The two Citizens carried the basin of holy wine into the ring at the center of the Hall of the Sixteen. Each of their measured steps into the circle of speakers was accompanied by the beat of a drum. The sixteen heads of the high nobility sat on their thrones around them, watching as the procession reached the Well of the Word in the center.

  The elegant glass sculpture stood as tall as a man—an hourglass meant for water, not sand. One citizen kneeled toward where he had come from, offering a silver ladle in supplication to the eyes glinting in the firelight that reached the corridor.

  The eyes were too high. Too big.

  The other one moved the basin next to her fellow Citizen. She stood tall and spoke the sacral words with a confidence few would show in the face of such assembled power.

  “May the Gods that delivered the Flame bless the Patriarchs and Matriarchs of the Great Clans!”

  The sixteen figures, all robed in blues and lavenders, rose from the Thrones of the Houses.

  “May the guests witnessing the Council be bound to reverence before the glory of Pella!”

  The visitors in the Circles of Steps kneeled on their benches.

  “May the sacred Chronoaqua guide the Logos towards virtue!” Her voice shivered with the ecstasy that glittered in her eyes.

  She took a deep breath. I can do this.

  “Let the High Priestess echo the beat of our hearts!”

  In time with the drums, all present—except the two Citizen-bearers—struck their fists onto their chests.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  A melody began humming out from the dark corridor. A song of the ancient homeland, its lyrics long forgotten.

  Thumping. Humming. Silence. They pressed down like gravity.

  The eyes in the dark came closer.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  The glitter of citrines and rubies painted the outline of a towering colossus, cloaked in reverent darkness. The outline grew clearer. A black void carved out in flaming gemstones emerged from a lesser darkness.

  The faces of those in the hall set into solemn reverence. Despite their best efforts, both Citizens shuddered. Meeting her was like standing at the edge of a myth.

  The melody shifted, becoming multitonal as the heads of the clans joined in. The woman saw the stiffer posture of the man offering the ladle to the dark figure.

  Then, a glint of white. Two tusks emerged from the dark.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  The figure entered the hall. A robe that seemed to eat light was contrasted by thousands of gemstones simulating fire, consuming the titanic body. Its arms were nearly the width of a woman’s torso. Tusks, trunk, and tremendous ears completed the appearance of the High Priestess of the Founding Flame.

  The lone-standing woman felt an overwhelming urge to prostrate herself like all the others. But I am the Speaker. I must stand proud for the Polis.

  The towering figure stopped before the silver circle in the ground. Her voice was slow and resonant—not booming, but deeper and more voluminous than any human could speak. “The Genus Loci of Pella judges this an auspicious occasion.”

  The singing and drums died precisely on the last word.

  The Speaker could feel the ground tremble slightly as the Hyphant moved toward her. She clenched her hand into a fist to stop the shaking. She speaks to the Gods. And now to me.

  The black and red pillar of a person stood before her fellow ceremonial servant.

  “I thank you, Citizen, for the ladle,” the rumble was soft and deep. Her eyes were deep pools of brown and black. “Is it as freely given as your allegiance?”

  The man took a shuddering breath. “It is, High Priestess.”

  Then it was her turn.

  The High Priestess turned with the inevitability of a rockslide and offered her the ladle. “I thank you, Citizen, for the wine. Is it as freely given as your allegiance?”

  She closed her eyes. I must be confident. If I stutter…

  “It is, High Priestess.” With that, she filled the ladle with the golden quince wine. Keeping her hand steady, she returned the ladle.

  With the deliberate movement of long practice, the High Priestess moved it to her mouth and drank.

  She let out a contented sigh. The Citizens almost joined her. In the Mother's name, I need to control myself.

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  The rumble of the High Priestesses voice filled the hall with a new melody. “Under the Infinite Eye, in the Woven Threads and within the Smith’s Halls, let this be a joyous entry into the Bookworm Chronicles.”

  The Priestess took a deep breath, then proclaimed in a thunderous voice:

  “The Council of Sixteen is in session on the matter of the Champion’s Mentor!”

  She accepted the ladle back and refilled it. The High Priestess walked backward out of the circle and sat down on a stool at the entrance of the corridor, burning backless before the darkness watching over all.

  Her male counterpart stood up and turned around the hall. “Who will open the debate and drink the second ladle?”

  He looked over the heads of the high nobility, then over each rank of observers in turn.

  A sharp voice sliced through the reverent silence, immediately pulling every gaze toward its speaker. “I, Grandmaster Aurelia Hellionis Ultima, Sacred Matriarch of the Sixteen for House Hellionis, will drink from the Well of Virtue.”

  Her presence radiated authority as she rose, eyes glittering with confident intent.

  One by one, the Matriarchs and Patriarchs thumped their fists onto their torsos. Until, at last, only a bold and wrinkled man remained. Slowly, his foot rose off the ground.

  The Citizen widened her eyes. Has the Matriarch just rolled her eyes?

  The Patriarch smirked and thumped his fist.

  “The quorum has been reached.” Her fellow speaker turned to the Matriarch. “With the full quorum, you may step into the circle.”

