CHAPTER
THREE

THESE STONES ARE THE KEY TO THE FUTURE OF magic in Donderath.” Vigus Quintrel whisked away the cloth covering the top of a worktable to reveal thirteen glowing amber-colored crystals, each about the length and width of a man’s hand.

“What are they?” Carensa asked, puzzled. She leaned forward for a better view. “They look like… rocks.”

Quintrel chuckled. He was a short man in his middle years, with a balding pate. “Sometimes, important things hide in plain sight,” he said. He looked out across the four mages, his most trusted inner circle of advisers. These were the best of the scholars and magic-users who had followed him into self-imposed exile in Valshoa before the Great Fire. The gray-robed mage-scholars peered at the crystals, each roughly the size of a thick candle, trying to figure out what made them glow from within.

“Presence-crystals,” Quintrel replied dramatically.

“Those are just old legends,” Guran said, giving the glowing crystals a wary look. “No one has been known to use a presence-crystal in centuries.” Guran was one of the senior mages, and before the Cataclysm, he had been one of Quintrel’s fellows at the University in Castle Reach. Carensa and Jarle nodded their agreement, but Esban, the fourth mage and Quintrel’s second-in-command, said nothing.

Quintrel’s smile broadened, with an expression that cherished knowing a secret. “You’re right. But the Valshoans knew about them—and we found their notes in the archives to make them our own.”

“I don’t understand,” Jarle said. He was in his middle years, similar in age to Quintrel, with graying dark hair and perceptive blue eyes. “How do the presence-crystals affect magic?”

Quintrel’s eyes were alight. “Because they are the way to take back control of the magic from Blaine McFadden and anchor it so that it cannot be taken from us again.”

Carensa resisted the urge to look to either Guran or Jarle for confirmation that she had heard correctly. To her relief, Guran asked the question that sprang to mind.

“I’m afraid you’ve skipped ahead of us a few steps, Vigus,” Guran said. “I’m not following you.”

Quintrel began to pace. His face held a manic intensity. “Blaine McFadden was the last living Lord of the Blood. He came here, to a place of power, a place where the meridians and nodes intersect, and he was able to work the ritual and bind the wild visithara magic to become controllable, hasithara magic.”

“I was there, Vigus. We held the wardings that helped him do it. But these crystals weren’t part of the working,” Guran said.

“Yes, yes. Be patient,” Quintrel admonished. “When McFadden bound the magic, it required an anchor. He became that anchor. One man. The last time, and the time before that—and perhaps always—there were thirteen Lords of the Blood. That’s why the magic is brittle. Its mooring is shaky, held only by one man rather than solidly anchored in the bloodlines of more than a dozen lineages.”

“That part I understand,” Guran said. “But what do the stones have to do with it?” Carensa hid her smile. Guran was enticing Quintrel to explain himself in the way he was least able to resist: being the expert with a clever discovery.

“The obsidian disks that McFadden brought with him had belonged to the original thirteen Lords of the Blood,” Quintrel said. He paced faster, and his gestures were quick, almost manic. “They stole those disks when they left us.”

They took the disks with them when they escaped, Carensa thought. Fair enough, considering that they brought them in the first place, except for the one Vigus found.

“And?” Guran prompted.

Quintrel turned abruptly, his eyes wide. “Don’t you see? The disks explained the working to bind the magic. They were a cipher for the maps, and a key to the power.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “But I had a chance to study the disks before they were taken. And I suspected that they might hold the secret to the biggest challenge to anchoring the magic—how to deal with the fact that twelve of the original lords’ bloodlines have died out.”

Carensa chafed at Quintrel’s roundabout revelation. It was one of her mentor’s less admirable traits. In the months she had spent with the mage-scholars in Valshoa, Carensa had come to realize that Vigus Quintrel was a cipher himself.

“And the crystals?” Guran asked, eyebrows raised.

“The Valshoans understood about binding magical energy. And they knew that anchoring it came at a price. The thirteen hosts were needed, or the magic would be too much for them to bear. Anyone who anchors the magic is more closely bound to it. In a way it flows through them like the nodes and meridians. Some gain new powers; others grow stronger in what they already had. But too few people anchoring and all that magic burns them up,” Quintrel explained.

