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P 
rologue 
Start with the bells There were always the bells
Late summer air, heat-hazed, thick, and sticky, clung to Kolan's skin.Through the wide, arched window the Arason Church gardens spread out inshades of green, white, and gold: there a row of midseason peas; over further,lines of summerbeans; another, taller section was corn tasselling into a frayed,delicious mess.His mouth watered as he looked out at that last item.The resonant
braummm
of the Arason Church bells, marking two hours be-fore noon, jarred him out of his drowsy survey of the gardens. It was hard tokeep a contented contemplation of anything going for long, with those thingssounding o seemingly every time one relaxed. It hadn't been so bad out onthe edges of town, where Kolan had grown up; but here, especially in thisroom, the bells always made his teeth vibrate t to fall out of his mouth. Notrelaxing at
all
.But then, as
sio
Dernhain would have said, Kolan wasn't
supposed
to berelaxing. He was supposed to be working at learning to write clean copy. Re-luctantly, he brought his aention back to the parchment in front of him.
 An Accounting of the Life of Tenedal
 , it read.
Head Priest of the Arason Branch of theNorthern Church, d1090-1111
. He studied the graceful writing without enthu-siasm, then reached for the quill.With delicate care, he copied the line, his writing stark and clumsy com-
 
16
Leona Wisoker
pared to the sample above it. A large blot marked every other leer. He sighed,set the quill aside again, and looked out at the pale blue sky. A large horseyraled by, circling, searching for a place to sele; Kolan sent it spinning backout the window with a well-aimed slap and a silent apology to the Four.
Harm no living creature, from beetle to boy
: one of the Holy Creeds that Kolanrecited, alongside a dozen other novices, every morning.
 All have their placesand purposes in the eyes of the gods
What purpose a horsey or tick had, Kolan couldn't begin to guess. Evensio Ense, the gentlest of the Arason Church
siopes
 , had admied to dicultywith that one.“Perhaps,” he'd said thoughtfully, “it's enough to merely
understand
thatone is doing wrong, and be as gentle as possible in removing the oendingcreature from one's person. It's very dicult not to slap a stinging insect awayfrom one, and it's very dicult to avoid harm to the insect when removing atick or mosquito.”Solian, on the other hand, laughed at Kolan for being concerned overinsects.“They're
bugs
 ,” he always said, usually as he was squashing a beetle un-derfoot. “There are hundreds and hundreds of them, Kolan! They give birth todozens more every few days. We'll be
overrun
if all we do is shoo them gentlyoutside. The gods don't care about
bugs
. They care about
us
. Otherwise the bugs would be running the world, not humans.”Even though Solian was only a novice, like Kolan himself, and
sio
Ense afull senior priest, Kolan couldn't quite decide who was more right.The heavy tramp of many booted feet on stone echoed through the win-dow to Kolan's le, the one that looked out over the main courtyard. Kolanwavered, biting his lip, but stayed stubbornly put. Curiosity wasn't any part ofhis duties at the moment.
Sio
Dernhain had been specic:
Not for anything less
than a fre do you leave that seat and stop your practicing,
he'd said.
When you canwrite a line without a blot, you can get up Until then, you
sleep
at that desk!Sio
Dernhain wasn't particularly noted for his kindness, compassion, orpatience.Kolan looked at the blotchy copy line and grimaced. This was going to bea long day.A thin, wavering shriek oated up from the courtyard. People beganshouting. Kolan stood, then sat, then stood again. He made two steps towardthe courtyard window, then retreated to the stool, clenching his hands infrustration.Another of the Creeds came to mind:
Obedience to the gods requires a cleanheart and a dedication to one's given tasks Seek not the chaos of the world outside, butbe content with the inner truth and strength the gods will always give to those whotruly seek it
Kolan sighed deeply and picked up the quill. His next aempt only hadfour blotches, which counted in his mind as encouraging progress.Outside, people shouted and bellowed. He resolutely shut his ears to ev-erything and bent over his work.
Seek not the chaos of the world outside
Two blotches. Maybe he could produce a clean line before the commotiondied down, and sneak a look out the window as a reward.
 
Bells of the Kingdom
17
The next line had so many blotches as to be nearly illegible.
Dedication toone's given tasks
He scowled at the paper and forced himself to slow down.Pay aention. Focus.
Dedication
.Each slight curve seemed to take forever, each loop an eternity of care.Nothing existed except the quill, the paper, the ink, the motion.He put the nal stop at the end and sat back, blinking:
 perfect
. He'd done it.Not a single smear or blot. He put the quill aside and looked toward the court-yard window, but didn't climb from the stool. The air hung heavy and silent;whatever had happened, it had nished already. There wouldn't be anythingto see.
Seek not the chaos of the world outside
He studied his copy line, compared itto the original; his version was distinctly clumsier. He reached for the quill,cleaned it carefully, then dipped it back into the ink and began again.Some time later, Dernhain said, from a scant step behind him, “Not bad,
sannio
.”Kolan jerked, startled from a near-trance. He barely managed to avoidknocking the ink pot over, but the quill ew from his hand and claered ontothe oor.Dernhain covered his broad face with one hand and sighed heavily as Ko-lan scrambled to retrieve the quill.“Never mind,” he said in answer to Kolan's stammered apologies. “
Sionno
 
Hagair wants to see you. Now.”“Now?” Kolan looked down at his inkstained ngers.“Now,” Dernhain said. “Hurry up. There's someone in his oce that wantsto talk to you.”Kolan stared, bewildered. Dernhain's glare le no room for questions.
“Go!”
He ran.
Sionno
Hagair's oce always seemed, to Kolan, far too small to accommo-date not only the man himself, but the massive piles of
stu 
that accumulatedon the black oak desk. Bound books and piles of precious paper formed onethick tower; bags of mysterious powders and granular substances another tall,sloppy heap. One handwoven mesh bag held what had to be over a hundredglass balls, variously colored and sized.Kolan tried to avoid looking at that bag. They
had
been his marbles, theonly thing from home he'd been allowed to retain when he entered the novi-tiate.
Sio
Dernhain had objected that the small glass toys were far too valuableand constituted a novice holding unacceptable wealth;
sionno
Hagair, aersome thought, and to Kolan's everlasting gratitude, had rmly overriddenDernhain.Seeing his marbles here still sent a dull, embarrassed ache through his
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