Larryn set his three-foot-tall mirror on the floor and sat next to it, across from Nevian. The young wizard had required something to stare into for his spells, and since there was no way Larryn would waste money on a looking glass, he’d slipped inside a rich-ass house and grabbed the first one he could find. He could sell it after. The intricate floral motif carved into its frame would fetch him a good price, and he could put that gold into a welcome back feast for Hasryan. One with tons of cheese for Cal. The Shelter’s atmosphere had changed without them—even the lively music had slowed, as if the players knew part of the place’s soul had disappeared. He had done this, lashing out at those around him—at Cal more than anyone else—and pushing away those who had helped him. Larryn promised himself he would fix this mess. The first step was to find Hasryan, the second to apologize properly to Cal.

Nevian fidgeted with his notes, rereading the words to his spell over and over. His fingers kept folding the corner of the page, and his foot tapped against the ground. He didn’t look ready, despite his earlier assurance.

“Can you do this or not?” he asked.

“I can, I can!” Nevian’s firm tone would have had more credibility if he hadn’t been wringing his hands.

“You can take another day,” Larryn offered. He hadn’t expected Nevian to figure his spell out so fast, but the surprise had delighted him. He should have known better.

“No.” Nevian met Larryn’s gaze and stopped his restless movements. “I’m ready. Working on this spell brought back memories. I used to sneak out of the Myrian enclave to meet with Isandor’s most powerful wizard. I traded information for lessons, and she’s a master in divinations. I can do this.”

“Maybe I should have asked her.”

“You can’t afford her.”

Larryn rolled his eyes. Of course not. He knew that better than Nevian ever could, but jokes tended to fly straight over this kid’s head. “Then let’s hope your spell is worth more than what I paid you.”

Nevian snorted, but the hint of a smile curled the corner of his lips. “We’ll see.” He scanned his notes one last time, inhaled deeply, and set the papers aside. “Put your hands on the edges of the mirror and think about your friend. Imagine him as clearly as you can, but try not to latch onto a past event. Just him, with as little else around as you can. Focus on his name and his person.”

Larryn frowned. Nevian sounded like a fortuneteller. Then again, these spells were their specialty, weren’t they? They just made a spectacle out of it, in true Allorian fashion. Besides, Nevian had none of that over-dramatic flair. He had no show to give and instructed Larryn with the tone he’d use to recite a grocery list, then stared at him, as if daring him to comment. With a sigh, Larryn closed his eyes.

“Don’t do that,” Nevian said. “How are you going to see what comes up in the mirror?”

A dozen sharp replies warred at the tip of Larryn’s tongue, and he swallowed all of them. Not the time, and he was trying to be nicer to people who deserved it. In little steps. Nevian might be infuriating, but he was young and wanted to help. And he was right, too.

“Okay. I’ll stare at the mirror.”

“Wise choice,” he declared, and launched into his spell. Nevian’s voice deepened as he pronounced arcane words, enunciating each of them in a deliberate process. Like a beginner. Which he was, now that Larryn thought about it. Larryn buried his rising doubts again. If Nevian couldn’t do it, who else? This had to work.

Larryn focused on Hasryan, conjuring up the image of the ever-smirking dark elf, then supplying details: the way Hasryan’s thick white hair swept backward because he was always running a hand through it, the smaller elven ears and broader shoulders that marked his human blood, the squint in his eyes when he laughed. It had been too long since he’d heard that sound—not since they’d mocked Drake at the Skyward Tavern. What a glorious evening—topped by that majestic head-butt Hasryan had given Drake! The mirror’s surface clouded before Larryn’s eyes, then cleared to show the Middle City tavern where his friend had been arrested.

“I said no events,” Nevian’s voice broke in. “Don’t make this harder.”

Larryn grumbled something but refocused his attention on Hasryan himself. His thoughts strayed immediately, so instead of maintaining a single image, he tried to vary how he imagined his friend. Sure, the smirking Hasryan who’d just delivered a quip came to mind first, but Larryn had witnessed many different moods. He’d seen him sulk after a rough encounter with some bigoted fool, he’d seen him drunk and sprawled over a table, he’d seen him hurt and keeping it all inside. The only facet Larryn had never seen was the cold-blooded killer. That remained hard to imagine.

