Chaven had been long troubled by the loss of what seemed an entire day of his recollections, perhaps more. He had been in Funderling Town on a Skyday, he knew, then had set out for the temple on a Winds-day, but had not reached the temple until Firesday-an entire day and more missing. In truth, he remembered only a little of his time in Funderling Town well, and could no longer recall even the errand that had taken him there. Chaven knew that it had seemed important when he decided to go, so it was more than strange he should not remember it now. It frightened him.

This was not the first time he had lost track in such a way. For several days before Winter's Eve, the night Princess Briony had fled Southmarch with Shaso, he had been gone from the castle, or at least from his house in the outer keep, but he couldn't remember where he had gone that time, either.

Looking again at the cavern before him, at the vast sprawl of huddled, mostly silent shapes, eyes glowing in the shadows like foxfire, he quietly asked Antimony, "If all we are is in our thoughts, how can a man know if he is going mad?"

The young monk was silent for a long time. He was large for one of his folk, but the top of his head was still a hand's breadth below Chaven's shoulder; when he spoke, his voice seemed to rise up from the stony floor, as if the cavern itself was speaking.

"He cannot know. Nor can a king, I suppose… which is what they say of this autarch, that he is a madman. In fact, as I think on it, Chaven, even a god might not know whether he had lost his wits, if he lost 'em."

"And thank you, Antimony," the physician said. "You have given me even more to worry on." He hoped he sounded more amused than he felt.

"I do not mean to be rude," Ferras Vansen began, "but Funderlings-and taller men, too-are not as patient as your people. Your mistress set an hour for the council to take place, and yet not only has she not come, she has not sent word as to why. Hours are passing. People grow worried."