The Adventurers Guild was known for its parties—rowdy, spirited affairs where veterans and apprentices all came together to enjoy absurd amounts of food, off-key sing-alongs, and mild to moderate property damage. Based on what Brock saw on his return to the guildhall, Alabasel Frond’s birthday celebration did not appear to be one for the history books.

“Did I miss it?” Brock asked, taking in the unfinished decorations and sparse attendance. Aside from his fellow apprentices, there were only a few small clumps of adventurers scattered about the room. Brock noticed that Zed was absent, but that wasn’t so unusual. Zed didn’t socialize much these days. “The party’s over already?”

“It is for us,” Liza said glumly. She’d washed her face, and her olive skin glowed in the room’s candlelight, but her leathers were still stained with a smattering of dried blood. “We’ve been summoned by the king.”

“But there’s still time for a game!” Fel said brightly. “Could I interest you in a lively round of ‘Pin the Tentacle on the Grisly Gullet’?’”

“Grisly what?” Brock asked.

Wielding a floppy paper tendril, Fel gestured toward an illustration, nailed to the wall, of a fleshy, toothy sack. It looked like a pink meatball with fangs.

“I tried to tell her,” Micah groused. “It’s not a real game if everyone wins.”

“But there’s no wrong way to do it!” Fel insisted. Then she leaned toward Brock to whisper, “Grisly gullets have tentacles everywhere.”

Brock was interested in spite of himself. Fel had spent much more time in the wilds than any of the rest of them. As a result, she was a font of information on all sorts of horrid creatures. She knew what they ate, where to find them—and, often, how to kill them.

“Let me guess,” Brock said, grinning. “They’re vulnerable to arrows.” It amused him how often Fel claimed that her weapon of choice was the absolute best weapon to use in any number of situations. Not that he liked getting within arm’s reach of a monster, but with his aim, daggers were a much safer choice than a bow. Safer for his teammates, at any rate.

“It’s difficult to get an arrow past the tentacles,” Fel said. She twisted a braid with her finger. “Difficult for some people …”

“You know what game I miss?” said Fife. “The one where we’d throw dirty undergarments at the statue.”

“What statue?” asked Nirav, but Brock could see the answer dawned quickly. “Oh,” said Nirav. He crossed his arms. “Good one, Fife.”

“He’s teasing you, Nirav,” said Jayna. “We didn’t…Frond would never allow—”

“It’s all right, Jayna,” Nirav said, shrugging. “It’s funny.”

Brock hadn’t spoken much to Nirav since watching him burst from his stony prison weeks before. Technically, Nirav was a few years older than Brock and the others. He was closer in age to Syd and Fife—or he should have been.

But Nirav hadn’t aged in all the time he’d been encased in stone. His friends had grown older; they’d forged stronger bonds in the face of danger and graduated from their apprenticeships to journey rank.

Nirav had been left behind. He’d blinked, and suddenly found himself surrounded by strangers. Brock couldn’t begin to imagine what that would be like—or how hard it would be to adjust.

“Mousebane, no!” Fel cried. Brock turned in time to see the cat retreating beneath a table, a paper tentacle clutched in her teeth. She proceeded to rip the paper to shreds. “We need that for the game!”

Brock sighed. “I have seen some sorry parties in my day,” he said. “But this one takes the cake.”

“Speaking of which, Frond took the cake,” Jett said. “I mean the whole cake. She just picked it up and walked upstairs with it.”

Brock rubbed his eyes. “It’s just as well. I guess I need to get ready to see the king.” He cast a lingering look at the two-dimensional fanged nightmare affixed to the wall. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t want to play another round of ‘Pin the Blame on the Adventurers Guild.’”

Silverglow Tower stood at the precise center of Freestone. Brock knew there was a good reason for that. Directly beneath the tower, in a secure room underground, the mages kept the crystal focus that produced the city’s protective wards—invisible shields that kept Freestone safe from Dangers.

