Syrina got to Ormo’s Hall just before sunrise the next morning. She was n***d, nothing but a passing glimmer in the fading darkness. Triglav perched on her shoulder, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again, talons clinging but not breaking the skin. Ormo was late, so she took the liberty of sitting in his Seat while she waited for him.
An hour later, her Ma’is emerged from the hidden door under his dais, and she wondered for the thousandth time what was under there. He looked surprised to find her sitting on his throne, as much as she could tell how he felt about anything as she peered under his hood at the black and white checkerboard of squares, circles, and triangles painted on his face. She saw his gaze wander to Triglav as he mounted the stairs, but it was proba
