EPISODE TWO: INTERLUDE

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SHADOWS AND dust. Lamplight and camphor fumes.

In the Tanshen capital of Tsee-Kaanlin, in the palace library of Zhan Taujin Letan-Nin, in a small study, sits a man of early years dressed in the black silk robes of a palace philosopher.

The man looks around the ill-kempt study and thinks: The old man never did learn to clean after himself. All those hours making it tidy, and now it is a grime-tomb of old books and loose paper.

The man sees something in the lamplight. Something on the book-strewn desk.

What is that?

The man leans closer.

Odd. No dust on this one.

The man picks up a thin, leather-bound volume with a clean cover. He opens it and flips through a few pages.

The man frowns. Licks his lips.

What is this?

The man turns the pages to the front of the notebook. Reads on. Scratches his head. Bites his tongue. Rubs his chin.

This can't be real. Can't be true. But it's in my uncle's hand. Twenty years ago by the dates. Not these. These notes on the side are new. What do the heretics have to do with anything?

The man sits in the musty cushions of the chair, head in hands, as he continues to read.

What does it mean? Can it be real? Could my uncle have been right? Why didn't he tell me of his suspicions before he died? He never trusted me.

The man closes the book.

What do I do with this? Who can I show it to that will believe me? The high priest is mentioned in the notes. I could take it to him if he were not missing. He and that little tahneff and her lovely tutor. There must be someone I can show it to who won't try to kill me for its contents.

The man leans back in the chair and stares up through the small window at the sister moons.

There is one person I can show it to who won't kill me. Who will even reward me. Yes. That is what I will do.

The man smiles and holds the notebook tightly in his hands.

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