Sighing, she leaned over to pull off her boots. She did not know what she should do now-but the one thing she had gained from Maeredhiel's words was the knowledge the Sanctuary meant time.

She would wait.

And plan.

The dormitory wing echoed emptily at first, for the day before the first caravan train arrived, the Candidates now finishing their Service Year had been sent to sleep in a vast windowless chamber in the other wing of the third floor. The new Candidates saw them only in passing, for it was the Sanctuary servants themselves who oversaw the training of those entering their Service Year.

Spring meant not only the arrival of the Candidates, but of great lords coming to make luck-sacrifices at the Shrine for fortune in the coming War Season, and Lightborn returning to the Sanctuary for counsel. Rare was the day when no tribute caravan arrived-and then two, three, five each day. Each, when it departed, carried away with it those who had ended their Service Year without being called to the Light as well as those newly come to the Green Robe.

In the first days, Vieliessar found herself too weary each night to even think of escape, for each day began before sunrise with the sound of Mage-conjured bells. Those who were to serve at table or in the kitchens hurried through their washing and dressing and hastened off to begin their tasks while their fellows savored a few moments of leisure before being summoned to the first meal by more bells. When the meal was done, the Postulants went to their lessons, the Lightborn to their still-mysterious tasks, and the Candidates to their work. Few of the Candidates were accustomed to their labors, for few of them had been Called from families in service to a Great Keep or manor house. Mistress Hamonglachele, in whose keeping lay the Sanctuary guesthouse and the duty of hospitality to visitors, had claimed many of them for her work, while Pandorgrad Mastergardener, who managed the gardens, claimed more.

Waking and sleeping, the days of the Candidates were governed by the sound of magical bells that chimed sourcelessly in empty air: bells to wake them, bells to send them to their meals, bells to send them to their scant candlemarks of leisure and from there to their beds. Each third fortnight their sleeping rooms were changed, and that was all to the good: if you misliked your bedchamber companions, six sennights would see you with different ones. The prohibition against naming their Houses was heeded by almost no one, but at least Vieliessar was not the only one to refuse to name her House. She felt daring enough in claiming her name.

Spring became high summer, then dwindled away into autumn. Vieliessar's body hardened to her new work and her mind grew quick to find the best and easiest way to accomplish each task she was set. Though she began to find leisure in the evening, she kept from the Common Room, where Candidates and Postulants alike gathered for games of xaique and gan and narshir. She wanted no friends among those who had slain her family-for the destruction of Farcarinon had not been Caerthalien's alone, but the work of many Houses-nor did she wish to befriend those she would some day be called upon to serve. No, she would use her free time to plan her future-her true future, not the one Caerthalien meant her to have.

But somehow her plans of escape and vengeance grew no further.

Winter stalked the bounds of the Sanctuary like a great white wolf. Each day was much like the next-no feast day celebrating a House's triumph nor Festival to mark the turn of the year was celebrated here. And then, it was spring and the first new Candidates were soon to arrive to begin their Service Year.

Now it was Vieliessar and her fellow-Candidates who were sent to the Long Chamber. They would sleep there until their final fates were revealed, as the caravans of their Houses arrived, and the new Candidates would occupy the familiar dormitory rooms. There was excitement and confusion when they arrived, as for the first time in a full Wheel of the Seasons they were free to choose where they might sleep, and among whom. And each contemplated the future to be so soon revealed with both excitement and dread. None of them knew-even now-who would stay and who would go, and while the shared year of toil had forged many strong friendships, the next time many of them met might be when the battle lines of their House's armies clashed.

This is why we were told not to name our Houses, so those of us who go on to become komentai'a might be spared the knowledge they had slain those who once were friends, Vieliessar thought, surprising herself. None of them had understood that until it was too late.

And each night the Long Chamber held fewer tenants than the night before. Some departed with the caravans. Some donned the green tabard of a Postulant. There seemed to be no metric for knowing who would go or who would stay.

Baramrin and Eradrin and Feinel had shown no hint of the Light in all the moonturns they'd been Candidates-or nothing more than any other had, since all save Vieliessar had been sent here by the word of the Lightborn-yet now they were Called.

