Where yesterday there was empty air, this morning fences stood.

Along the stairway where the wind always struck, masons set stone balustrades.

Rahl, the guard with the spear, walked among them, clearing paths so folk could pass without the winged ones drifting across the workers' way.

"He didn't stop," said the old man; Jereh's acquaintance, perhaps already his friend, when they met by the docks. "V'Asanii. Some work with words; he works with a hammer."

Jereh nodded. He did not add that he knew who had set it in motion, but his eyes lingered on the stairs where the fall had nearly stolen his son. And he wondered how long the hammer would be allowed to strike before someone silenced it.

In the south wing courtyard, Mirna knelt in the soil. Half her day was spent there now, the other in the kitchens.

Eirran arrived at the yard's edge, but instead of the half-glide the Ilari called walking, he came on foot; earthbound, ungraceful, the way they grew accustomed seeing him walk every time he was alone in their company. He stopped a few paces away, as if recalling modest distance.

"Good morning," he said, then faltered. "May I?"

Mirna rose, wiping her apron.

"So long as you don't stand on the roots," she said, dry but not unkind.

He studied the ground as once he had studied the air.

"I see it's growing," he offered.

"Seedlings don't care if the person watering them has wings or not," Mirna said. "They grow if you give them what they need."

Eirran bowed his head, then turned to Jereh.

"I came to tell you what's being done," he began stiffly, then added more simply: "And to ask how you fare. If you need anything. If you've found... a way."

"We have," Jereh said. "Paths along the walls, places where the wind doesn't strike, people who look ahead instead of down. What we need is time. And your people need more eyes that see the person, not the rule."

Eirran nodded, smiling uncertainly, as if practicing.

"That's what I came to say. The masons are already in the central circle: handrails for the great stairways, windshields at crossings, broader steps in the servants' halls, shallower stairs and landings below. Three new passages from market to docks so no one need cross unguarded bridges." He caught his breath. "All this I asked for openly. No secrecy. Let them know."

Mirna studied him, not as a prince but as a craftsman asking if his tool was any use.

From somewhere in the courtyard came a faint peel of laughter; Lily's voice, high and brief, chasing Evan down a corridor. Eirran's head turned, but she was already gone.

"That's good," Mirna said. "Now we'll see if ordered is the same as done."

"I'll demand oversight," he said. "And yours too, if you'll speak what's wrong. I'll not hide behind decrees."

Jereh laid his hand on the stone. "You came as a prince, but you speak as a man. Then ask what truly troubles you."

"Lily." Eirran whispered. "I would like to know what makes her happy. What saddens her. What frightens her. I want to learn, but I don't know how." He folded his hands. "Guide me. Stop me, if need be. As you did before: plainly, without ornaments."

Mirna and Jereh exchanged a look. Not a small thing to ask. Not a small thing to refuse.

"She loves water," Mirna said first. "And open fields. She dislikes things that buzz and stare blindly." Her mind's eye flicked toward the silver bird he had once given Lily.

"She loves drawing fish. In the kitchen she found charcoal and drew on stone. Do not punish her; I said I'd clean it."

"She will not be punished," Eirran said quickly.

"And she loves stories," Jereh added. "Stories of ordinary wonders: how the sea swallowed a barrel and gave it back full of fish; how a man had found a spongy stone that floats. Listen to the questions she asks. Answer them carefully."

Eirran listened as if inscribing each word. His wings did not stir.

"Thank you," he said at last. "And if I misstep...you must stop me. As her mother once said: better a bitter tonic than a sweet lie."

Mirna blinked once, slowly.

"Good," she said. "Then we'll keep you on the bitter."

"That's why I came," said Eirran. "And because I must ask another thing. For education. A formal one. As my wards, Lily and Evan may pass into the learning circles. I will petition the Sixth House for tutors. Not workshops, but true teachers. Formal education."

"The Sixth House," Jereh repeated. The word tasted like honey that might be poison. "The ones with the quills."

"Yes. If they refuse, I'll hire tutors until they yield. But I want it open. I won't take them from you. No oaths or seals. Only lessons."

"What's the price?" Jereh asked.

"Nothing. They will study in the eastern wing. Mirna may be present if she wishes. The teacher will not say 'mudborn.' If he does, he will not be their teacher."

"And my son?" Jereh asked, the word son heavier than speech. "He will write as your people do?"

"He will. He'll read, and count, and reckon as he already does with nets—only with more signs. If they ask why, I'll say: because they are my wards. If they ask who gave me the right, I'll say: I am prince. If they ask the cost, I will pay."