Carensa caught her breath. That was something she had never heard before, and it meant that Blaine McFadden had paid a price for bringing the magic back under control far beyond the immediate drain of the working. “Can the anchor be transferred?” she asked.

Quintrel nodded. “That’s the point—the manuscripts I found tell us how to do that, and the crystals are the key. I’ve had a team of mages working out the details. There have been some… setbacks… but we’ve figured it out, and you see the outcome in front of you.”

“Setbacks?” Jarle asked.

Quintrel made a dismissive gesture. “The magic is unstable. There were injuries. But think of what we’ve discovered,” he said, his expression aglow with excitement. “We can transfer the anchor, make it stable, and assure that our mages are the lynchpin for magic for generations!”

“And how, exactly, will we do that?” Jarle’s voice was patient, attempting to get Quintrel to focus. Of late, Quintrel had been distracted, prone to wild mood swings, and more volatile than Carensa had ever seen. No wonder the mages of his inner circle had taken to handling him gingerly.

“The crystals have been prepared to accept the imprint of twelve new masters. Twelve new Lords of the Blood,” he replied, with a triumphant look. “We’ll get Blaine McFadden to return to Valshoa,” Quintrel said, agitated with enthusiasm. “Then we’ll use the crystals to place twelve of our own as the new Lords of the Blood. Our lineage will bind the magic. It will be as it ought—mages controlling magic.”

“I don’t think you’ll easily convince McFadden to return to Valshoa,” Guran said. “What if he refuses?”

Quintrel’s expression grew hard. “Then we force him to come.” He looked to all of them with the fervor of a prophet. “Don’t you see? We stand at a crossroads of history. This is our chance to choose the new Lords of the Blood, the families that will anchor the magic—and have a stake in its binding—for centuries to come.”

“You’re going to kidnap Blaine McFadden?” Jarle repeated incredulously. “What about his army? His allies? And his assassins?”

Quintrel made a motion as if swatting away flies. “Those concerns are of no regard. I have an agent of my own in place. We’ll incapacitate McFadden, spirit him away, and impress upon him the need to cooperate with our plans.”

“And once you’ve used the crystals and created a new quorum, then what?” Guran asked. “Do you just expect McFadden to go about his business as if nothing happened?”

Quintrel frowned. “That’s where it gets complicated,” he said. He sighed. “We know it’s possible to keep the binding if one—or several—of the original Lords dies without an heir. What happens next is really up to McFadden,” he said with a shrug. “We may be forced to keep him here until he agrees to an alliance,” he said matter-of-factly. “And if that’s not an option, I’m afraid we’ll be forced to end his line.”

Silence fell as Quintrel gave them a moment to consider his last statement. “So much for McFadden,” he said finally, as if his last comment was of no particular import. “We’ve got Rostivan to handle.”

Torinth Rostivan was a warlord, and he was Quintrel’s newest ally. Carensa was skeptical of the alliance, but she knew Quintrel well enough to keep her reservations to herself.

“You still haven’t explained the terms of our new alliance,” Guran said warily.

Quintrel’s smile broadened once more. “In short, Rostivan does our fighting for us. As he gains power, so do we.”

“Why would he fight for us?” Jarle questioned, frowning. “And what makes you so sure he’ll include us once he has the power he wants?”

“Because I have a hold over him,” Quintrel said simply. He reached into a leather satchel that sat on the table behind him, and withdrew a glass orb. It looked like a scrying ball, with one hideous difference. Preserved in the middle was a mummified human hand clenched in a fist.

Guran’s eyes widened and he stared at the orb. “What in the name of the gods is that? Vigus, what have you done?”

Quintrel’s smile grew brittle. “I did what I had to do to ensure us a future in the new order,” he snapped. “This artifact puts Rostivan under my control. He is unable to defy me—and with mages to be my eyes and ears, he won’t be able to make a move without my knowing it.”