But they never tested us! They never asked! Vieliessar thought, half indignant, half disturbed. They never even taught us anything....

But in looking back on the matter-of-fact spellcraft she'd seen in the last fourteen moonturns-Silverlight and Silversight, Healing, Calling Fire with a snap of the fingers, speaking with beasts and awakening the soil with a touch, Vieliessar realized that wasn't true. They'd all learned without realizing they were being taught: When and how the Magery was used. The cost of using it. The things it could do.

Perhaps the teaching itself is the test.

Vieliessar knew that true understanding of what it meant to be one of the Lightborn could only come if one were Called. The Postulants had all been willing-even eager-to talk with the Candidates about what they learned, but much of it was like one who was blind attempting to understand what sight was.

It's like flying, some said. Like running before the wind and knowing every current in the ocean beneath you, said others. Like dancing. Like riding a fast horse.

Like a hundred other things that only one of the Lightborn could understand.

It was a full moonturn before the last of the Candidate caravans came and went. This year Hallorad was the last: a Less House so far to the east that beyond its eastern border lay nothing but leagues of windswept grassland and Graythunder Glairyrill itself. Hallorad left no new Candidates, but bore away Inadan, Thadaniach, Gaen, and Dirthir-the last four who'd shared the now-echoing Long Chamber with Vieliessar.

Her Service Year was over, and she had not been Called.

In the refectory everyone ate together, the servants at one end of the chamber and Hamphuliadiel Astromancer at the other. The meals were plain, simple, and unvarying: tea and boiled grain for breakfast; tea and vegetable soup at midday; tea, bread and cheese, and soup at eventide. Though there might be as many as a hundred of them in the Sanctuary at one time, the Candidates were not the largest group at any meal. The Postulants outnumbered them by half again, for one might be a Postulant for ten years, or twenty, before taking the Green Robe. Each year ten or fifteen-rarely more-increased their numbers. Each year a handful of the Postulants dared the Shrine and departed the Sanctuary.

Caerthalien had arrived on the same day as Oronviel and Aramenthiali, so she did not know which of the dozen Candidates that had arrived that day were Caerthalien's. Berthon and Athrothir had left with the party, but that evening, when she had come to the refectory, she saw Thurion wearing the green tabard of a Postulant, seated among those others who had been Twice-Called. He'd smiled when he'd seen her, and Vieliessar had been surprised at the happiness she felt at the sight of him in Postulant's garb. It was not that they were friends, since she had kept herself apart during the past year. But in an odd way she could not put a name to, Thurion's Postulancy was a triumph in which she could share.

This night, for the first time since she'd come to the Sanctuary, she had no true place: not servant, not Candidate, not Postulant. Having been given no other direction, she seated herself once more among the Candidates. At least she was neither the oldest nor the youngest among them: she'd turned thirteen last Rade Moon, and the youngest this year were barely ten; twin girls who had come on the same day Berthon and Athrothir had left. The eldest of the new Candidates was Iardalaith. He was sixteen, and though Vieliessar did not know quite when he'd arrived, she had heard that he had already been in training to become a knight when he was sent here.

What shall become of me now? she thought forlornly. With the departure of the last of the failed Candidates, she was certain that she would at last be sent to the Sanctuary's servants' quarters to begin her imprisonment in truth. Weeping over spilled tea does not bring fresh, she thought. It was one of Maeredhiel's favorite sayings, deployed whenever she thought one of them was spending too much time in self-recrimination and not enough in fixing the problem.

When the meal was over, Vieliessar stood uncertainly beside the table. Those Candidates-this year's Candidates, she mentally amended-who didn't have evening tasks were already shuffling out of the refectory, drooping with a weariness she well remembered. She'd nearly made up her mind to return to the Long Chamber-perhaps she was to have it all to herself for the Wheel to come-when Maeredhiel strode over to her.

"If you like the refectory so well you linger here, I'm sure a task may be found for you in the kitchens. If not, then come," the Mistress of Servants said briskly, before turning away.

Vieliessar followed, confused, as Maeredhiel led her toward the Postulants' sleeping rooms. Was Maeredhiel taking her back to the Candidates' dormitory?

