Fortney spun slowly, circling her arms gracefully. She stretched her left foot out in front of her and brought it around in a smooth circle, setting it behind her. She gently shifted her weight back and brought her arms up overhead, arching her back.

  Rashid Sarimel, the Master of Dance, nodded, clapping his withered hands in time as Fortney moved gracefully. He was bent and old, with a shock of white beard protruding from his face and the bare dome of his head shining in the sunlight.

  "Yes, very good," he said, his voice thin and reedy. "You have learned well the Water Form." His wrinkled face bunched up in a grin. "You have a natural grace. It reminds me of the festivals of my youth." He sighed and shuffled over to the cane seat, settling himself gingerly. "When we had festivals in the palace, hundreds would dance, like a glorious garden, spinning with their silks, a thousand flowers of Namar?n opened to the sun." He smiled, lost in his thoughts. "Few today learn the traditional dances. It is a shame."

  Fortney stood and bowed.

  "I thank you for your teaching, mo'allem."

  Rashid, his eyes still fixed on the dances of his memory, nodded, absently dismissing her. Fortney walked out of the dance hall.

  Kadir stood outside, his eyes ceaselessly roving up and down the halls, watchful for danger.

  "I am ready for my next lesson, Kadir," she said shortly.

  Without looking at her, he nodded and gestured for her to lead the way. He followed, his gaze piercing every nook and shadow as they walked.

  "What lesson do you now attend?" he asked, his eyes never resting. "Will you return to the Master of Horse this afternoon?"

  Fortney walked for a while without answering, lost in thought.

  "No," she said finally. "I will return to the sanat-magi. I have not taken lesson with them since--in a while. I should not neglect my studies there, despite that I have no talent for their Power."

  A strange look crossed Kadir's face as he followed, a mix of relief and pride. But he said nothing as he followed the princess out of the palace proper and across the courtyard toward the temple.

  They entered the temple, traveling the long, dark hallway as it dipped below the ground. The ghastly murals danced in the fitful torchlight. Fortney kept her eyes forward and walked firmly, filled with purpose.

  "I am here to learn from the sanat-magi Zamiran," she said to the acolytes flanking the temple entrance. Kadir took his position outside.

  Soon, Zamiran the priest arrived.

  "Mo'allem," Fortney said, bowing. "In our last lesson I was rude, and I disrespected you in your masul, your domain. I ask that you please forgive me and teach me, in spite of my childish ways."

  Zamiran glanced at Kadir, then nodded solemnly back at her.

  "The sanat-magi are always ready to teach the Shazedah," he said in his grave, slow voice.

  "The Shazedah is ready to learn," she said, her face still pointed at the floor. "I will not again denigrate your teachings."

  "Then come." He led her deeper into the temple.

  The stopped in a room she recognized: the library. Great, tall racks with square sections covered the walls, filled with scrolls. Halls branched off further in, with more scrolls, bearing the knowledge of the ages of Namar?n. The light was dim, with only a few small lamps on tables, to limit the risk of fire.

  "What does the Shazedah wish to learn?" he asked.

  "I will learn whatever mo'allem teaches."

  Zamiran nodded.

  "As the future ruler of Namar?n, it is important to understand all aspects of the kingdom." He thought for a minute, then nodded to himself. "I will teach you why the sanat-magi exist." He drew her further in to the library. He reached up and drew down a handful of scrolls from various shelves. He led her to a table and unrolled them. A musty smell arose from the thin, crackling paper as he unrolled with one hand and rolled with the other, moving the text along the table. Finally he stopped at a crude drawing of giants striding through a hilly area. Spidery, incomprehensible text was scratched below the drawing.

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  "Uncountable long years ago," he said, "before there was a kingdom of Namar?n, the gods and their champions walked about on the earth. They built great cities and did many wondrous works. This was the golden age of the world." He scrolled further over, and small figures appeared among the giants. "They aided and guided mankind, teaching them all that we now know. How to grow grains. How to raise animals. How to build houses, find water, navigate the river. Legends tell that they taught us many other things, knowledge that we no longer possess. The manner of flying. Means of talking across vast distances. Ways to touch the stars."

  He scrolled more. The pictures grew grimmer. Hills lay shattered, lightning fell, and giants arched in twisted agony, some lying on the ground.

  "The great Heart of Power pulses in the east. The gods tapped into this, drinking deeply of it. Many desired it solely for themselves. This led to the battle that we know today as the First Catastrophe of Namar?n."

  Fortney nodded. "The war of the gods."

  "Much that we knew, much that we were was lost in the First Catastrophe." More scrolling showed a broken, desolate wasteland. "The gods realized that their war would destroy all mankind, so they left, and took their champions with them."

