Konrad gaped. The Shandrigal? Nanda served the Shandrigal? He opened his mouth to spurt out a dozen questions at once, but Nanda glared at him and he subsided.
The Shandrigal. High Spirit of… well, a number of things. Some called it "life", which was simplistic in the extreme but as good a term as any. The Shandrigal was to the living what The Malykt was to the dead. Somehow, Konrad felt, he ought to have realised that Nanda counted herself among that being’s followers. How could he have been so dense? Or Nan so secretive?
He struggled to bring his wayward mind back to the matter at hand. Popov was begging again. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘if you will intercede on my behalf…’
‘I know you are sorry,’ Nanda said sternly, ‘as I can feel it in you. I am a Reader, you know. But you must admit it to