But as they passed along the corridor, Maeredhiel stopped and slid a door into the wall, revealing the spare-but private-sleeping cell of a Postulant: bed, chest, standing brazier, and low wooden stool. The shutters across the window were closed and barred, but the room was still chill. The basket of possessions that Vieliessar had carried to the Long Chamber sennights earlier was set upon the bed.

Vieliessar stood in the doorway, not knowing what was expected of her, as Maeredhiel crossed the room to stand in front of the brazier. The Mistress of Servants stared at it fixedly-and suddenly Vieliessar heard the crackle of kindling charcoal and smelled burning.

"You said you were no Mage!" she hissed accusingly.

"I said I had not enough Light in me to become one, but Fire is the first and easiest spell," Maeredhiel answered calmly. "Come in and close the door. I do not wish to heat the entire Sanctuary, and there is not enough charcoal here to do so, in any event."

More lost than before, Vieliessar did as she was told.

"You wonder why you have been given the quarters of a Postulant, when you have not been Twice-Called. True enough, you have not. But when Hertherilian was Astromancer here-do not cudgel your brain, girl, that was five hundred years gone, and no one ever remembers the names anyway-it was a thing not unknown for a Candidate to do two and three and four years of service as we awaited their kindling. I cannot bring to mind just now whose demands caused us to shorten the time, but what one House has, all must have; they are like quarreling weanlings with vast armies. It matters not. What matters is that there is precedent for delaying the decision about you. Yet I should prefer you away from the new Candidates, lest you give up all our secrets before they have a chance to discover them." The faint smile upon Maeredhiel's lips mocked her own words.

"You mean I...?" Vieliessar wasn't sure whether to be relieved or horrified. A year ago she'd been certain she did not wish to become Lightborn. Now she realized she wasn't certain of anything at all.

"Impossible though it seems, you may yet be Called to the Light," Maeredhiel said dryly. "So you will sleep here rather than among the servants. Fear not that you will have candlemarks of idleness to bore you, for you will work harder now than you have before. There are many tasks of delicacy that we servants do not entrust to the Candidates, for I will tell you this plainly: each one of you made more work than you accomplished."

"We worked hard!" Vieliessar protested, stung by Maeredhiel's unfairness. Most of us.

"And so you did, child. But one in a hundred Candidates comes to us with servant's training. Some are the offspring of craftworkers or Farmholders, but most of you are Landbond, who barely know what it is to live within walls. It takes decade upon decade to train up a skilled servant."

"The Candidates were older once," Vieliessar said suddenly. She didn't know where the thought sprang from, but even the unflappable Maeredhiel looked surprised.

"Indeed they were, though that was much before my time," Maeredhiel answered grudgingly. "The Archives say that once the Lightborn did not Call the Light, just watched and waited until the Light appeared of its own. But it is of no matter. The world is always changing, and has been since Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor fell." She stepped away from the brazier and took a step toward the door. "In the morning I shall see to it that you are properly dressed and then we will begin."

"Wait!" Vieliessar said, for Maeredhiel was obviously about to leave. "You said upon the day I arrived that I was the Child of the Prophecy. What prophecy? Why-"

"Now you see what ignorance pride breeds, for you might have had your answers long ago, had you been willing to listen," Maeredhiel said. "I am no Lightborn nor patient teacher, so do not seek them from me. I will tell you this: your answers are here, but you will not like them overmuch."

The Mistress of Servants had spoken nothing other than the truth when she said Vieliessar would have much to learn, and though Vieliessar tried many times to get Maeredhiel to speak further of the Prophecy, she always received the same answer: if she had been willing to listen, she could have had answers moonturns ago. Before Flower had become Sword, she had stopped asking: Mistress Maeredhiel had spoken no less than the truth that night, for she had much to teach and was determined Vieliessar should learn.

To her surprise, she did not find the servant's garb she now wore to be a shameful burden, simply because no one seemed to care whether she went garbed in servant's grey or Lightborn green or Farcarinon vert and argent. The new Postulants-even Thurion-were far too busy to notice her. The Lightborn cared for little and saw less beyond their own work. The new Candidates barely saw anything beyond the ends of their noses, as she knew from experience.