That was the idea, anyway. Lately, those wards had proven less dependable than advertised.

Brock craned his neck to see the whole structure, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zed was doing the same thing.

“Well, pal, you finally made it here,” Brock said. “You just took the long way, that’s all.”

“You have no idea,” Zed replied absently.

Brock tried not to take offense at that. He knew very well what the Silverglows meant to Zed. Like the adventurers themselves, Freestone’s magic users were set apart; unlike the adventurers, though, the mages enjoyed the admiration of the entire city. It was an exclusive club, one where being different meant being special. To Zed, who’d always stood out, a career of quiet study among the respected ranks of the Mages Guild had represented his best opportunity for a happy life.

He’d almost achieved it, too. But Frond had dashed those dreams upon the rocks, and she’d spoiled Brock’s dreams, too, for good measure. They’d come to terms with it, even come to feel like the Adventurers Guild was where they belonged. But Brock knew the mages would always hold a fascination for his friend.

Frond made a rude noise, mucus vibrating in her throat. “If anyone needs to spit,” she said, “do it now.” And she followed her own advice with evident enthusiasm.

Brock glared at her. “We’re good, thanks.”

Lotte led the way around the base of the tower, the three apprentices and their guildmistress following behind. Brock shielded his eyes momentarily from the sun, until their path curved away from it.

“Have you been here before, Lotte?” Liza asked. Her sword was sheathed at her side, and though he had once teased her about taking it everywhere, he felt no small relief to see she had it now.

“Never,” Lotte answered. “Other than Hexam and Jayna, I don’t know anyone who’s been inside the tower.”

Within a few moments, the sun was in their eyes again. “Hold on,” Liza said. “Are we…Did we circle the whole thing?”

Lotte stopped in her tracks. “There’s going to be some Fey-jinxed trick to this, isn’t there?”

Frond took the opportunity to spit once more.

As if Frond’s vulgar sounds were some magic password, a crack appeared then in the surface of the tower. Perfect right angles of blackness formed between the individual stones, the grout holding them together replaced by empty space. Dozens of those stones swung outward to reveal a doorway—a jagged, irregular doorway that looked as if it should cause the entire tower to crumble.

“Well, come on,” said a boy standing beyond the impossible threshold. “I’m missing class for this.”

“You’re welcome!” Brock said brightly.

“My name is Sulba,” the young mage said. He wore neat blue robes and round spectacles. “I’m a Second Year. Can I ask you to take off your boots?”

“No,” Frond said, and she pushed past him into the tower. The apprentices followed behind, Liza giving the boy an apologetic shrug.

“It’s fine,” Sulba muttered. “I’ll just mop afterward, yeah?”

The adventurers trailed Sulba down a curved hallway lined with glowing crystals. The crystals gave off a warm, neutral light that felt closer to sunlight than the mage orbs used by Hexam. Outside it had been chilly, but the temperature within the tower was pleasantly mild, and the air smelled of flowers.

Frond sneezed, making no effort to cover her mouth.

Sulba paused at an imposing metal door marked with magical sigils of intricate design, circles and stars and looping letters all overlapping in a display of purposeful chaos. Those fanciful symbols aside, the door’s iron rivets and heavy padlock made it appear like something out of a dungeon. “The vault,” he said, producing an ancient key the size of his hand. “I’m afraid I do have to insist on taking your weapons.”

He unlocked the door and dragged it open. Brock caught sight of shelves lined with objects—a helm of broken glass and razors, a gnarled wooden rod in the shape of a clawed hand clutching an orb, a kite shield with a design that looked almost like an anguished human face—and though he had no sensitivity to magic, he could swear the room radiated an unnatural energy. It felt every bit as haunted as the Lich’s throne room back in Llethanyl.

Zed craned his head enthusiastically for a better view.

Brock surrendered his daggers, but Sulba barely noticed, captivated as he was by Liza’s sword. “Interesting color,” he murmured.