  "The Departure," Fortney said quietly.

  "The Second Catastrophe of Namar?n, yes. Yet when they sundered themselves from our world, they left behind the Heart of Power, and its essence began to leach out into the world." More scrolling, and a figure appeared, surrounded by an aura. "Without the gods consuming it, this essence settled on men. Some could absorb it. These became the first sanat-magi. The first Powers were simple and crude. As we have studied them over the centuries, we have learn to refine and divide them."

  "So all the Catastrophes of Namar?n were caused by the gods?"

  Zamiran shook his head and unrolled the scroll some more. The figure from the previous image was now crouched on the ground, wailing in agony.

  "If only it were so, there would only be two Catastrophes. The rest were caused by the Heart of Power."

  "How so?"

  "There is a terrible cost to containing the essence." He bowed his head respectfully. "Man was not meant to contain such Power. Use too much, and he becomes nap?u, Power-rotted. This is the source of every Catastrophe since the Departure."

  "So then why do we allow sanat-magi at all? Why not get rid of them so there can never be another Catastrophe?"

  Zamiran grinned nervously. "It is not so simple, Shazedah," he said. "Some today are still born with the curse of Power. No man chooses the Power. It chooses him."

  Fortney frowned at the scroll.

  "Then we could kill them as they're discovered."

  "But if all sanat-magi were killed, who would discover those who are born with the Power? Only a sanat-magi can discover another sanat-magi."

  "Oh. I thought you were mostly teachers and healers," she said.

  Zamiran cleared his throat. He was sweating slightly more than usual.

  "The sanat-magi do teach the people. We tell them the little that we know of the times of the gods. But we also seek out those that have been afflicted with the Power. We take them in, guide them. Contain them, if they have not the strength of mind to withstand the power."

  "Why guide them? Why not simply refuse to teach them? Wouldn't that avoid any future Catastrophe?" she asked.

  Zamiran's face drew in. "The Power-stricken have a difficult life. They must use the power. The voices of the gods speak constantly. They demand the power be used. If the unfound cannot use the Power..." He scrolled further. "They lose themselves." An image of a madman appeared on the scroll. He had a knife in one hand and flames issued from his mouth. Fortney recoiled. "The voices of the gods shriek into their ears, but they have no means to silence them."

  "So if they don't use the Power, they go mad, and if they use too much, they become Power-rotted."

  "It is as you say, Shazedah. The peak the sanat-magi stand on is narrow and treacherous. The more powerful he is, the narrower the peak."

  Fortney kept her gaze fixed on the scroll, the image of a flashing knife and Rahima's cry replaying in her mind.

  "We try to find all the Power-stricken, Shazedah," he said as she stared at the scroll. "We have the testing for each child when they come of age, but some miss it. Some parents are unfaithful, and do not know. Some are from far in the provinces, and we have no good way to get to them, nor they to us. Some bloom late. There are many gaps."

  Fortney wanted to turn away from the unsettling image, but she forced herself to look at it.

  "Is it possible for someone to learn the secrets of the sanat-magi on their own?"

  Zamiran paused and looked thoughtful. He bowed to her again.

  "I do not believe so, Shazedah," he said gravely. "It would take a man of exceptional wisdom and strength and focus of mind. Even with guidance, it takes many years of discipline to control the Powers. The first sanat-magi discovered how to control the Power, but only at the cost of many lives. No man, to my knowledge, has done it on his own."

  Fortney strode out of the temple and Kadir fell in behind her.

  "Did you have a good lesson, Shazedah?" he asked.

  She walked in thoughtful silence for a time.

  "It was enlightening," she said finally. "I understand better now the testing, and... and some things that happened in the past."

  The emerged into the bright sunlight. Fortney scowled at the harsh sun that forced her to squint.

  "It pleases me to hear this," Kadir said.

  Fortney spared some of her scowl for him.

  "Why does this please you?"

  "I have been idle in my training hall," Kadir said. "With no one to teach in the recent months, I fear my skills are growing rusty. I am considering taking a student."

  Fortney pulled up short and stared at him with wide eyes. Her face nearly hid the turmoil and hope that suddenly roiled within her. She bowed low before him.

  "I know of someone!" she said stiffly. "A humble student who would benefit greatly from your teachings!"

  "Oh?" he said. "A student of mine would need to be diligent and respectful. A student of mine would need to keep up with her other studies and treat the other mo'allem honorably. A student of mine would need to be more than a fighter. She would need to be a student of all aspects of life."

  "She will," Fortney said, her face still low and her voice hoarse. "I swear it."

  Kadir grinned.

  "Then you should tell her to apply at the training hall," he said, "and we will see if she is fit to be a student."

  "I will," Fortney said.