Vieliessar saw more of Maeredhiel's truth as she came to understand that the tasks the Candidates performed were not even a tenth of the labor needed to keep the Sanctuary running smoothly. Worse, it seemed that each task bred a thousand more, all of which must be performed to exacting standards. Maeredhiel had said it took decades to train up a skilled Sanctuary servant. Vieliessar soon decided the Mistress of Servants had been optimistic: two decades, or six, or a dozen would not be time enough to learn all she must know to be a servant of the Sanctuary of the Star.

In her Service Year, the Candidates' work was confined to the kitchens, the laundry, the stables, and the guesthouse. Now Vieliessar's duties lay in all the places she had once been forbidden to enter. She began to learn the mysteries of the work rooms where medicines and spices and perfumes were compounded, to clean the delicate equipment after use, to restore each object to its proper place, to note which supplies were running low and must be restocked. She learned what materials each of the meditation rooms required and how to tell if they were running low. She learned which rooms she might enter when they were vacant, and which she must never enter at all. She learned to assist Hervilafimir Lightsister and Nithrithuin Lightsister in the hospital, to pack a travel-bag that contained all one of the Lightborn might need to set a spell or to increase a spell's effectiveness. She learned to serve tea with self-effacing silence and the beginnings of effortless grace when the princes and great ladies of the Fortunate Lands came to the Sanctuary on business.

She learned to navigate the maze of secret halls and stairs that were the Sanctuary's hidden face. By their means, a Sanctuary servant might vanish from sight on the ground floor of one wing and reappear on the top floor of the opposite wing without having been seen anywhere between.

And she learned that no matter what Hamphuliadiel Astromancer might eat in the refectory, in his private rooms he gorged on rich delicacies and often required a cordial afterward in order to settle his stomach.

Nor did her days become her own with the second bell rung at the end of the evening meal, for Maeredhiel ordered that the time between dinner and bed must be spent in the Servants' Hall. The servants welcomed her as one of their own and Vieliessar discovered, to her surprise, that they were as proud of their service as any Warlord Prince of their domain. At first she sat stiff and silent until Maeredhiel released her to her sleeping chamber, but as spring and summer slipped away, she began to find among the servants the friends she had not made among the Candidates of her Service Year.

It had taken her a long time to learn to sleep comfortably in the small austere room that was now hers-not because it lacked the luxuries she'd once taken for granted, perfumes and soft blankets and softer mattress-but because it was hers alone. In all her life, up until the moment Maeredhiel had walked out of the chamber, Vieliessar had never had a room entirely to herself. She grew to treasure those candlemarks when she didn't have to be what someone expected to see, and could simply be.

And though it wounded her pride sharply, Vieliessar admitted-if only within her heart-that her plans for revenge were better enacted by a woman than by a child. She would remain here for another year, or two, while Caerthalien forgot the very fact that she had ever existed.

"-and now it is Frost Moon, and it is one, two, three, four, five, six sennights to the middle of Snow Moon, and there will be dancing, and sweetcakes, and riddles-" Melwen singsonged, moving her round counter along the narshir board. She was one of the youngest of the Sanctuary servants-so Maeredhiel said-but Melwen could not number her years even if asked; she did not seek anything greater of her life than that each year should be like the last.

Vieliessar stifled a sigh. In six sennights it would be Midwinter, and she knew no one at the Sanctuary celebrated the festival days that marked the turns of the Great Wheel. Last year she had been too angry to care, but this year all she could think of was what she would miss. At Caerthalien, Midwinter meant a whole sennight of feasts, each more elaborate than the last, and the Lightborn seeking the Light in those old enough. As was Harvest Court, Midwinter was a sennight in which no feuds could be started or vengeance taken, and everyone in the castel mingled freely, as if they were equals, for it was the custom for the highborn to put off their finery and wear the simple clothes of servants, and for the servants to put off the livery badges which indicated to which household they belonged.

"-and fortunes, and farings, and songs," Maeredhiel said, finishing the sentence without looking up from the tablet upon which she was figuring accounts, for what was in their stores must last through the winter, and Hamphuliadiel Astromancer must know what tithe-goods to ask of the Hundred Houses in the spring. "But you must remember, Melwen-Vieliessar has not yet been with us for a full turn of the year."