Frond handed over her curved sword, three daggers of varying lengths, a whip she’d somehow concealed in a pocket, a bag of razor-sharp caltrops, and a glass vial marked with a skull and crossbones. “Careful with that,” she warned.

“It’s her dinner,” Brock put in.

“Uh, what about…?” Sulba prompted, pointing to the throwing stars affixed to her belt.

“Forget it,” Frond growled. “They’re holding up my pants.”

“Say no more!” Sulba said, heaving the door closed.

“The king is here already,” the apprentice mage told them when they were on their way once more. “You’re the last to arrive. But I suppose you had the farthest to walk. …”

“All the way from outtown,” Brock said. “So how many flights of stairs do we have to look forward to?”

“Stairs?” Sulba echoed. He smiled, enjoying a private joke. “We don’t do stairs here.”

He ushered them inside a circular room, slightly cramped except for its enormously high ceiling. In fact, Brock couldn’t see all the way up to the top; it was like being at the bottom of a well. The room was devoid of decoration other than a design painted directly upon the floor. Another sigil. Brock lifted his foot for a better look, but the design was all swooping lines and angles, utterly meaningless to him.

“Keep your arms at your sides,” Sulba said, and then he performed a series of complicated gestures with his fingers. The design at their feet glowed with an inner light, and slowly, gently, it lifted from the floor, suddenly solid yet lighter than air. A platform made of shimmering light raised the whole group upward.

“Wow,” Liza said. She looked down through the translucent platform at the receding ground below them, and she giggled a little.

Brock smiled at her, then turned to share the moment with Zed. But Zed appeared lost in thought.

“Can you believe this?” Brock prompted.

Zed startled back to his senses, then grinned madly. “Coolest thing ever,” he replied. They passed doors set into the curved wall at regular intervals, one after the other, and Brock knew they were ascending past the tower’s many levels. Still he couldn’t see the top.

“Quite impressive, right?” Sulba said. “I’ll never understand how anyone managed to live in a tower before Krycek’s Radiant Elevational Dais.”

“Oh, gross,” Brock said. “Is that really what you call this thing?”

“Mind your manners,” Lotte warned.

“It’s all right,” Sulba said. “You see, it elevates a person or group from one floor to another, so—”

“No, I get it,” Brock interrupted. “I just feel like there’s a better option. I mean, who comes up with these names?”

“Well.” Sulba sniffed. “In this case, it was Magus Krycek.”

The dais came to a stop at the very last door, which opened onto an antechamber. “The observatory room is just ahead,” Sulba told them. “I’ll be waiting to take you back down.”

Assuming the king doesn’t send us down the quick way, Brock thought. Right out a window.

Tall, gray, and imposing: King Freestone had much in common with the mages’ tower itself. In his case, however, there was no mystery about what was going on behind the façade. The king’s displeasure and suspicion were etched upon his very features as if carved in stone.

“Frond,” he said. “Adventurers. Thank you for coming.”

Frond bowed slightly, and Brock’s eyes swept over the entire chamber—three times. He’d been sure the Lady Gray would be here, skulking in the shadows and smiling her wolf’s smile.

But the room held no shadows, its wide windows framing sun and sky and a staggering view of the green world beyond the walls. The glass of those windows was overlaid with handwriting and simple illustrations made with golden ink, mostly dots and lines that Brock recognized as well-known constellations. Seated with their backs to the view, on the far side of a table of silvery wood, were the king and the leaders of the four High Guilds: Ser Brent, Lord Quilby, Father Pollux, and their host, guildmistress of the mages, Archmagus Grima. There was one empty chair at the table.

“Frond, why don’t you sit,” the king said. Frond—apparently unused to having a seat at such a gathering—hesitated a moment before complying. Those assembled were silent as she edged around the table and sat, squirming loudly upon the padded chair in an effort to get comfortable. Brock could see the throwing stars at her belt cutting right through the chair’s fabric, and he fought to keep his face neutral, hoping Grima wouldn’t notice until after they’d left.