“Where did you find that… thing?” Jarle asked, his voice a horrified gasp. Carensa peered at the orb with a mixture of fear and fascination. The glass appeared thick and quite solid. The hand was withered and gray, though not as fragile as the old bodies Carensa had seen in the tombs. Instead, the hand looked like it had belonged to a very old, wizened man, preserved as it might have been when it was severed.

“It was buried deep in the Valshoan catacombs,” Quintrel replied. His mood had soured, and Carensa guessed that he was not happy at the reaction from his senior mages.

“Perhaps it should have remained there,” Jarle replied. “Such things are not to be meddled with, even for mages.”

“We are above such superstition!” Quintrel shot back, his face coloring with anger. “It’s a tool, nothing more.” He held the orb in his left hand, and his right hand smoothed over it, as if he were petting a cat. Quintrel did not seem aware of the motion.

“How did you bind it to Rostivan?” Carensa asked, doing her best to look like the attentive student she had been when she had first won his favor. Quintrel quieted, and managed a thin smile.

“A very good question. We had to experiment, and with the magic as it is, the price was dear,” Quintrel replied. No one was willing to face his wrath by asking, but Carensa was certain they were all thinking the same question: How dear?

“Although the glass seems solid, it can melt when the hand wills it,” Quintrel said. “With the proper incantation, offering, and ritual, it will accept a token of the intended target. In this case, I had managed to gather a lock of Rostivan’s hair. That hair is now clasped in the hand, and until it is released, Rostivan will be under my influence.” Quintrel was quite pleased with himself, but there was a cruel glint in his eyes that Carensa found disturbing, and new.

“When the hand wills it?” Guran echoed. “Vigus, that’s not a bound divi, is it?”

Carensa’s eyes widened. She had heard of divis, old spirits that were neither god nor mortal, stronger than wraiths, far more powerful than ghosts. Spirits that had existed since before the world was formed. Long ago, mages had hoped to bind divis to their call, hoping to amplify their own magic through the power of the captive spirit. Legends abounded of the horrible fates that such mages met. Divis, as Carensa recalled from her studies, tended to extract a price for their services, higher than anyone wanted to pay, and the divis thrived on chaos and destruction.

“There’s nothing to fear,” Quintrel said. There was a mocking undertone in his voice. Carensa looked closely at him, and saw that he wore a small orb on a strap around his neck. The orb glowed with a faint yellow light, and Carensa was willing to bet it was also part of the divi.

“The divi—or whatever animates the magic of the artifact—is quite assuredly subordinate to my will,” Quintrel assured them. “As is Rostivan.”

Something Quintrel said earlier finally made an impression on Carensa. She smoothed a hand over her short red hair, pushing a strand behind one ear. “Vigus,” she said, intentionally keeping her tone nonthreatening, “what did you mean about mages being your eyes and ears around Rostivan?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I’ve arranged for six of you to accompany Rostivan back to his stronghold in Torsford, and to be his mage-advisers as he wages war,” Quintrel replied in a tone that suggested his announcement was no more controversial than speculation about the weather.

Guran and Jarle both spoke out at once. “We are not battle mages!” Guran argued.

“Vigus, such things ought to have been discussed before committing us,” Jarle chided.

Quintrel’s eyes darkened with anger. “My first concern—my only concern—is the welfare of this community of mages. We were tools of warfare under King Merrill, and the Cataclysm was the result of placing mages under the control of non-mages. That is why in Rostivan’s new order, we are equal to the generals. And that is why I—not Rostivan—am in control.”

“You want to use Rostivan and his army to gain political power,” Carensa said quietly. Once, she had been one of Quintrel’s most promising pupils. Perhaps, she thought, she had learned her lessons too well. “Instead of a warrior king having puppet mages, you intend to have a puppet warrior.”

Quintrel’s smile was more of a snarl. “Very good, Carensa. You were always quick with your lessons.”

“How are we to be your eyes and ears if we’re in Torsford?” Jarle asked. It was clear to Carensa that the older mage was treading carefully, although with Quintrel’s temper of late, it was difficult to know what might send him into a rage.

