or the money.”

They were joined presently by a tall, thin, severe looking woman who reminded Devorah strongly of her aunt, or perhaps how her aunt might have been before she'd surrounded herself with enemies and lost her confidence.

Princess Gitonga took the lead. “May I present the General of Kempenny, Knight of the Province, Devorah Kempenny.”

The dressmaker gave Devorah an appraising look. “A diplomat. You will need day clothes and night clothes.” It wasn't a question. There were several quiet moments during which the dressmaker considered whether to take Devorah as a customer and Princess Gitonga fervently hoped she would. It seemed an odd way to do business but, Devorah realized, the dressmaker's reputation was as much on the line based upon Devorah's performance as Devorah's was with the dressmaker's work. If Devorah acted the fool while wearing one of this woman's designs, it would mean less business for the dressmaker.

“Very well then.” The thin dressmaker walked back though the narrow door from the receiving room, and Princess Gitonga motioned Devorah to follow.

Whereas the receiving room had been small and functional, the back room was large and comfortable. Princess Gitonga sat on a plush couch while the dressmaker gathered her tools. The dressmaker's thoughts were clear. She was giving Devorah a moment to show she knew the way of things without having to be told.

Devorah bit down on a grimace. She had undressed in front of of others before, but it still made her uncomfortable. Without looking at either woman, Devorah stripped off her travel worn clothes until she was clad only in a thin chemise. She had to admit, being rid of the heavy dress felt better in the sticky heat. Then she mounted the measuring block.

The dressmaker's expression did not change, but Devorah knew the woman was pleased she'd taken on a customer who knew a thing or two about how things were done. Devorah took it a step farther by standing just how the dressmaker wanted her to: back straight, looking forward, in the middle of the block, and moving to be measured without having to be asked: arms up, arms down, arms back, and so on.

As she measured, the dressmaker asked Devorah questions. “What are the colors of House Kempenny? What is her device? How is your rank displayed?” Devorah answered succinctly, offering further information only when asked.

Eventually, the dressmaker let Devorah sit while she went to her office to consider designs. Devorah sat gratefully next to the princess.

Princess Gitonga patted Devorah’s shoulder consolingly. “The Council has been accused of being tyrants, but no tyranny compares to the dressmaker's measuring room.”

Devorah snorted a chuckle. “I apprecate her efficiency.”

Though Princess Gitonga hid it, Devorah felt a happy ripple shiver along her thoughts. It made her smile and she wondered if Madam Iyabo had been right to suggest flirting with the princess. Still, she couldn’t help but be on guard.

“Princess Gitonga, I sensed your dislike for Princess Chausiku last night, but I cannot sense in you any desire for revenge. Why are you doing this? Why help me?”

Princess Gitonga blushed. For several moments, she said nothing, considering. Eventually, thoughts ordered, she spoke.

“There are three reasons. First, I dislike her and those who lick at her heels. She rules the Council with fear, and that is not how it is meant to be. Second, she is bad for the Empire. She does not care to understand policy, she relies on Princess Nena the Speaker of Law for that, and Nena pushes policy that favors the capital and neglects the rest of the Empire. She'll incite revolt. Those foiled assassinations I told you of were brought on by this carelessness.”

Devorah nodded. She waited several moments more, then said, “And the third?”

Princess Gitonga blushed again. “If you cannot tell me that, then you really do need practice in secret reading.”

Devorah blushed too, torn between needing Princess Gitonga’s help and not wanting to give the wrong impression. She ahd quickly grown to like the princess, and flirting might be fun, but she wasn’t here for frivolity.

Hours later, instead of either the heavy skirts she was used to or the common traveling clothes she’d been so proud of, Devorah wore a silk blouse laced at the breast in the current fashion. Instead of boots she wore reed sandals, a sign of humility for a visiting dignitary. Her skirt was light and flowing, little more than a chemise. It was undeniably cooler, and fit like a snug dust jacket on a book, but she found it uncomfortably light. All was in the pale blue and gold trim of the traditional colors of House Kempenny.

The dressmaker had assured her that one of her dresses would be available for this evening’s after-dinner socializing and the four other costumes she'd commissioned, one other humble day dress and three bold night dresses, would be ready within a fortnight.

“I suppose it was the best that could be hoped for,” Princess Gitonga said. “No one can fault you for wearing the same clothes for a couple weeks since you're new in town.”

Devorah rolled her eyes.