"You've never seen Midwinter, Vielle?" Melwen asked, sounding horrified. "We celebrate it every year, because we give thanks for the Light that kindles and will bring us new Candidates in Storm and Rain and Flower!"

"And we give thanks for the chance to bring something out of the kitchens that is not the everlasting soup and porridge," Mistress Morgaenel commented dryly. "If I did not get the chance to bake pies and roast venison once a year, I think I would go mad!"

Vieliessar had been surprised to discover that many of the Sanctuary servants were wed. Mistress Morgaenel and Master Duirilthel were responsible for the kitchens, for overseeing the kitchen servants (a domestic meisne second in size only to Mastergardener Pandorgrad's own, but augmented by many of the Candidates) and for feeding the hundreds of souls who resided at the Sanctuary of the Star. The two of them bickered constantly over which was Master (or Mistress) Cook and which one was Master (or Mistress) of the whole of the Kitchens, and Vieliessar had listened to them for an entire season before realizing the argument had been going on for centuries before her birth and would never be resolved until the two went before Queen Pelashia in the Vale of Celenthodiel to demand a judgment.

It had never occurred to her that Morgaenel Mistress Cook (or Mistress Kitchen, depending on who told the tale) would grow as tired of creating their bland fare as they did of eating it.

"And each Midwinter we pretend we do not see the Postulants sneak away to Rosemoss Farm, though some of them have done it for years," Hamonglachele added merrily. It was Mistress 'Chele's business to see that the guesthouse was kept in proper order, and she laughingly decried the shortcomings of all those who occupied it.

"As you know full well, for you encourage them to sneak into my storehouses for sweets and gifts-and allow them to hide them beneath your roof once they have," Duirilthel pointed out.

"Whose storehouses, dearest heart?" Morgaenel asked with mock sweetness. "I am the Mistress of Kitchens, so they are my stores, I say."

"And again I am heartbroken to tell you, sweetest love, that skilled as you are in your craft, you are Mistress Cook, merely," Duirilthel responded.

The familiar bickering began again, and Vieliessar reached for the dice cup and turned back to her game. But now she thought of the coming Midwinter with curiosity and wonder instead of despair.

Soon enough Pandorgrad covered the spell-lantern, just as he did every night to signal the end of the evening. The Servants' Hall was lit with Silverlight, but unless one were Lightborn, one could not simply kindle and snuff it at one's convenience, so rather than living day and night amid the spell's ghostly blue radiance, it was best to have it in a form one could shroud.

At that wordless signal, Vieliessar got to her feet. The others would seek their beds here in the servants' quarters, save for Radanding and his two ostlers, who slept at the stables. Only she must traverse the passages and staircases to her Postulant's cell on the second floor, the thing that marked her as belonging neither to one place or the other.

As she did nearly every night, Maeredhiel accompanied Vieliessar as she left the Servants' Hall. Vieliessar had long since learned that Maeredhiel slept little, and spent most candlemarks after lantern-darkening checking to see that all in her domain was as she would wish it. Usually they parted at the foot of the first staircase, but tonight, when they reached the antechamber to the Shrine, Maeredhiel stopped.

"A word with you, girl."

Vieliessar turned back, searching Maeredhiel's face for some sign of the other's wishes.

"The Candidates-as you have cause to know-are kept close. But in six sennights, we shall all pretend that those we serve-Postulants and Lightborn both-do not slip away after dark to revel at Rosemoss Farm, just as they have done each Midwinter since the Sanctuary stones were laid. It would be a simple thing for you to join them. I say to you: you are Lady Nataranweiya's child and War Prince Serenthon's heir. Do not think it is a thing unknown."

Maeredhiel spoke of them as if they still lived, as if Farcarinon was more than a name and a wilderness. "I am heir to nothing," Vieliessar answered, surprised by the grief she felt.

"Think that if you must. Do you think Athrothir and Berthon kept what they knew to themselves? Outside these walls, your life is anyone's to take."

"What loss could that be to anyone but me?" Vieliessar demanded.

Maeredhiel smiled tightly. "Why, if Celelioniel did not hold it precious, she would never have saved it. Sleep well, Child of the Prophecy."