“You’ll be going to Torsford, to set up the new University there,” Quintrel replied blithely. “When Rostivan has need of you to accompany his troops, you will go with him—and report back to me. Rostivan will be here tomorrow to gather you and your things. Take everything; you probably won’t be returning to Valshoa.”

“Why not?” Carensa asked, trying to hide her confusion and alarm.

“Because I intend for our mages to return to the outside world and claim our rightful place,” Quintrel said. “Oh, I’ll leave a few here to maintain Valshoa in case we should need access to the meridians and nodes here, but I don’t believe we’ll need to hide here once Rostivan secures power—and we have a new anchor for the magic. With a stronger anchor, the magic should lose its brittleness, and our power will be secure,” he said with a triumphant smile.

Before any of the stunned mages could think of another argument, a man cleared his throat behind them. Carensa and the others turned to see General Dolan of the Knights of Esthrane standing in the doorway.

“A word with you, Vigus.”

Quintrel looked annoyed. “It’s not a good time, Dolan. I’m instructing my senior mages.”

“I’m of the opinion you’ve been avoiding my messages,” Dolan replied. “I’m afraid this cannot wait. I’ve come to tell you that the Knights of Esthrane are leaving.”

Quintrel looked as if he might explode. “This is entirely unacceptable!” Vigus Quintrel adjusted the spectacles on his thin nose. “Completely unacceptable!”

“We made no guarantee that the Knights of Esthrane would remain in Valshoa forever,” Dolan replied. Though he was a centuries-old talishte warrior-mage, Dolan looked no older than his late thirties, with dark hair cropped short in a soldier’s cut and a body toughened by war. Everything about his manner made it clear that he was a man who was used to being in command.

“We had an arrangement,” Quintrel shot back. He stood a head shorter than Dolan, with a bald head and a slight build. The quarreling pair reminded Carensa of two dogs warring for dominance. Quintrel was one of the most powerful mages in Donderath. Dolan was a mage in his own right, and talishte, giving him the additional abilities of the undead. A duel between them would be catastrophic.

“All things end,” Dolan replied. “My soldiers have deliberated the matter since McFadden raised the magic. We have been in exile for two generations. The reason for that exile is gone. Donderath would benefit from our return as peacekeepers.”

“And kingmakers?” Quintrel challenged. “That’s your plan, isn’t it?”

Dolan looked askance at Quintrel. “What interest do we have in mortal kings?”

“Plenty, when they hunt down and murder your Knights,” Quintrel snapped. “Is McFadden to be your puppet king?”

“You waste my time,” Dolan replied. “Remain in Valshoa, if that’s what you want. It has been our prison long enough. My Knights are readying for departure. I came to give you the courtesy of supplying notice. It was not my intent to ask your permission.”

“Then go,” Quintrel’s expression was ugly. He turned his back on Dolan. “You’ll quickly find that the world outside is no kinder than when you went into exile.”

“I did not expect to find kindness,” Dolan replied. “I expect to be useful. We will depart shortly.” With that, Dolan strode from the room.

Carensa traded a nervous glance with Jarle. Quintrel’s mood, mercurial at best, was certain to turn vicious after such a public loss.

For several minutes, while Carensa and Quintrel’s senior mages waited nervously, the master mage said nothing. He paced the small room, head down, hands clasped behind his back. From his facial expressions, it was clear he was having a heated dialogue with himself. Carensa found herself holding her breath.

Finally, Quintrel rounded on them, his face still flushed with anger. “Dolan and his group have chosen to abandon us,” Quintrel announced. “He thinks the Knights of Esthrane will be welcomed as the salvation of Donderath,” he added, contempt clear in his words. “I believe he will be sorely disappointed.”

Carensa and the others said nothing, unwilling to send Quintrel further into rage. “We don’t need the Knights,” Quintrel muttered. “Dolan and his Knights didn’t build Valshoa. They inherited it—stole it, really—from the original Valshoans.” Quintrel’s agitation showed in his short, shallow breaths, the ruddiness of his face, and the way his hands reflexively opened and closed.