Princess Gitonga nudged her with an elbow. “It’s important, General Kempenny. Now, let’s talk about the details of passing gas in public.”

Devorah stumbled and Princess Gitonga laughed.

After the fitting, Devorah asked Princess Gitonga about accessories. Weapons, she knew, weren't allowed in the court of the Taranaki Princesses, except for their guards. With her rapier and assorted knives at the bottom of the sea and Father Shane's sun blade returned to Father Vytal, her truncheon was all she had left.

On the third shop Princess Gitonga took her to, she found what she was looking for. A display of ebony hair pins shaped and sharpened in the fashion of a small dirk. Indeed, when Devorah picked one up, she felt that familiar strength, agility, and awareness of a weapon in hand. These accessories were as much armaments as adornments. She bought three hair pins. Princess Gitonga wanted to pay for this too, but Devorah waved her off. It wouldn't do to be too much in debt to the princess, even if her thoughts betrayed no sign of ulterior motives. The purchases took the last of her money from the basement brawl of months ago.

“What about makeup?” Princess Gitonga said.

Devorah rememberd the makeup she’d worn once for meeting with her aunt. It had been distracting, uncomfortable, and required nearly an hour to clean off commpleatly.

Devorah shook her head. “I prefer not.”

“In that case, you're ready for this afternoon's court with the council.”

They walked together through the streets of the capital, Devorah toying with one of her new hair pins, getting the feel of it. “Will I be permitted to speak before the Council or is this a wait and watch exercise?”

“There is a precedence based upon the time of the initial request, your importance to the Council, and so on.”

“So it's likely to be a while?”

“Some delegates have been known to wait months for a chance to petition the Council. Sometimes even years.”

That gave Devorah pause. She stopped in the middle of the square fronting the Gates of Unification. Princess Gitonga walked on a few more steps before she realized Devorah had stopped.

“So, this is an exercise in futility,” Devorah said.

Princess Gitonga read Devorah’s irritation. “I'm sorry. I thought you knew.”

Devorah shook her head. “Not to worry. There's always a way.”

The Gates of Unification began to open. One of the attendant guardsmen had spied them. She wondered at the repetitiveness of opening and closing the gates every time someone entered or exited the palace grounds. What if someone went out and realized they'd left their money purse behind?

Once within the grounds, Princess Gitonga went her own way. “I'm sorry to leave you, Devorah, but I must prepare for this afternoon's council. If you lose your way, any of the servants can help you.”

Without error, Devorah returned to the suite she shared with Madam Iyabo. She found the old woman kneeling on the floor of the sitting room in meditation. She spoke without opening her eyes or disturbing her position.

“I would ask you to join me, Little Shadow, but I know the council is meeting, and you'll want to attend.”

Devorah nodded. “Thank you, Madam Iyabo. Are you feeling better?”

“Mmm. It was a symptom only of being so venerable.” She laughed softly. “Nothing to worry yourself over, Little Shadow. Go on now.”

• • •

The chamber where the Council of the Princesses held court was massive. A great dome, it was the top floor of the central palace, only a few towers rising higher. The ceiling was painted with expansive, intricate frescoes depicting everything from bloody battles to wooing lovers to fantastical landscapes. Every hairsbreadth of ceiling space was covered in paint. Devorah could not imagine a single painter completing such a work in a single lifetime. Stray thoughts from a few nearby advised her she was staring like a foolish newcomer and she tore her eyes from the awesome sight.

On a raised platform, the twenty-seven thrones of the Princess Council were arranged in a gentle arc. Princess Chausiku sat on the central throne. Each throne was high-backed, wide-armed, and well-cushioned. There was nothing to mark this throne as different, other than its placement. Even so Princess Chausiku held the center of attention and power. To her left sat Princess Takhat, Caller of Flames, and to her right Princess Nena, Speaker of Law—the Night Hunter’s toadies.

Devorah scanned the thrones for Princess Gitonga and found her on the throne farthest to the right.

Princess Chausiku stood and the crowd fell silent, even those at the far end of the dome who would have had trouble seeing those seated on the dais.

“The Imperial Council recognizes Holy Father Tristam Vytal, Cleric of the Church of Khulanty, our southern allies.” The Night Hunter spoke in a bored tone, not bothering to conceal the disdain she had for the proceedings. It was obvious to Devorah that the real power behind today's council was Princess Nena, Speaker of Law.

