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and his Lady Moon, carved in jade, with faces more real than life. Each held a scepter, the one topped with a many-rayed sun, the other with a crescent moon. Snow dusted their heads and shoulders.
    Sunan frowned suddenly as his eye lit upon an anomaly: Perched upon the right shoulder of each of these familiar figures was a tall songbird, its wings outspread. No snow shrouded its form, which shone bright and clear.
    This was not the classical depiction. While Anwar and Hulan were common enough figures throughout the known eastern world, he had never before seen them portrayed thus. Not once in all the pored-over scrolls and documents had Sunan encountered a single reference to a songbird in the legends of the Sun and the Moon.
    So what in Anwar’s name was it doing on the shoulders of those statues?
    “Tribute Scholar Number One.”
    The voice boomed from the top of the stairs, shattering all murky musing in Sunan’s head. He and all the gathered scholars stood upright and gazed toward the top of the stair where stood Overseer Rangsun, the great leader of the Center of Learning. The mere sight of him raised the spirits and hopes of all those gathered.
    The overseer read out each Tribute Scholar’s number and, following that, one of two words: pass or fail. Scholars scrambled in their sleeves to find their numbers then listened breathlessly as the results were read. No one spoke a word of jubilation or defeat. Those who passed proceeded without further ceremony—for what further ceremony was needed?—up the staircase to the Middle Court. They were now Presented Scholars.
    And those who failed vanished without a word.
    Sunan found his number sewn into the hem of his sleeve. One hundred two. So he must wait and wait and wait. His whole life, his whole being, his whole future rested on the words of Overseer Rangsun. But he must wait.
    Finally, Tribute Scholar Ninety-nine. A pass.
    Tribute Scholar One Hundred. A fail.
    Tribute Scholar One Hundred One. A fail.
    Now. Now, now, now! Sunan felt his heart plummet and soar and plummet again. Now! Read it now!
    “Tribute Scholar One Hundred Three,” read the overseer.
    Four more numbers were read before Sunan found his breath again. Blood rushed to his ears, and for a terrible moment he thought he would faint. Where was his number? The overseer had skipped his number! Could Sunan have let his mind drift, even for a moment, and missed it? Could the overseer have made a mistake?
    “Tribute Scholar One Hundred Ten,” read the overseer, and on down the list.
    Sunan stood alone in the crowd, his heart hammering, his head spinning. Scholars passed up the stairs; scholars retreated through the gate. What must he do? Where must he go?
    Where was his number?
    Another hour passed, and the Lordly Sun rose high above and beat down upon the yard, unable to melt the snow or ease the cold. But Sunan sweated inside his woolen robe.
    At last the courtyard was empty. He stood alone at the base of the stairs, gazing up into the face of the overseer.
    Overseer Rangsun rolled up his long scroll, passed it to a near attendant, and then dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. Lifting the edge of his embroidered robes, he began to descend the stair. Sunan trembled. Should he flee? Should he assume that his name had not been called because he had failed and hasten away through the gate? But Overseer Rangsun was now at the bottom step. He stood with his hands folded inside his deep sleeves and lifted heavy-lidded eyes to study Sunan.
    “Sunan, son of Juong-Khla,” the overseer said.
    “Honored Overseer!” Sunan gasped and bowed low. His ears burned at the sound of his father’s name spoken here in the Center of Learning. It was as evil as a curse.
    “You will be pleased to know,” Overseer Rangsun said, his voice mild as a spring breeze, “that you far exceeded all expectations and achieved the top score of this year’s Gruung.”
    For a moment the world went black, and Sunan suspected that he