“What would you have us do to prepare?” Jarle asked. If anyone could talk Quintrel down from one of his rages, it would be Jarle.

“Prepare?” Quintrel nearly shrieked the word. “Are you implying that we will be damaged by the Knights’ defection?”

“Of course not, Vigus.” Jarle had been one of Quintrel’s inner circle for many years, a supporter long before the war, when they were both scholars at Castle Reach’s university. He was also one of the first to be chosen by Quintrel for the journey to Valshoa. “But it will cause some disruption until we adjust.”

“We will get along just fine without Dolan and his men,” Quintrel replied through gritted teeth. “We don’t need the help of untrustworthy talishte.”

“Perhaps, in light of this development, you may want to rethink our relationship with Rostivan,” Jarle said. “After all, losing the Knights removes some of our military support.”

“Our plans do not depend in any way on Dolan and his Knights!” Quintrel exploded, wheeling to face Jarle. Quintrel’s right hand rose suddenly, and the closed fingers of his fist snapped open and spread wide.

Jarle dropped as if struck, his eyes wide, mouth taut with pain. A hard glint came into Quintrel’s eyes. “Don’t doubt me, Jarle. You, especially, should know what I can do.”

Quintrel let his hand fall, and Jarle slumped to the floor. Quintrel’s gaze swept the other mages, and his mouth twisted into a thin-lipped half smile.

“Don’t allow your fears to make you weak,” he said. “Our time is near, and we will rise ascendant.” With that, Quintrel swept from the room, leaving Jarle and the others behind. Esban, Quintrel’s second-in-command, followed a moment later.

Carensa rushed to where Jarle lay. To her relief, he was still breathing, and his pulse was steady. “Jarle? Can you hear me?”

Jarle moaned, but did not move. Carensa looked to Guran. “Help me,” she said. “I can’t get him back to his quarters by myself.”

Guran and Carensa got under Jarle’s shoulders and managed to half carry, half drag the injured mage to his quarters. When did everything go so wrong? Carensa fretted as they moved through the narrow corridors of the ancient building. Vigus was supposed to be our protector. What happened?

They made their way through the narrow corridors. Valshoa was an ancient city, hidden in a mountain valley. More than a thousand years ago, the city had been built by mages who wanted isolation in which to study their craft. Murals and frescoes, mosaic floors, statues, and bas-relief panels chronicled the history of those long-ago Valshoans. Deep beneath the ground, currents of raw magic power, ‘meridians,’ flowed across the world. Where two or more meridians crossed, a ‘node’ formed a potent well of energy. Mages could draw from the energy of the nodes and meridians to extend their power. Beneath Valshoa, a confluence of meridians formed a very powerful node.

Jarle’s quarters were sparsely furnished. The few personal possessions were a testament to how quickly the mages had fled to follow Quintrel to refuge during the last, chaotic days before Donderath’s collapse.

“Let’s get him into bed,” Carensa ordered, and Guran helped her maneuver Jarle to lie down. “I’ll make sure he gets supper, and some whiskey to bring back his color,” she added worriedly.

Guran made a gesture of warding, sealing the door behind them and shrouding the room so that they could not be heard outside. “It’s going to take more than whiskey to deal with Vigus when he’s like this,” Guran said quietly.

Carensa struggled with Jarle’s blankets to get the older mage comfortably settled. Jarle managed a weak smile. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“That was brave of you—and foolish, given the mood Vigus was in,” Carensa chided.

“I thought perhaps he would still listen to me,” Jarle replied, and sighed.

“Increasingly, he listens to no one,” Guran said. “Even Carensa can’t sway him as she used to.”

Carensa gave a sad smile. “I think you overestimate my skill with that,” she replied. “I was just one of his pupils.”

Guran raised an eyebrow. “One of his favored pupils,” he corrected.

Carensa sat down on the edge of Jarle’s bed. Guran leaned against the wall. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it? These last few months, since Blaine and his friends left and the magic returned, Vigus hasn’t been himself.”

