Ammas was so surprised he cried out, dropping the book, one hand springing to his waist and drawing his dagger. Glowering at him was a tall, severe woman clad in the dress of a Madrenite abbess, both older and more stern than Abbess Rothe.

Shocked though he was, Ammas recovered quickly. Certainly he had expected to be challenged long before this; the fact that a Madrenite abbess was one of the last people he expected to issue that challenge was immaterial. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" he retorted, as though he had every right in the world to be in the Curia archives. "Madrenites have no place in the Grand Curia."

"This is my ward. You are the intruder here," the Abbess replied stonily. In her flinty eyes Ammas saw this was not a woman to be charmed as Rothe had been. Those hard eyes flicked to his hat, to his dagger. "A cursewright, is it? Are you the latest creature Lord Andreth brings to my patient? That man! Swiftfoot or not, if he keeps this up I will contact the Emperor. He has been told, she was told long ago, that he needs rest. I am quickly losing patience with -- " Suddenly the Abbess's eyes grew wide, the hand not on her candlestick clapping over her mouth in amazement. At once her entire aspect changed. "Cursewright -- you -- you're Ammas!"

"Yes," Ammas said uncertainly, not lowering his dagger. He had half-expected to be recognized again, but never thought to see an expression like this one. The Abbess looked almost delighted.

"I knew you would come sooner or later, that eventually His Majesty would see the wisdom in sending you here!" The Abbess beckoned with her free hand. "Come, come, I'll show you right in. Mind the books. Sooner or later we'll get around to cataloguing them, but it's hard to find anyone discreet enough for the job." So speaking she wended her way among the stacks, leading a thoroughly bewildered Ammas into the depths of the Curia archives.

The Abbess maneuvered herself through the towering piles of books with admirable skill, and Ammas supposed she must cope with it every day. The heaps of confiscated tomes only grew larger and more chaotic as they drew closer to the center of the archive, and Ammas began to understand with something approaching awe that he stood among the collected knowledge of the broken Academies; that the Emperor had not burned all these priceless billions of words after all, as he had so long believed; that instead he hoarded them like a miser, ensuring they never see the light of day again.

Whoever seemed to be expecting him was secondary in his mind as he stared dumbstruck at all these volumes. Some were centuries old, dating all the way back to the time of Lady Terazla herself, and likely even before that, to the days when a few hedge wizards from the wilds and guttersnipe magicians from the alleys and slums of places like Munazyr and Cavis Cove had gathered to form the loose fellowships and secretive cabals that would one day become the Academies Arcane. Only when he found himself before a simple wooden door with a brass handle -- the same door that had opened onto the chief archivist's office the last time Ammas had been here -- did he remember what he was doing here and how strange the situation had become.

"He's still awake, I think," the Abbess informed him with a conspiratorial smile. "Don't speak too loudly. His nerves have gotten a little frayed in the last few years."

"I'll keep that in mind," Ammas said, sheathing his dagger, giving the Abbess a final confused look as he passed through the door she had solicitously opened for him.

Again, profound changes had been wrought on a place Ammas knew well from years ago. When he had last visited this place, it had been the most cluttered room in the Grand Curia, though not because the archivists were slovenly by nature. Quite the contrary; the room's general air of disarray was solely due to the constant flow of loose parchment accounts of hearings and trials and fresh volumes of law from various corners from the Anointed Realms, only remaining here a few days before being bound into their proper folios or shelved in their appropriate locations.

Now the room seemed far larger than Ammas remembered it, having been mostly cleared of books and converted into a sort of bedroom. Rather than the bright, harsh lamps necessary for work on such texts, the lighting here was provided by hooded lanterns, their glow gentle and restful. There were books here in tall shelves that lined the walls, but they were thick with dust and gave off an impression of disuse. Oddly familiar paintings hung here and there. A large four-poster bed dominated one wall, a series of slim, dangling ropes attached to bells nestled in the ceiling arrayed at the headboard. Beside the bed was a sort of litter, one end of it resting on small wooden wheels. An unpleasant aroma hung in the air, a sickroom smell, a scent of sweat and bodily waste that spoke of a period of long confinement.

The figure in the bed, propped up on a thick nest of pillows, confounded Ammas's eye at first. As he drew nearer to the bed he thought he was looking at a child. Then, as the features on its face proved to be ancient and wizened, he imagined it instead to be a dwarf. Only a few strands of sickly white hair clung to the skull. The dark brown eyes were sunken deep into their sockets, making the face cadaverous. The mouth ticked up and down at one corner, and Ammas realized after a moment this man was not entirely sane.

"Ammas," it said in a high, cracked voice, tears thick in its throat. "Ammas, they said you would come, they said, they said."

At last Ammas understood this creature was no child or dwarf. This was a full grown man bereft of his limbs. And then he realized who it was, smiling toothlessly, nearly weeping at his presence.

Ammas Mourthia fell to his knees. There was no strength in his legs at all. "Oh, papa," he moaned. "Oh, gods, papa, no, papa, no."

Senrich Mourthia burst into tears, but he could not stop gazing upon his son.