Father Vytal approached the dais into a pocket of space otherwise unoccupied by those attending the council. Devorah bit her lip in frustration. How long had Father Vytal been here to gain audience so quickly? What favors had he called in? What connections did he have? Her self-assigned mission of diplomacy might be finished before it had started.

“Worthy Princesses. I speak today on behalf of House Loreamer, the High Cleirc, and both Councils of Khulanty. There is civil unrest within the borders of your southern ally. The Governor of a minor province has begun to sink into madness. She has gathered a peasant army and seeks to march against the capital.”

Princess Nena opened a fan casually, but Princess Chausiku noticed immediately and sat a little straighter, feigning attention. She was so easy to read, Devorah wondered if others had noticed. But it seemed that they had not. Something hid what was obvious to her. Devorah looked at Princess Gitonga whose attention was also on Princesses Chausiku and Nena. This hidden byplay was not new to the Diviner of Winds. Her eyes flicked to Devorah and a moment of understanding passed between them. This was the trouble Princess Gitonga thought Devorah might be able to help with.

Princess Chausiku cleared her throat uncomfortably. “You seek soldiers, cleric?”

Father Vytal shook his head. “Not at all, Princess Chausiku.”

“Money then? You want us to finance your war?”

Again, Father Vytal shook his head. “Point of clarification, princess, we are not the aggressors, this is not our war. And no, we do not need your money.”

“Then what? Why are you telling me this story of foreign squabbles, cleric?”

Father Vytal spread his hands and inclined his head. “A fair question, Night Hunter. I come to you because a representative of House Kempenny has come as well.” He turned and gestured unerringly at Devorah. “The General of House Kempenny. I believe you made her acquaintance last night.”

The cleric’s expression was neutral, but Devorah could feel his distaste at his task. He did not see it as a game, but as a chore. Devorah kept her expression neutral. It was the first time she’d sensed anything from him.

Father Vytal turned back to the council. “Princesses, I know full well the power of this young woman's words. I know she can be convincing. But you must understand that what she would ask of you would be a waste of your resources. I come to you today not to ask for aid, but that you withhold aid from House Kempenny of Khulanty. Do not interfere in this civil dispute, and encourage your allies to follow your example.”

Princess Nena shifted again, folding her fan and crossing her legs casually. Princess Chausiku nodded faintly.

“Unrest in our southern ally could lead to disruptions in the Empire's interests,” said Princess Chausiku, sounding as though she read from a script. “If we were to lend aid, to either side, this dispute might be ended more quickly, to the advantage of the Empire.”

“I remind you, Princess, that the treaties between the Taranaki Princesses and House Loreamer extend beyond even the foundation of the Empire.”

At this, the Night Hunter bristled. “Do not seek to tell me of my duties, cleric!” She stood, and her eyes shone golden as her skin turned dark, almost black.

Those gathered shied back from the Night Hunter. Father Vytal stood his ground calmly.

“I seek only to ensure that Loramer's alliance with Taranaki is reaffirmed,” Father Vytal said. “It would be tragic if allied soldiers met on the field of battle when a simple preemptive conversation could stop it.”

Princess Nena went so far as to put a hand on Princess Chausiku's arm. Momentarily, Princess Chausiku tensed, ready to strike, but her feral gaze fell on the Speaker of Law and she was pacified. She swallowed hard. The silence rang throughout the domed chamber. After several moments more, the princess sat.

“Let me see this General Kempenny. I do not remember meeting him. Perhaps we should allow him to speak so that we have both sides of the story.”

Considering Father Vytal had already pointed her out and had referred to her in the feminine, the mistake was embarrassing. A vocal and mental murmur through the crowd told her that the assembled agreed. But Princess Chausiku glared and the crowed quieted.

Apparently Princess Chausiku had made a rogue move because Princess Nena was unhappy. Devorah made her way through the crowd, the gathered dignitaries parting for her, and soon she stood beside Father Vytal. Princess Chausiku blinked at her for several moments before recognition dawned.

“You? The rude little servant girl from last night?” Princess Chausiku laughed. She looked at Father Vytal. “This is the General of your enemy? This is who you want us to send soldiers to fight?”

