Chapter 87

My father called his council on the fourth morning after I said my name, and this time he spoke first.

I had used my voice very little in those four days. Issen had forbidden it, and then, seeing my face, had amended the order sparingly, which she said was a healer’s word for I know you won’t listen. It still came out like a nail across a stone. It caught on the hard letters and cracked on the soft ones, and by evening it went to a thread. I spent it the way my grandmother had spent good paper: only on what had to be written, and nothing twice.

So I had said Mist to Mist, who put her ears back at the sound and then forward, and blew into my collar for a long time. And I had said nothing at all to the mark on the back of my neck, though it had been warm every night since the harp.

***

The council room was as it had been: the living wood coming up through the floor, the high-backed chairs, the light lying across the table in bars. They gave me the