“And now we have a good idea of why,” Guran replied. “Drawing on the power of a bound divi is always risky. But to do it now, when the magic is so unstable—”

“You think the divi is what’s changed him?” Carensa asked.

“Either the divi or one of the other artifacts he’s dabbling with,” Guran answered. “It’s the most logical explanation.” He sighed. “He’s become obsessed, and his obsession borders on madness.”

“Vigus always thought highly of himself,” Jarle said, his voice still not at its usual strength. “That’s one reason he clashed with the king’s mages and the University senior scholars. The thing that annoyed them was that Vigus really was as good as he thought he was.”

“I’ve never known him to take opposing opinions well,” Guran said.

“But Vigus wasn’t so cold—so willing to sacrifice people’s lives for the magic—until after Blaine came,” Carensa said quietly.

“You knew McFadden, before the war, didn’t you?” Jarle said.

Carensa nodded. “We were betrothed, until he was exiled. Our families lived near each other. I’ve known him since we were children.”

“You’re right about the timing,” Guran replied. “Vigus was his usual egotistical self until the magic was restored.”

“But if it were just the magic itself that pushed him over the edge, wouldn’t we all be fighting like mad dogs?” Jarle mused. “Or dead—like the ones who were too quick to try out the artifacts after the magic came back.”

Carensa remembered. She had helped bury those mages, and the others who, during the first weeks and months after the magic was restored, discovered the limitations of the new power the hard way. “The magic’s become more stable since then,” she protested.

Guran shook his head. “It’s still brittle. The power waxes and wanes. If that happens when you’re channeling a lot of power, it’s a good way to end up dead—or damaged.”

“I don’t think it’s the magic that’s changed Vigus,” Jarle said. “I think it’s the artifacts. Think about it. Before the magic was restored, Vigus was interested in saving the artifacts and scrolls to preserve old knowledge. It’s only been since the magic returned that he’s been interested—obsessed, really—with using the artifacts to gain political power. And he no longer cares who gets hurt.”

“But the artifacts weren’t evil to begin with. What changed?” Carensa asked.

“The magic changed,” Jarle replied. “The artifacts aren’t evil now, they’ve just been corrupted. Like spoiled meat. It’s not evil, but it still might kill you.”

Guran nodded. “I believe that’s it exactly. I think this divi globe is the most likely culprit.” He paused. “And Vigus has changed in another way. He never showed any interest before in ruling the kingdom. He just wanted the mages to be free to practice their magic. But now…”

Guran didn’t have to finish his sentence. They knew what he meant. Now Vigus wants to be the kingmaker, and the power behind the throne.

Once Carensa was assured that Jarle was recovering, she returned to her quarters, deep in thought. Her small room looked much like Jarle’s. A few personal mementos were all she had of her life before Valshoa. There was a small oil painting of her son and husband, both of whom lay buried in the rubble of her family’s manor house. Beside the oil painting was a small silver box, and in it, the betrothal ring Blaine McFadden had given her before he had been exiled.

Several books and scrolls lay neatly stacked on the shelf above the desk, along with a parchment and quill. Her cloak, hat, and scarf hung on a peg near the door, and underneath was a pair of leather boots. In the trunk at the foot of her bed were a few changes of clothing and a new set of bed linen and towels, all she needed in the simple life of a scholar. It would be easy to pack to go to Torsford, although Carensa felt heartsick at the reason for leaving.

A knock at the door startled her, and she was worried to see Guran standing in the corridor. “Is Jarle worse?”

Guran shook his head, and Carensa motioned for him to enter, closing the door behind him. Once again, Guran made a warding to keep them from being overheard. “I just wanted to come by and make sure you were all right. We were all pretty upset by what happened.”

Carensa offered Guran the chair at her desk, and she sat on the edge of her cot. “I don’t understand why Vigus has decided that Blaine is suddenly the enemy,” she said with a sigh. “Just a few months ago, he was happy to help Blaine restore the magic. Why Rostivan? We don’t know anything about him.”

“Before the war, Torinth Rostivan was a smuggler, and during the war he appears to have made a lot of money supplying both sides,” Guran said with distaste. “Now he fancies himself a warlord.”

