The stair led to the center of a great columned hall, vanishing into the distance both before and behind them. Awaiting them a few yards from the foot of the stair was a woman identical in shape to the mist-figure that had confronted them above. Her robes were a deep midnight blue, adorned with glittering stones connected by slender threads of gold to sketch out the shape of constellations. The longer one stared at it, the more it seemed those constellations moved and changed, just as the night sky will do if observed long enough. The hood that concealed her face was similarly adorned, but its fringe was also hung with charms similar to the ones that dangled from the brim of Ammas's hat. She leaned heavily on a polished wooden staff, though her reliance on it seemed to stem more from the crookedness of her back than any weakness in her legs or hips. Around her circled a trio of airy spirits, larger and more robust than the one in Ammas's silver cage.

"Doyenne Sulivar," Ammas said, bowing low and removing his hat. "I am pleased to see you are well." He straightened, unconsciously raking his fingers through his hair. "It has been far too long. If I may introduce my client -- "

"The Princess Carala of the House of Deyn, yes, I know her." Othma Sulivar slid back her hood with one gnarled hand, the charms jingling softly. Above those robes floated the hard and ancient face of a woman who had seen more than all six of them combined, one eye milked over with a cataract and the other bright blue and gimlet. A smile twisted her lips, revealing yellowed but strong teeth. Her hair might once have been blonde, twisted into a thick braid, but now it was a striated blend of straw and ivory, by turns brittle and wispy. "A Deyn has not set foot here since her brother burned our kinsmen alive. Let us see the others."

Rapping her staff on the stones, she marched along the group with astonishing swiftness. "Barthim of Siranesh. Vos of Nythel. Denisius Gallis Lord Marhollow. Do any of you understand the honor done to you by walking with this man?" She sneered, rapping her staff on the floor again, the sound a thundercrack that made them flinch. Ammas did not flinch, but his expression was inscrutable. Perhaps he was waiting for (or dreading) Barthim to correct Othma on the matter of Vos's name, but for a wonder the Beast held his tongue.

"The only one of you I do not know," Doyenne Sulivar said as she turned on her heel, gazing down at Casimir with a smile, "is this one. Apprenticed to you, is he?"

Ammas laid a hand on Casimir's shoulder. The boy looked immensely relieved at his master's touch. "He is, Doyenne Sulivar. And he has proved himself highly capable."

"Forgive me for not crouching down, my boy. What is your name?"

"Casimir, milady." His voice was stronger than Ammas expected, but he could hear a faint quaver in it.

Othma cackled. "Polite boy! But no lady, Casimir. You may call me Othma, if you like, as your master may. The rest of you will kindly be satisfied with Doyenne Sulivar, even if that title means nothing in these times." Her good eye lingered on Carala for a moment. Carala did not look away, though she could feel her cheeks flushing. "Come, all of you. I'm sure the journey has left you tired and hungry. I eat simply for I usually eat alone, but there should be plenty of stew for all of you, and fresh bread besides. We shall eat and talk, for I am sure Ammas has a fascinating reason for swearing himself to the House of Deyn."

"I have not sworn myself to the House of Deyn," Ammas said. His tone was mild but there was something fierce in his eyes. It seemed to amuse the Doyenne. "I have sworn myself to this woman, and her alone."

"Serve one and you serve them all, Ammas Mourthia. I hope you will bear this in mind."

"Interpret the vows as you will, Othma, and I will do likewise."

Doyenne Sulivar's good eye glowered at Ammas despite the smile that remained on her lips. Vos, Barthim, and Denisius all looked at each other uncomfortably; Casimir's eyes moved uneasily from his master to the Doyenne. Only Carala and Ammas kept their gazes firmly on Othma Sulivar. His expression was unfathomable as ever; hers betrayed barely controlled resentment. Ammas could warn her all he liked about remaining civil in front of this woman, but that didn't make it easier.

At last something seemed to break. That good eye seemed to grow misty, and with one withered hand the Doyenne caressed Ammas's cheek. "You are not an apprentice anymore, are you, Ammas?" She bent slightly to smile down at Casimir. "You watch, Casimir. He will always think of you as one, too. Now come. Undoubtedly Ammas will have many clever things to say about my cooking."

With that same shuffling yet rapid gait, Doyenne Sulivar moved past the stair, leading them toward the far end of this empty welcoming hall. They followed willingly enough, although each of them felt some level of unease. Ammas did not appear overly troubled, but he wondered how amenable Othma would really be to their situation. That she hadn't immediately demanded Carala's execution at his hand was something, he supposed. The Othma Sulivar he remembered would have been far too curious about her condition to be too concerned with her identity. But Othma had suffered at the hands of Carala's father as much as Ammas had himself, and he was not at all sure that she would be able -- or willing -- to overcome that hatred that had built up in her like a canker over the decades.

