Still, spring brought a kind of infection with it. Dorit, who had treated Liath with indifference bordering on coldness all winter, now attempted at odd moments to exchange pleasantries with her. Lars whistled.

But Hugh was restless. No peddlers had yet come north on the old road that led to the duchy of Saony, the central region of the realm of Wendar; only when the first peddler arrived would Hugh know the roads were clear across the Iels Hills and that the ford at Hammelleft was passable.

On the morning of St. Perpetua’s Day, the twelfth day of the month of Yanu, which this year fell two days after the Feast of the Translatus, he rose and dressed early. Often, now, he rode out on his rounds alone so that he might make as much haste as possible. That way, when the road opened, they could ride south at once.

“Liath,” he said curtly, “I’m going now. You will inventory our belongings in preparation for our journey to Firsebarg. I will expect to see the list when I return.”

“Where are you going today?” she asked, not because she cared but because she could then judge how much blessed solitude she might have that day: a brief morning’s respite or a long, quiet, soothing day without him.

But he knew her too well; he knew the small ways she tried to hold herself free of him, and he cut away at them bit by bit. “I am going to minister to my flock,” he said with his beautiful smile. He ran a hand from her right shoulder to her left, his fingers tracing the slave’s necklace—invisible, insubstantial, but as heavy as any iron collar—his ownership and her capitulation had forged around her neck. “I will return when I return.”

So he left.

She decided not to write out the inventory. He might hit her for refusing or he might be amused by such a trivial, passive act of defiance; she never knew which it would be. Out of habit, however, she did go to the schoolroom and with stylus and tablet practiced the curving Jinna script left to right and right to left and back again. Then, more slowly, she copied the Arethousan letters and composed them into the simple words Hugh had taught her. But eventually her mind wandered, unhindered by Hugh’s stifling presence. Her thoughts strayed back to the mysteries of the heavens and the passing of days, for this above all else Da had taught to her—the knowledge of the mathematici.

With the first day of the month of Yanu and the passing of Mariansmass, which together marked the spring equinox, they had moved into a new year. It was now the seven hundred and twenty-eighth year since the Proclamation of the Holy Word, the Divine Logos, by the blessed Daisan. She was seventeen years old.

“Da,” she whispered, and wiped a tear from her cheek. Da was gone. And yet, was it not also true that everything that Da had taught her remained with her, so that in a way he remained with her, through her memory of him?

“By this ladder the mage ascends.” She stiffened suddenly, horrified. What came next? She had forgotten! She did not exercise her memory as she ought, not with Hugh around, watching everything she did. “What do you think of when you sit so still?” he would ask. Better not to sit still. Better not to have him pry. She hated the way he seemed always to be trying to open her up, to get inside, to break the lock both of them knew held the inner door fast against him. She had the book. He did not. It was all that kept her free.

Soon, Hugh would return. But he was not here right now.

She sat back and closed her eyes. She found the city, standing fast in her memory. An avenue paved with white stones led away from the shore to the first gate, and she followed it. The first gate towered before her, admitting her to the first level: The Rose Gate. In her mind she saw each gate clearly, in their proper order: Rose, Sword, Cup, Ring, Throne, Scepter, Crown.

“Sorcery, like any other branch of knowledge, must be learned, used, and mastered. The young apprentice to the blacksmith does not begin by forging a fine sword for the prince. The young apprentice to the weaver does not with her first thread weave the queen’s hearth rug. So the rhetor makes her first speech to her mirror, not to the marketplace, and the young man-at-arms fights his first battle against the tilt, not against his liege’s mortal enemy. So did the blessed Daisan proclaim the Holy Word for twenty-one years before even He mastered the art of prayer well enough that He might by His own prayer and meditation ascend to the Chamber of Light. Learn these things, Liath. You cannot use them, for you are deaf to magic, but you may think on them, you may practice them as if you were a mage’s apprentice, and in time you may have gained a sorcerer’s knowledge. To master knowledge is to have power from it.”

There, on the gate that rested only in her mind, stood a constellation of jewels like a cluster of stars, tracing the form of a rose. And on each farther gate, a new constellation, sword, cup, ring, and so on, as was appropriate. For these constellations also shone above in the heavens, together with the twelve constellations that made up the Houses of Night, the world dragon that bound the heavens, and the many other constellations arrayed as emblems on the sphere of the fixed stars, set there by the infinite wisdom of Our Lady and Lord.