“Why him and not Blaine? Blaine already has an army in place.”

Guran shrugged. “I think Vigus sees McFadden as a rival.”

“You think Vigus has set this all up to go to war against Blaine?”

“I think that’s exactly what he has in mind.”

Carensa was quiet for a moment, thinking through what Guran said. “Why choose me for the group to go to Torsford?” Carensa asked. “I’ve got very little power. My magic helps me translate languages. That’s hardly battle worthy.”

Guran’s gaze fell to the small paintings on Carensa’s desk. “Does Vigus know you were involved with McFadden?”

“Yes.” She sighed, and drew her knees up, hugging them to herself. “Blaine’s exile dishonored his family, and me. My… notoriety… limited the potential suitors.” She shrugged. “I withdrew from everyone. My father got me tutors, trying to find something to interest me. That’s how I met Vigus. Then Father finally found an older man who needed my dowry money. I had no choice about the marriage. I never really loved my husband, but I did love our son.”

“They died in the Cataclysm?”

Carensa nodded. “I nearly did, too. The manor collapsed and I woke up trapped in the rubble. Vigus got me out and brought me here.”

“So you had no idea McFadden had returned.”

Carensa shook her head. “None at all, until he arrived here. I thought Blaine died in Velant.”

“You helped McFadden and his friends defy Vigus to leave,” Guran said.

Carensa lifted her head. “Yes, I did. I made my choice to be a scholar, and I have no desire to change that. Blaine’s made his choices, too. But I’ll always wish him well. He sacrificed everything to save his family from that brute of a father. I would do anything to protect him.”

Guran met her gaze. “Be careful, Carensa. McFadden is only valuable until Vigus can figure out how to keep the magic bound without him.” He paused. “At least Vigus has a reason to keep McFadden alive. Others might find it to their advantage if he—and the magic—went away permanently.”

Late that night, Carensa’s dreams were dark. Once again, she was pinned beneath the rubble of Rhystorp, surrounded by the smell of fire and death. Grief seized her, but she had no tears left to cry. She was resigned to dying alone in the darkness, numb to fear. And then, after she had accepted her fate, the stones that sealed her into her prison shifted, sending light and air and, most importantly, hope. Vigus Quintrel had spoken to her, calmed her, kept up a quiet, confident one-sided conversation until he could remove her from the wreckage.

But in this dream, Quintrel was livid, and in his grasp was the orb, with its withered hand and bound divi. He held the orb aloft, and it blazed like lightning, filling the sky with green ribbons of fire. Quintrel and the divi became the Cataclysm.

Screams woke her. Carensa sat upright in her bed, clutching the covers to her chest, heart thudding. Before she could question whether the screams were real or imagined, she heard the shrieking once again. Worried, Carensa hurriedly wrapped herself in her robe and gathered her slippers, rushing out into the corridor. More mages began to appear in their doorways. Many quickly retreated, shutting their doors again. A few ventured into the corridor, but hung back, wary.

She found Vigus Quintrel in his sitting room, tearing at his hair, ripping his clothing, and screaming curses like a madman. He hurled a vase across the room, barely missing Guran and Esban, who had edged into the room.

Carensa maneuvered close. Once, they had been friends as well as tutor and student. It was dangerous to trade on that old bond, but Carensa hoped that it might help her calm Quintrel long enough to discover what had gone so terribly wrong.

“Vigus.” Carensa moved closer to where Quintrel sat. A tankard sailed over her head, slamming against the far wall. “Vigus, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Quintrel threw an inkwell against the stone fireplace, sending a spray of ink across the room. “They’re gone,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Who’s gone?” Carensa asked. “The Knights? But you knew they were going.”

Quintrel shook his head disconsolately. “No, no,” he moaned. “They’re all gone.”

“Vigus, who’s gone?” Carensa pressed, close enough now that she laid her hand on Quintrel’s arm. He looked utterly distraught.

Quintrel turned to her, a look of complete misery and loss clear in his expression. “The presence-crystals. And the manuscripts that go with them. Gone, stolen.”