Nevian’s arcane words became more forceful, and smoke swirled in the mirror again. When the apprentice let out a groan, Larryn risked a quick glance at him. Sweat rolled down his forehead.

“Focus!” Nevian snapped. “Something’s … wrong.”

Larryn buried his urge to retort and poured his offended energy into remembering Hasryan. After another small grunt from Nevian, the picture cleared again.

Hasryan stood inside a room so dark the details around him blurred. His friend didn’t look too horribly off—no wounds, no scars, no unnatural thinness. Heck, he wore a winter coat worth more than the combined value of every shirt Larryn had ever owned! The tension in his shoulders betrayed his peaceful appearance, however, and he seemed to be arguing in low tones. The image shifted, drew back. Larryn caught sight of a prison cell door and swore. It was open, but between the exit and Hasryan stood an elf.

Not just any elf, either.

Larryn had long ago learned to identify the Dathirii guard captain and their spymaster. Yultes’ protection kept city guards away, but if either of them discovered he’d stolen from their towers for years, they could make him vanish without a word of protest from his so-called father. It would have been reckless not to know Kellian and Branwen Dathirii on sight. Their presence at the Shelter could spell doom for him.

Now one of them was watching Hasryan. In a cell.

Nevian drew a sharp breath, choking on an exclamation. He reiterated his arcane words in a forceful tone, but the image clouded once more, then turned pitch black. His voice trailed off, and the mirror lost all traces of magic.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “None of this happened as it should have.”

Nevian rambled on about the shifts in his spell—something about a wall at first, easy sailing, and then a force pushing him out. Larryn didn’t pay attention. His fingers clenched hard on his knees as he inhaled deeply, wrestling with the anger coiling inside. Of course the Dathirii had Hasryan. Who else? They’d played so nice with Arathiel, helping him after he saved Hasryan, getting him on their good side until they’d snatched the assassin out of sight. Was that their plan to regain the Allastams’ favour? Spare one noble, and sell them Hasryan in secret; retain the gloss of their benevolent reputation and solidify an important alliance. And they’d sent Arathiel and Cal to retrieve yet another ally. Larryn sprang to his feet, his head spinning and hot.

“Nevian,” he said, cutting him off. “Vellien is coming tonight, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Soon?”

Nevian frowned. “Why?”

“I need to have a chat with them.”

Larryn had kept a close watch on Vellien’s coming and going. As promised, they’d brought a cloak every time, and stayed after healing Nevian to care for the patrons’ ailments. Larryn avoided them when he could, glaring from a distance, yet Vellien had never shown anything but patience with his people, and as time passed, Larryn had started thinking of the young priest less as a Dathirii, and more as a kind teenager.

Not anymore.

“I’ll grab us something to eat, and we’ll wait together.”

Alarm flashed through Nevian’s expression. “They’re not involved in this. I need them. Whatever you’re—”

“I won’t rip their throat out, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He didn’t even manage to sound dismissive, and Larryn hated the casualness of his tone. Vellien was a teenager, and Dathirii or not, they were not involved in this mess. Larryn could believe that. He couldn’t hit them—couldn’t let his anger take over as he had on winter solstice—but he needed to help Hasryan. Larryn clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to get the whirling rage under control. Nevian spotted the movement and paled.

“Eliminating one option amongst many does not ease my fears. Leave them alone.”

“I can’t.” Larryn knew one thing with absolute certainty: noble families protected their own, no matter what. Vellien’s safety would be priceless to them, no matter Larryn’s actual intent—well worth Hasryan’s release. “I won’t hurt them, but there’s too much at stake. Don’t argue.”

Nevian did anyway. Larryn cast one last glare at the darkened mirror and stalked out of the room, ignoring him, blood still beating against his temples. He would save Hasryan, no matter the risk.