Maeredhiel turned and walked away. Vieliessar could have followed her, clutched at her sleeve, demanded answers. Why do you call me that again and again? What does it mean? What do you mean?

But she knew she would lose her dignity, not her ignorance. Maeredhiel would not give answers unless she chose.

And she does not choose! She merely seeks to torment me with hints and riddles!

At the Sanctuary, they did not celebrate Midwinter for an entire sennight, but Fourth Night was when the Light was Called, and on that night, there was a feast laid out in the Servants' Hall of delicacies that never had-and never would-grace the tables in the refectory. Roast pork, venison, and chicken; meat pies of mutton and dove; glazed fruits, spiced fruits, fruit pies and honey-cakes; cordials and a dozen kinds of cider and spiced creamy xocalatl (part of Domain Amrolion's tribute) hot enough in every sense to scorch the mouth.

Even those who spent little time in the Servants' Hall in the ordinary way of things were here tonight: all of Pandorgrad Mastergardener's people, all the kitchen staff, and every one of the ostlers and farriers and horse-tenders who inhabited Radanding Stablemaster's domain. The tables and chairs had been removed to make room for a long trestle table filled with food and drink and the Servants' Hall was noisy and crowded, filled with talk and laughter and the honest yellow light of candles and oil lanterns. Vieliessar ate until she was full to bursting, only to discover there was more to come.

A cheer went up as Morgaenel and Duirilthel entered with a tray so large it took both of them to carry it. Upon that tray was something large and round and white.

"The luck! The luck of the year!" Several of those present raised their cups in a toast.

"What is it?" Vieliessar asked in confusion, for the sweet-course had been upon the table for half the night.

"Ah, I had forgotten you would not know the custom," Maeredhiel said. "It is not kept in the castels, for it would not serve for any but the War Prince to receive the luck."

"What luck?" Vieliessar demanded, but Maeredhiel was already leading her to where a space had been cleared upon one of the tables for the cake.

"Who is the youngest here?" Duirilthel asked, waving a cutting knife. "Is it Celeth? Lelras? Nidos? No! I think it must be Vielle!" He swept her a flourishing bow and presented her with the knife.

"You must cut the cake now, and be sure everyone gets a piece," Maeredhiel said. "And save yourself one as well."

The cake was heavy, filled with fruits and honey and cased in a thick sugar icing, but at last everyone had been served and all that remained upon the tray was crumbs.

"I told you to save yourself some," Maeredhiel said, holding out a napkin-wrapped piece. Vieliessar could smell the spices as she lifted it to her lips. The morsel was only a bite or two, for the cake, though large, had needed to serve many-and Vielle popped it into her mouth unthinkingly. A moment later her teeth closed upon something hard. She made a noise of dismay and spat whatever it was into her hand.

On her palm rested a tiny silver disk with a rearing Unicorn stamped upon it.

"I told you the one who received the silver luck-charm in their portion would gain fortune in the coming year," Maeredhiel said. "And see? It is you."

Much fortune Farcarinon has gotten from the Unicorn thus far, Vieliessar thought sourly. For it was the Unicorn Throne that destroyed us.

But it was a pretty thing nonetheless, so she tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. Perhaps later she could find a way to braid it into her hair.

The rich food made her sleepy, and it was not very long before she took her leave, for tomorrow would again be a day of labor. But despite everything, the secret Festival seemed to promise that her strange new life need not be one of everlasting penance. As she walked to her sleeping chamber, she wondered how many of the doors around her concealed empty beds whose inhabitants kept revel at Rosemoss Farm.

Less than a mile from where I stand, and it might be at the far side of the Arzhana ... But tonight, even thoughts of her demi-imprisonment failed to dampen her optimistic mood.

She opened the door to her sleeping chamber. It was winter-cold, especially in contrast to the warm hall she'd just left, and she shivered as she crossed to the brazier. She kept a small bowl of embers on her windowsill, for true fire was something not much used in the Sanctuary and she had little patience with flint and steel. But tonight, the embers husbanded from the previous night's coals had gone out.

The brazier full of unkindled charcoals seemed to mock her, and she unconsciously stretched her fingers out toward it in the gesture she had seen so many times from one of the Lightborn. Fire, Maeredhiel had often said, was the first and simplest spell ...