Long before there was a Tower, before Floor 40, and before anyone had a word for what he would become, Turiel sat in the third court of judgment and read.
The court was quiet. Gold light ran in thin lines across the white marble floor and up the pillars, and the rows of records stood in their places along the walls, ordered in the way everything in Heaven was ordered. Sometimes there was the sound of wings in the high arches as a messenger came in or went out, carrying a decision from one court to the next. Sometimes there was the turn of a page.
Turiel's wings were white. He kept them folded close when he worked, so they did not brush the records.
The matter in front of him was small. In a mortal city a man had pushed another man in the street, and the second man had fallen, struck his head, and died.
The court before him had recommended the heaviest weight the law allowed.