Devorah looked at Father Vytal. The Holy Father remained neutral and that cursed mental shield kept her from telling whether or not he'd caught the slip. But he must have; he wasn't stupid. She cast her glance across the assembled Council. Though they hid it, it was evident that Princess Chausiku's slip had not gone unnoticed and, in fact, it wasn't the first time. Though Princess Nena was subtle and could hide much from the assembled, they had noticed. Most thought the Night Hunter was simply a fool, others thought it a symptom of late nights driven by intoxicants, but a few, Princess Gitonga among them, suspected Princess Chausiku was slowly losing her humanity to her power, that she was losing her grasp on reality.

Whatever the case, Devorah took the moment. “I agree, Your Highness, it seems ludicrous that that the mighty House Loreamer should need help invading Kempenny Province.”

Father Vytal snorted softly, and Devorah could hear the thoughts of the gathered: some approved of her quick thinking while some thought it dishonorable. But Princess Chausiku’s eyes narrowed. “I challenged you to a duel.” She turned to the Speaker of Law, “Didn’t I?”

“That’s right. Next full moon.”

“And you come here begging for soldiers to fight your battles for you?”

Devorah smiled. This woman was barely holding on to the conversation. There was little to be gained talking to the Night Hunter. But, perhaps, she could have a little fun at her expense. At least that way the meeting would not be a total loss. “I suppose that means we’re not friends. However, in a month, the Council will be one member short. Perhaps I’ll have better luck once you’re dead.”

She’d nettled the unstable woman. The Night Hunter's eyes flashed to gold, her skin darkened to black, her shoulders hunched like she was about to crouch on all fours. Devorah put her weight on the balls of her feet, ready to spring aside should the princess pounce at her. The pins holding her hair in place tingled against the back of her head, sharp, sturdy, and ready to be used. If timed right, she could draw and sink one into her enemy’s neck as she passed.

But Father Vytal intervened, his hand gentle upon Devorah’s shoulder. The calm he radiated was oppressive, but Devorah did not shake his hand from her shoulder. He thought he was saving her life and to spurn his help would seem petulant. Presently, it was the princess who was looked upon unfavorably, the gathered thought her emotionally overwrought, mentally unstable. Devorah didn’t want to be seen as spoiling for a fight, even if she was.

The cleric held one hand out to Princess Chausiku, palm up, entreating. “All I ask is peace, Your Highness, now and in the future. With both myself and General Kempenny here, perhaps the council would be willing to mediate our dispute and there will be no need for further hostilities.”

Princess Nena stood. She likewise put a hand on the arm of Princess Chausiku though Devorah was certain it was Father Vytal’s calming influence that had forced the feral woman’s eyes to darken back to green, the fur that had sprouted to retreat instead.

“You are the embodiment of wisdom, Father Vytal,” said Princess Nena. “You and the General may depart the chamber to begin your negotiations.” To the crowd at large she said, “The Council of Princesses will take a short recess.” Then, her hand still firmly on the arm of Princess Chausiku, they left the chamber via a subtle side door.

Father Vytal removed his hand from Devorah’s shoulder. “Well, you certainly know how to push a situation to its brink, don’t you?”

“One of my many talents, father.”

In the milling babble that followed, Devorah slipped away from Father Vytal and toward an exit. There was nothing further to be gained here, and Devorah wasn't prepared to negotiate with the beatific Father Vytal just then. She made her way to the courtyard of the night before and sipped at sweetened coffee until Princess Gitonga found her and asked for her company.

“By all the Gods! I thought you were going to duel her right there in the council chamber.”

Devorah shrugged. “I was prepared.”

“You don’t understand. Princess Chausiku has never lost a duel. She would have killed you. Fortunately, as she is the challenger, you get to set the parameters of the actual duel.”

“Do I?” Devorah was pleased to hear that. “I suppose I should have asked you about the rules of dueling a princess.”

“Oh. Well, duels always take place on the night of the full moon in the arena, before the public. But, like I said, you get to tell the Speaker of Law the parameters: whether or not powers and weapons can be used, what determines victory, that sort of thing. Which means you can decide that the duel is only to knockout or first blood, or even just first touch.”

Devorah shook her head. “No. It needs to be to the death.”

Princess Gitonga stopped and grabbed Devorah’s arm. “To the death? But… why?”

“You know why; you told me this morning. The woman is unstable and she’s harming the Empire. During the council session, she was like a dog gone feral, at the end of its tether. She needs to be put down.”

“But she’ll kill you.” Tears stood in Princess Gitonga’s eyes.

Devorah was touched and a little embarrased. They’d only known each other a few days. Flirting was one thing, but this… Devorah put it out of her head. She needed to focus.