The hall narrowed at the far end, a set of intricately carved double doors opening onto a dimly lit but beautifully furnished study, rows of shelves creaking with enough books that in a place of lesser learning it might have been called a library. Half a dozen astrolabes, similar to Ammas's but in perfect condition, glittered in gold and silver on the shelves. Tapestries depicting various events in the life of Lady Terazla adorned the walls. An oval table ringed with threadbare but comfortable chairs was tucked into one corner of the room. Doyenne Sulivar indicated they should seat themselves, calling on Casimir to assist her in bringing the stew to the table.

"Go on, lad," Ammas murmured in his ear at the boy's anxious expression. "When a Doyenne requests an apprentice's aid, he's bound to give it to her."

Nodding and offering the Doyenne what he hoped was a brave smile, Casimir followed her, disappearing through a door nestled between a shelf and a tapestry. When neither of them returned after a few minutes, Vos leaned over to Barthim and muttered, "What do you suppose the chances are that she's cooking him?"

"Be still," Ammas said sharply, cutting off Barthim's laughter before it could begin.

"She hates me, doesn't she?" Carala whispered to him. She had seated herself between him and Denisius, the opposite side of the table empty, dominated by a chair both larger and more cushioned than its fellows. Ammas shook his head.

"She hates the House of Deyn. She has her reasons." A sad smile creased his lips as he met her worried gaze. "As do I. If I could see past that, I believe she might too. Just remember to respect her. Don't try to win her over with flattery, or pretend to be weak. Just -- just be Carala," he finished lamely. He was thinking of that moment beneath Munazyr, hissing in her ear to remember her strength and the strength of her house, how she had felt against him with the smell of the un-blooded wolf in his nose.

Denisius watched them both, taking her hand and squeezing it reassuringly. Carala smiled at Lord Marhollow, but it was a sorry effort.

Casimir returned bearing a great stewpot in both hands, a savory steam following along with him. A tray stacked with bowls and spoons and ladles was balanced atop it. Behind him shuffled Othma, her airy spirits circling her like a floating honor guard.

"Help him with that, would you, big fellow?" Barthim was only too happy to pitch in, seizing the stewpot and setting it firmly in the middle of the table, distributing the crockery and tableware with a finesse suited for the finest tavern. "Now the two of you -- Casimir, show him where the kitchen is -- go and fetch us the drinks. The boy can't carry the casks, but I'm sure you can."

Barthim complied not only cheerfully, but with a bow. Ammas felt a rueful smile on his lips. Othma Sulivar seemed to have inspired a deference in the Beast he himself had certainly never managed.

Once they were all settled with bowls of stew and mugs of ale (a soft cider for Casimir), they began to eat with relish. Their supplies had been down to bare bones by the time they arrived, and this was the closest thing to fresh meat they'd had in a week. The stew proved to be lamb and vegetables in a dark broth Barthim couldn't praise enough.

"The stock, Doyenne Sulivar, it is being very rich, very flavorful, it is reminding me of something I had as a boy. What are you using?"

"Stout," Othma replied, sopping up a healthy portion of her own stew with a heel of bread. "There are some casks of it back in the kitchen if you're of a mind to drink it instead of eat it."

Barthim looked delighted. "But this is a Siraneshi recipe!"

Othma nodded, a crooked smile revealing some of her yellowed teeth. "As Siraneshi as I am."

"But Sulivar? This is no Siraneshi name."

"My husband's. He died before the dissolution."

Barthim straightened in his seat with a look of respect on his face that veered into awe. "Forgive me, Doyenne Sulivar. Ammas did not tell me I would be dining with a Witch Queen of the Siranesh."

Doyenne Sulivar fixed Barthim with her good eye. "And why do you call me such? Do you think I cavort naked under the moonlight? Do you think I sit and listen to foolish lovers and tell them what stars to sit under while they pine for each other? Do you think I sing idiot songs to gods who don't listen? What use have I for the gods, who turned their faces from me when I needed them most?" Sourly she tore her bread in two, dipping one half into the broth. "Don't presume to understand who or what I am, Barthim of Siranesh. You are aiding my student. You are in the service of a man I respect and love. I am no superstitious mountain woman of your homeland. I am a Doyenne of the Academies Arcane. That is all you can claim to know. Of me you know nothing."