Káli ran the carved wooden comb over her cephalic membrane, dragging it over in quick jerks to try to shake the sand out. It was always an arduous task to be a Protector of the Watchers, especially in a storm. Eventually, she sighed exasperatedly and tied it back, using a faded ribbon of plaited rushes, painted long ago with vegetable dyes. She turned this way and that, looking at her reflection in what was once a looking-glass, but had been reduced to a mere shard, the reflected image stained sepia by dust and sand. She set it down, and pulled on her ceremonial Beja robe. The garment had looked proud long ago, presumably on some other Thillian of a larger stature, but it swallowed her up, bunching up into puddles of dust-stained cream fabric at her feet. She let out a soft sigh. It was a futile errand to try to look presentable. The head Watcher, Monra, had called for a Beja ceremony, however, that old crone could have called a Beja for any reason at all. In the past, she had called them all together to discuss her strange and puzzling dreams, which she insisted were messages from the Agra. However, it was doubtful the ancient spirit would want to warn them of being chased by a pack of wild knugs. Monra was a venerated mouthpiece of the Agran Spirit, but sometimes things exited her mouth other than wisdom. Suddenly, the low, brassy sound of the Xurn horn sounded from the miniarets. Káli opened the knotted wooden door of her chamber, peering out into the hall. Through the vast halls she went, passing by frescoes of enamel and vegetable dyes, carved into the sandstone by the Ancients themselves. The hem of her pale linen robe caught the sand of the courtyard ground as she stepped towards the oasis at its centre. At the edge of the oasis, the Agratyrdan Sisterhood sat, several crones among them beckoning enthusiastically. As Káli found a seat, old sister Zerfé whispered to Káli, "Sit down, sit down, little sister. It's going to be good tonight. I heard old Monra has a vision to share with us, mm?" Privately, Káli hoped it wasn't a vision about wild Knugs. Or rogue Dutvutanians, as that had been discussed, too. The head Watcher tended to have the strangest of dreams. The Xurn sounded again, and Káli pricked up her aural receptors, and paid attention. With the aid of two matronly Sisters, Monra hobbled across the moss-covered stone bridge that bisected the oasis, and sat, cross-legged, on the dais at the centre. In a creaking voice, she called out, "Who would like to say the prayer?" Káli shrank back as everyone directed their attention to her. It was ritual for the question to be asked, but, despite her best efforts, Káli always was called upon to sing. Her caretaker, Jila, called out from the inner edge of the circle. "Go on, Káli! Give them, er, the Lullabye! Yes, the Lullabye of Fates!" The congregation echoed their assent. Powerless to deny their request, Káli sighed. She stood up, sand pouring out of the folds of her robe, and went to join Monra on the central dais. Despite the fact that she sang almost biweekly, she always felt a twinge of nerves. To steady herself, she took a few rapid snyfs of the cool night air. She concentrated deep within her, and hummed. The sounds reverberated from the courtyard's sandstone walls, dyed a faint rose hue by the atmospheric light-show, caused by the mode-switching of the Terrahyptian artificial sun. Her song started low in her belly and rose high above the tarnished arch-bronze spires on the minarets, sweeping low and trilling high in a melody reminiscent of a past where things were simpler, something lost and unattainable yet. The sound faded out and echoed as Káli looked out at the crowd, the sisterhood which had nurtured her for as long as she could remember. With a noise like seashells delicately clattering together, they began to applaud.