Every unmarried girl between fifteen and twenty-five was corralled into the palace's outer courtyard. Farm girls from the green hills and pastures beyond Oran's walls stood cheek by jowl with wealthy merchant children huddled with their friends and sisters to keep the poorer girls' rags from brushing up against their silk gowns. The courtyard's gardens added cloying aromas of jasmine and hyacinth to the prevailing odor of fear.

The king and queen, accompanied by Flenn Illymium and several of Scipio's henchmen including Dolceto Davadas, stood on the large, first-floor balcony looking down at the frightened Oran girls.

The warm, humid air was tense. No one was happy to witness the spectacle, except for the Nazeers, who watched from a balcony two stories above. Their ruddy faces gleamed with anticipation at the suffering of an Oran citizen.

A Wol had died within Oran's walls. Therefore, an Oran girl must take her place.

To prove his commitment to fairness, Scipio Davadas added to the great clay pot the eligible girls from his household: Starlex, Carmelle, even his daughter, Tylla. While in their private chambers, Hyperia had become hysterical at the thought that Tylla could be chosen for the horrible fate of becoming a Wol, to have her raven tresses shaved, to live out her life in the Weir wasteland, barren and dressed in rags.

Scipio had sent for wine, and when Hyperia had calmed down, he explained to her that without the gesture of equality, he would never maintain peace within the Four Corners, especially the vengeful Nazeers who still smarted from their defeat at Mynimium.

Hyperia, at last, gave in, and when she watched her husband drop Tylla's name into the pot among the others, she shut her eyes tightly and prayed to Illym to spare her daughter.

Flenn Illyminum placed all the names of the Oran girls into the clay pot, lifted it between his long, slim fingers, and shook it vigorously.

A hush fell over the crowd, some of the girls nearly fainting in anticipation. Some caught the eye of the boy they loved and prayed they would soon be delivered from their imprisonment back to his arms.

If Illym spares me, some prayed, I will give up my virginity tonight. Marriage or no marriage.

Starlex prayed, too. Her fingers steepled beneath her pointed chin.

Whatever fate Illym has chosen for me, please let it not be a Wol. I will never find the love I crave in the steaming bogs of the Weir.

Starlex and Tylla were pressed together shoulder to shoulder in the same corral with the other girls. Tylla shifted her sandaled feet impatiently as if her being chosen as a Wol wasn't a possibility, that if by chance her name was drawn, somehow her mother would fix it. She always did. Less confident was Carmelle, whose white face bore the pall of a condemned prisoner about to mount the gallows.

At last, Flenn finished stirring the pot. The court musicians quickened the tempo of the drumbeat, adding to the tension. With a nod from the king, Flenn reached into the pot and retrieved a name. The drumming stopped abruptly.

The crowd held its collective breath. Flenn Illymium took several steps to the edge of the balcony and announced to the congregation, "The chosen name is Carmelle Nazeer."

Gasps of relief merged with cries of sorrow.

"No," Tylla cried as Carmelle collapsed, sobbing into her arms. She gently set Carmelle on the ground, broke from the corral of girls, some of whom were sobbing, others celebrating, and shouted up to the king, "Not Carmelle, Father!"

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King Scipio rested his hands on the balcony railing, looked down at his daughter, and said, "It is the law, my child. There is nothing more we can do."

Tylla fell to the ground on her knees and casting moist eyes at her mother begged, "Give the Wols one of the poor farm girls, not Carmelle."

"Get up off the ground," Hyperia hissed. "Stop making a fool of yourself in public. It is the law, and we must abide by it."

The other Oran girls, released from their captivity, ran like babies into their mothers' arms. Some jumped into the waiting embrace of their young men, covering them with passionate kisses.

Stunned, Starlex found her way away from the crowd and leaned, weak with relief, against the high stone wall circling the garden.

Her pointed ears trembled at the sound of a wretched sob. She turned to see Moranna, folded at the waist as in great pain. The older woman's face was pressed into her apron as she sobbed, pieces of her white-streaked red hair spilling from her tight bun.

In one struck of bad luck, all of her plans for her only child had been destroyed. Her dreams for her pretty daughter to marry a rich Oran merchant, to retire from her life of servitude and live out her old age as a pampered dowager and grandmother were all dashed to pieces. Now, there was nothing left. She had threatened Carmelle with selling her to the Wols, but she never meant it. Now Illym was punishing her.

"I'm sorry, Moranna," Starlex said, reaching out to gently touch the servant's arm.

Moranna recoiled from her as if from a snake. "It is you-the one who'll bear the next great king!"

"I don't understand your meaning," Starlex said, trying to find compassion for the woman despite her rudeness. She knew Moranna was hurt, and people who are hurt often strike out unintentionally.

"Your sister, the queen, has deceived you, Starlex Illymium." Moranna cast her tear-streaked eyes to the upper balcony where the Nazeers were holding a conference. "I will return to my people," Moranna muttered as if to herself. "I will tell them everything!"

"Tell them what?" Starlex said. "I don't understand you."

Ignoring the princess's inquiry, Moranna turned and ran, as quickly as her age and girth would allow, through the archway leading inside the palace.

Starlex had just caught her breath from the disturbing exchange when Rigel, his young face grimly lined, sidled up to her.

"Come," he said, gently taking her arm. "We must watch our friend become a Wol."

"I can't," Starlex said weakly. "It's too awful."

"I know," he replied softly. "But we can try to give Tylla comfort."

Starlex nodded, knowing Rigel was right. An ashen-faced Jabe joined them. Rigel reached out and patted him on the shoulder. The look that passed between the two young men indicated far more than they could safely verbalize in public. They were all shaken by the news, but Jabe was left speechless. Carmelle was like a sister to him.

Together the three friends climbed the stone steps to the first-floor balcony, where they found Tylla, collapsed in a chair and sobbing. Draping their arms around her, they helped the princess stand, and then they watched in horror as the Wols surrounded a sobbing Carmelle like a swarm of gray mice.

First, they stripped her of the pale green gown, a hand-me-down from Tylla. She stood naked before the crowd. Some of the men and boys leered at her trim young body trembling with humiliation and fear.

"Carmelle Nazeer," Genya said as she emerged from the gray-hooded group. She wore Neit Wol's platinum medallion carved with an sigil of the Black Mountain, indicating she was the Wol's new leader. "Join us now in our sisterhood to live the remainder of your life in the Weir."

Carmelle shuddered and sobbed, attempting to cover her naked shame with her hands.

"You will remain a virgin, pure, married only to duty, to poverty, and your sacred sisterhood as a keeper of the God Gate."

Two Wol women, smiles glinting sinisterly from beneath cowled heads, approached the trembling girl. One on each side, they forced Carmelle to her knees. Genya Wol stood before her. From her gray homespun cloak, she produced a pair of long, silver shears fastened to her waist by a black ribbon.

Holding the shears aloft, Genya cried. "Carmelle Nazeer no more! You are now one of us!"

The crowd gasped as Genya, her face betraying a sadistic pleasure in her work, brought down the shears.

Cut by cut, Carmelle's thick red locks thudded to the ground, taking with them what remained of the girl's pride. When it was done, another Wol stepped forward with a razor and completed the operation until Carmelle's head was a pink shining orb. A gray cloak was thrown over Carmelle who had no defense but to whimper softly, calling for her mother. And then small hands pulled her into the sea of Wols until she was indistinguishable from the rest.