"Political," Mirna murmured.

"That too." Eirran's jaw tightened. "I have already begun to pay."

The clang of iron rang nearby.

"Very well," Jereh said at last. "Let them learn."

"So it shall be," Eirran answered. "And please, if I ever take the wrong path, pull me by the sleeve. Keth does so. I need more such hands."

"I'll pull," Jereh said. "And I won't choose my moment."

"Nor need you," Eirran replied more easily.

He bent, touched a clod of earth beside Mirna's plants.

"I brought..." He hesitated, then smiled shyly, pulling something out of his pocket and handing it to Mirna.

"A pouch of seeds. Thyme. If you wish, try them."

Mirna weighed the pouch.

"Thank you," she said.

"If they don't sprout, I'll return them as bitter tonic."

"I'll take them," he said. "Better that than a sweet lie."

From the courtyard's edge came laughter.

Lily and Evan ran down a newly carved stair. Lily held the railing by habit, then let go and leapt the last two steps. She laughed at Evan's joke about a fish with three fins. Her laughter was thin, but pure.

"There you have it," Mirna said. "If you want to know what makes her laugh: this."

"I see," said Eirran.

He did not go to her. His wings stayed still, an offering of restraint.

"You're learning to walk," Mirna remarked, not a compliment, just fact.

"I am learning," he agreed. "And I'll hurry."

"Hurry," Jereh told him. "Children don't wait for long."

Eirran nodded, turned toward the newly mapped passage. He wanted to reach the Hall of Plans before the sun rose over the central circle and before Detren laid another obstacle.

Later that evening Eirran wrote a letter to Vareth V'Lorath, asking for a meeting, and wondered how large a bite V'Lorath would take from his hand.

The Lamp Hall of the Sixth House was cold and clear. Scents od ink and wax clung to the air. Eirran entered on foot, wings folded, steps too quiet. Keth followed a pace behind.

Vareth V'Lorath waited beneath a shaft of light. Tall in his gray long lliath, fingers stained with ink, wings partway faded to ash folded like parchment. His eyes held a light that envied flame.

"Venn V'Asanii," he said formally. "The Sixth House is told you seek tutors."

"I do," Eirran answered. "For two wards. Evan, son of Jereh Hamad. And Eilleah, under my protection."

The name trembled in the air.

"Eilleah," Vareth repeated, sour. "An Ilari name. Strange for a human child."

"The word light belongs to no blood," Eirran said.

"They say the girl is of mixed blood." Vareth drew a sheet and read: "The Book of the Condemned: 'An Ilar shall not lie with a human; if the fruit of sin is born, it is abomination before Ellevath. Cast it out, without mercy and without record.'" He lowered it. "Words not easily ignored."

A muscle near Eirran's nose twitched. His voice stayed steady.

"Doctrine, not law. Law is clear: Ilari and humans, nothing between. Law sees Eilleah as human. Her rights are human." His jaw set. "I ask only what is permitted."

"You ask too much," Vareth said coldly. "You ask us to educate a sin."

"I ask you to do your duty. This is courtesy, nothing more. Tutors by week's end. And Vareth," his hand dismissed the thought, "if anyone says 'mudborn,' the tutor goes. If they are pressed too hard, the tutor goes. Lessons must fit work and rest. Learning is not punishment."

Vareth glanced toward a terrace.

"Very well," he said at last. "Relah for language. Halden for number. Three days a week. No writing beyond the basics, as us customary for the mud..." He paused, then corrected himself . "Erm, humans of their status. The order is sealed tomorrow. You sign as house-bearer." - a pause - "And the name 'Eilleah' will not be written."

"What then?"

"'Prince's Ward.'"

Eirran didn't blink. He had expected him to pull some kind of caveat. "Write that. Names live on tongues, not boards."

The signet pressed wax. A lamp shuddered.

"As for abomination," Eirran said, "the Condemned warns. The Sixth guides, it does not avenge."

"We teach," Vareth muttered.

"Then teach," said Eirran. "Two children wait."

Above them, glass droplets on the chandelier chimed faintly as Keth took the scroll.

He turned. Keth followed, scroll secure. At the threshold, Vareth called again:

"If the girl... if she truly is..."

"The Sixth has its books," Eirran said. "I have my duty."

The lamps flickered, shadows tugging at the vault. Eirran felt the weight of every seal, every silence already bartered away. Each House had taken its token; each would come to collect again. And one day he would have to choose which cost to pay.

And when that day came, he feared the debt would not fall on him, but on her.