The Shifter by Janice Hardy

around before slipping inside. My footsteps echoed in the marble hall, forcing me to an embarrassed tiptoe. The low ceiling loomed above me, reminding me to show proper respect to the Seven Sisters. The builders had sure done their job, ’cause by the time the hall opened into the domed centrum, I wouldn’t have spoken above a whisper if the room were on fire.
    I crossed the geometric flower gracing the middle of the room—six overlapping circles centered under a seventh. The glazed tiles sparkled even in the weak light from the arched windows. Curved wooden benches radiated outward, two rows facing each of seven alcoves, in which statues of the Seven Sisters stood, staring with blank eyes.
    On the left, Saint Moed had her twin swords crossed above her head, though she’d done nothing to defend Geveg against the Duke when we needed her. Beside her, Saint Vergeef had one hand in a basket of pears, the other outstretched in offering. Cruel when so many went hungry. Saint Erlice had the smug look of one who never told a lie, not even to make someone feel better.
    The right side wasn’t any better. Saint Vertroue planted her staff in the marble block at her feet, both hands gripping it and daring anyone to try to get past her. So much for her fortitude. Many had passed her, and she’d never once pulled her staff from the stone to stop them. Saint Gedu patiently leaned against her alcove, clearly in no hurry to save anybody from anything. Saint Malwe smiled modestly, lids and eyes cast down as if embarrassed to have folks worshipping at her feet.
    In the center of the six was Saint Saea, hands open as if apologizing. The mother of mercy, the grannyma of “sorry it had to turn out this way,” the one who made you think that this time it would be different.
    Saints and sinners, this was the creepiest place in Geveg. All those blank eyes watching and judging you, even though they did nothing when people needed help. I couldn’t help but wonder what they saw in me.
    I grabbed a seat by Saint Saea between an old man with far too much hair in his ears and a box of water-soaked prayer books. Shame, ’cause I could have used a prayer.
    So I made one up.
Please let Tali be okay. Please let her be off at a heal call, standing in the bedroom of a snooty Baseeri aristocrat who thinks he’s too good to go to the League. Please let me be wrong about the fancy men.
    Uneven footsteps echoed behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder. No fancy men, just a bent and twisted woman who had no reason to think the Saints cared. Another dumb soul like me, hoping for answers. If she could remember her prayers, maybe she’d find some. I closed my eyes and the murmured words of others drifted to me, gentle reminders of what I used to say when I was small, and Tali smaller.
Saint Saea, Sister of Compassion, hear my prayer.
    Nothing else came. I sighed and prayed from the heart.
Bless me with the wisdom to find Tali. Guide me to a fancy man who…who knows what I need to know. Give me the strength to choke it out of him if I have to.
    I winced. Maybe I should have asked Saint Moed that part.
    The polished white face of Saint Saea kept staring over my head, making sure no one walked into the room too loud. Footsteps rose, then fell quiet again.
    And still she stared.
    “You never listen,” I mumbled, sliding forward to kick the statue where her shins would have been. It left a muddy green-gray smear on her marble robe.
    The hairy old man harrumphed at me and scooted farther down the bench.
    I hung my head, hands in my tangled hair. Why had I let Aylin go to the League? She wasn’t going to find out anything Enzie hadn’t, and she might get into trouble herself. If no one outside the League noticed missing apprentices, they sure wouldn’t notice if one dancer vanished.
    My guts said only one person could tell me where Tali was, and if I couldn’t find that yellow-green sneak, then I’d make sure he found me. He’d seen me near Danello’s