“I’m pretty good in a duel myself,” Devorah said.

“You’re seriously going through with this?”

“Well, perhaps you’ll convince me to change my mind. In the meantime, I was hoping we’d get some time to talk about powers.”

Princess Gitonga didn’t want to let the matter drop, but she knew Devorah wasn’t going to be convinced in a single conversation. She wiped away the tears before they could spill and cleared her throat. She cleared her throat delicately.

“Powers? How so?”

“I never had a proper teacher on the matter. It’s why I came to Taranaki, and I’m luck to have been found by Madam Iyabo, but she only knows necromancy. What about listening to the wind?”

Princess Gitonga finished her coffee and stood. She offered her arm to Devorah, who stood and took it, ignoring the small blushe that tingled under her eyes. She let the princess lead her from courtyard and through the twisting hallways of the palace grounds.

“Telepathy. You and I are telepaths. Some telepaths, like your Holy Father friend, are what are known as true telepaths; they can communicate freely mind to mind and often have specialized abilities related to telepathy. Some, however, have limited telepathy, that is, we only specialize in a particular part of it. In our case, secret reading.”

They stopped in front of an ornately carved and gilded door patterned in white and blue and gold swoops edged with dark blue and purple symbols Devorah wasn’t familiar with.

“Your apartments?”

“It’s quiet here. I thought it would be a good place to practice.”

Devorah found herself uncertain. Princess Gitonga hadn’t been terribly subtle in her affections, and Devorah knew she could play upon that affection, but that idea rubbed her the wrong way. Still, she wanted to know more about their version of telepathy and Princess Gitonga was offering.

Princess Gitonga opened the doors to her apartments. Unlike Madam Iyabo’s sparsely appointed rooms, Princess Gitonga preferred unbridled comfort. There were richly cushioned couches and thick, colorful rugs and elaborately carved tables and chairs and shelves. The shelves were overflowing with books. Books were stacked next to the shelves in teetering stacks. Books were spread across half the table space. Devorah paused, in awe at the sheer number of them.

“Oh,” said Princess Gitonga, “Sorry about the mess. I’m always meaning to get these all sorted out and put away but…” she shrugged.

Devorah waved away the apology. “Not at all.”

“So…” Princess Gitonga gestured to a room beyond the book-decorated front room. “My meditation chamber?”

They sat on thin cushions, across from each other, just as Devorah did with Madam Iyabo. She felt a pang of guilt at having not checked in with her teacher before disappearing with Princess Gitonga for the evening, but Madam Iyabo had been insistent she should get on about her business, so she put the guilt away.

“Do you know the trick of the mindspace?” Devorah asked.

“Of course.” Princess Gitonga nodded. “But I haven’t needed to use that since I was a child.”

Devorah shrugged. “I was never formally trained. My use of the mindspace seems to be different from others'. I thought, with your training and my lack thereof, we might learn something from each other.”

Princess Gitonga smiled. “In my experience, time spent learning is never time wasted.”

They clasped hands and closed their eyes, not unlike when Devorah meditated with Madam Iyabo. Devorah slipped to her mindspace and felt at ease. Her shoulders relaxed, her chest loosened, her breathing settled. And when she stilled her thoughts, the song of the black book was there to fill them. She winced but ignored the song as best she could.

Devorah, can you hear me?

Princess Gitonga's mind voice was stronger than Madam Iyabo's.

I can.

And as it had been with Madam Iyabo, it was as though the princess reached out with a mental hand and grasped Devorah. Devorah returned the mental gesture.

We should start with the mental shield, the most basic of telepathic abilities. The mental shield will not only protect you from others trying to read your thoughts but also protect you from the stray thoughts of others. When I was a child, before it was known that I was powered, I was sometimes overwhelmed by the secret thoughts of others. It was crippling at times. I take it you had similar problems?

Devorah gave a shrug.

Not really. I lived in a largely empty manor house for most of my life.

It had been some time since she had thought on Emma.

I couldn’t say one way or the other if my powers didn’t manifest until recently or if there were simply no secret thoughts to detect.

Remarkable. During my training, I was taught to think of my power as a single candle flame. That flame is a piece of the soul. I learned to lose myself in that flame, to become the flame, to control the flame. Perhaps you had a similar such metaphor?

A bowl of water, Devorah replied. The one lesson I ever had included a bowl of water.