  The small, wiry woman stepped forward with the certainty of a panther, making the Speaker flinch a bit. Even she could feel the aura of the Grandmaster before her.

  Two lavender strings glowed on her medallion. A clear provocation to those who would stop an Infomancer from rising toward the ranks of the Sages. The sheer arrogance and callousness made the Speaker’s blood run cold.

  Her male counterpart emptied the ladle into the Chronoaqua—sculpture and clock in one. The first drop fell with a melodic cling.

  The Matriarch scanned the hall.

  “Aaron Blackwell—or,” she paused with a predatory smile, “Aaron Hellionis Ultima Melas, as he is now named—requires a firm and steady hand on his shoulder.”

  Murmurs of agreement arose from her peers. Nodding, she continued.

  “He has shown wisdom by adopting into our family. For only Clan, Family, and Word will keep vultures away. The Prophetic War and the fate of the first two cannot be repeated. For the doom of an Edict approaches the Polis.”

  The word ‘Edict’ hung like a blade mid-fall, its shadow crawling across every face. No one met her gaze. Only expressions that had grown serious at the mention of the Edict met her stare.

  “Yes. For the sake of stability, and in the honored tradition of Word and Clan, I lay my claim down on mentoring the Champion through the Academy.”

  She stopped speaking and drew forth the chalice that had collected the wine. Her speech had been timed perfectly. The Speaker nodded and accepted the ladle.

  “Who will continue the debate and drink the third ladle?” she intoned the holy words, trying not to flush.

  A gruff voice rose sharply, interrupting the murmurs of agreement. Grandmaster Cahon Noctales Ultima, who moments ago had almost denied quorum, stood with purposeful defiance.

  “I, Grandmaster Cahon Noctales Ultima, Archmage of Infernomancy and Expert of Thermomancy, Sacred Patriarch of Clan Noctales, will drink from the Well of Virtue.”

  Right before the female Speaker turned around to him, she saw the scowl on the Hellionis Matriarch’s face. This bodes ill. And I am in the middle of it.

  She turned to the Patriarch of Clan Noctales. Thump by thump, fists fell.

  Then, from the direction of the Matriarch, the first stomp could be heard. Three more followed from the most prominent Conservationists.

  She took a deep breath. I can do this. They are in conflict with each other. They don’t even notice me.

  “With partial quorum, you may step into the circle.”

  The man’s broad smile was eerie as he stepped over the silver line. She tore her gaze off him, put a new chalice into the Chronoaqua, and poured the wine into the sculpture.

  The old Grandmaster spoke with a sneer.

  “This is the time.”

  He swept the circle with a predator’s gaze.

  “The time for decisive action. The time Pella unites the Dorians under the banner of Divine Providence. Too long has cowardice held back that which must be done.”

  The previous stompers began stamping again and were answered by the thumping of fists. A thundering blast filled the hall.

  The Hyphant High Priestess lowered her trunk. “There will be order in the hall.”

  The Patriarch bowed at his hips. “I thank the High Priestess of the Founding Flame.”

  He turned back. The Speaker stood stock still next to the Chronoaqua, her heart pounding as sweat ran down her back.

  Why me? In front of the Sixteen. In front of her.

  “As I was saying, the time for strength has come. And no one but a Sage is better suited to bring strength to a student than my great-grandson.”

  He lifted his arms slightly as he announced the name.

  “Magister Charos Noctales Ultima—Archmage of Verimancy and Noomancy. Expert in the rarest disciplines: Nucleaomancy, Condesomancy, Pathomancy. Junior President of the Institute of Thaumaturgy, knows what a young student needs to excel in the arcane and mundane arts better than any of us relics.”

  He gestured in the direction of the Matriarch, who sniffed in anger.

  He pointed into the first rank of the audience.

  “I request my grandson be granted this honor for the good of the Polis. I nominate him to speak after the other honored elders.”

  The last drop of white fell.

  The Patriarch bowed to the High Priestess and walked up to her. She felt her breath quicken as the arcane pressure of the man settled onto her. She bowed her head as he handed over the chalice to the leader of the Expansionists.

  His smile seemed genuine. Has he just won a victory against the Conservationists?

  The male Speaker raised his voice again. “Who will continue the debate and drink the forth ladle?”

  “I, Odessis Albastis Ultima, Sacred Patriarch of Clan Albastis, will drink from the Well of Virtue.”

  Instantly, the Noctales stomped his foot. Several of his Expansionist allies followed an instant later.

  Then, two further stomps were added.

  The stomps rang out—seven at first. Then, one by one, like gunshots in court, fists thumped. Her breath caught. The Abolitionists were making a move.

  Yet, only seven stomps could be heard. Then, one by one, fists thumped. The last came from the smiling Hellionis Matriarch.

  “With partial quorum, you may step into the circle,” she said, voice trembling slightly.

  Instead of stepping forward, Patriarch Albastis paused, his expression darkening dangerously. In a single, swift movement, he drew a knife, its blade glinting ominously in the firelight. Gasps rippled across the hall.

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