I want you to concentrate on that bowl of water. I want you to envision it wrapping around yourself. Not just around your body, but around all of who you are, physically, emotionally, mentally. Once you’ve done that, I want you to make the water hard, like steel, a protective shield against undesired mental intrusion. Do you understand?

Devorah nodded. The metaphor is clear enough.

She settled into the chair at the desk and summoned the bowl of water. She stared into the cool, clear liquid to the bottom of the bowl, but as she did so, the bottom grew dark, a familiar darkness that comforted her. Devorah put her hands on either side of the bowl and closed her eyes. In her mind’s eye, with surprising ease, she pulled at the power and drew it around herself; it felt like shelving a book in its proper place, a sense of rightness.

And with the shield in place, the song of the black book was suddenly silent. Her mind rang with it, her skin pulsed with it, her own breath like a windstorm in her head. The sudden silence, freedom from the mincing, skittering, shattering song of the black book made her swallow hard and sigh gently.

Princess Gitonga didn’t notice.

I thought you said you’d never done this before.

I haven’t.

Well… I’ve never seen…

It was evident from the Princess’ thoughts, both those she was projecting and those she couldn’t control, that the ease with which Devorah had created her mental shield was unusual. Devorah wondered how much more quickly she’d have mastered her powers had she been given proper training rather than being sequestered at that lonely manor house, how she might have been able to oust Frederick Vahramp sooner, stop the nonsense hostilities sooner, silence the black book sooner.

Her mind eased gently into the quiet of her thoughts, thoughts unburdened by the high moaning of the black book. Her thoughts drifted to Kempenny Manor and a quieter existence. And in the darkness behind closed eyes, she could see its halls, dark and dusty. She reached for them before thinking, and it was as though her mind slid through the darkness.

The pressure pressed the breath from her chest, making her ears pop painfully and her eyes feel like they might bulge from their sockets. When it was gone, Devorah gasped, her lungs hungry for air, and for several moments that was all she could do. It was Princess Gitonga’s voice that brought her back to awareness.

“Devorah, where are we?”

Devorah’s eyes snapped open and saw in the dark those dusty halls that, a moment ago, had only been in her mind’s eye. Incredulous, she reached out to the nearby bannister that lead to her rooms on the top floor, and ran a finger along it. It came back with a thick layer of dust that she rubbed between thumb and forefinger.

“Devorah?”

“We’re home,” Devorah said louder. “My home. Kempenny Manor, secluded in the forests of Kempenny Province. This is where I grew up.”

“How…” Princess Gitonga started, but Devorah ignored her.

She mounted the stairs slowly, remembering a different life. In these halls she had been the sickly little girl who could barely muster the strength to leave her room. Frequently she had stopped in the halls to suffer a bout of wracking coughs. She’d learned to breath shallowly to avoid coughing.

With sudden abandon, she hurtled up the stairs as she had when she’d been a child, before the sickness had weakened her.

“Devorah?”

The upper halls were the same as below, covered in dust, abandoned. She entered her sitting room to find it just as it had been when she’d left. No one had bothered to cover the furniture, to fold the blanket on her couch, to put away the book she’d been reading the night before she’d been summoned away: Jareth’s Labyrinth. She smiled faintly.

Princess Gitonga entered the room after her, a gentle step upon dust-covered floors. Devorah turned to face her, book in hand. Princess Gitonga was wide-eyed and shaking.

“It’s all right. I’ve just discovered a new application for my shadow powers.”

“You’re… you’re an umbramancer?”

Devorah shrugged. “The name is unimportant. Just think what this could mean if I could move supplies or even troops through the shadows.”

“I… I thought you said you weren’t the aggressor.”

Devorah blinked. “I’m not.” She took a breath. Her disgust with her aunt’s conflict with the Royals had prompted her to leave the coming war, leave Kempenny Province, leave the nation of Khulanty, and now here she was getting excited about the potential for troop movement. Father Vytal had claimed her aunt was sinking into madness; she wondered if that madness were catching.

Devorah held her hand out to Princess Gitonga. “Take my hand, and I’ll return you to your home.”

Princess Gitonga took her hand gingerly.

“Deep breath,” Devorah said.

She closed her eyes and could see the book-covered room of Princess Gitonga; the plush carpets, the thick couches, and the spare meditation chamber; all shrouded in shadow. The shadows pressed against them, building pressure that threatened to crush them. In a moment, they stood in Princess Gitonga’s meditation chamber. Devorah looked down at the book that had made the trip with them and smiled.