At length, the king cleared his throat. “I’d like to begin by hearing from those present at the incident.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lotte said graciously, her noble rearing kicking in. As she launched into the tale of what had happened that morning, Brock considered the assembled guildmasters. Brent watched Lotte impassively, with no trace of the concern he’d shown for her earlier in the day. Quilby, too, was a portrait of detachment, his face neutral, though Brock was certain the merchant was fretting over the possibility that this mess could somehow land at his feet. They shared a moment of furtive eye contact, the only two people in the room who knew the dead magus had experimented with Dangers outside of the tower, both unable to reveal that information without exposing their own crimes. Pollux, the newest and youngest face on the council, looked as if he were adapting admirably to his role. His expression was at turns compassionate, troubled, and resolute. As far as Brock was concerned, the man had proven his worth when he’d opened his temple’s doors to the elves during the refugee crisis.

And then there was Grima, who’d always struck Brock as a little…flighty. He’d seen her mind wander even in the middle of a Guildculling; she usually gave the impression of being only half present at even the most solemn of occasions.

Today, though, Grima’s entire focus was on Lotte’s story, and then on Liza’s, when the girl spoke next.

“I heard my friends cheering me on,” Liza said. “It gave me the strength I was looking for …”

Weird, Brock thought. He didn’t remember anyone speaking in those awful moments. He certainly hadn’t cheered anyone on. He’d been too busy bleeding from his face.

“I don’t have anything to add,” Brock said when it was his turn. “Except that I’m awfully glad Dame Liza was there.” At the questioning faces, he said, “Oh, dame was the title for a female knight, back in the day. We figure she’s earned it.” He looked right at Ser Brent as he said it, daring him to object, but the guildmaster made no response.

“I agree with everything they said,” Zed put in. “It was…it was awful. I’ve always respected the mages, and to think they’d allow something like that to happen …”

Grima bristled. “We’re not sure what happened,” she said. “That’s what we’re here to determine. However, I’m confident my people have followed every precaution and adhered, without exception, to the rules set forth for acceptable magical research.” She turned toward the king. “It’s not to say accidents are impossible, but they’re unlikely.”

“And what about sabotage?” Ser Brent asked the archmage.

“Sabotage?”

“Did this Phylo have any enemies? Anyone who would want him dead or discredited?”

“Absurd,” Grima answered. “Phylo was among my most senior people. He was brilliant, and respected by all.”

Brock found that exceptionally hard to believe, but he bit his tongue. You don’t know him, he reminded himself. Never met him.

Pollux frowned. “It’s a rare person who doesn’t ruffle a few feathers in the course of a lifetime. The ‘brilliant’ ones seem even more prone to it, in my experience.”

“Experience,” Brent said, laughing. “You have so much of it, after all.”

“But who profits by sowing such chaos?” Quilby asked. “There’s no reason for anyone to do such a thing deliberately. It must have been an accident.”

“That brings us back to forbidden research,” Brent said.

Grima huffed. “Am I whispering into the wind? I’ve told you, you stone-brained tyrant—”

“That’s ENOUGH!” The king’s words cut sharply through the noise, and silence dropped like a curtain. Brock squirmed in his boots.

“I would like to hear from Frond,” said the king.

Frond’s eyebrows all but leaped from her scarred face. “Your Majesty?” she said.

“Your counsel, Frond. I would hear it.”

Frond, who had been slumping in her chair, sat up straight and drummed her fingers upon the table. Grima clucked her tongue as Frond’s movement exposed the ruined chair, its insides tufting free and drifting to the floor.

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” she said. “The who and the why are impossible to know without the where. We need to determine where the mindtooth came from. Was it somehow brought through the wards? Or was it summoned directly from Astra? Does anyone within Freestone have the ability to access the planes?”

“See? Mindtooth!” the king said. “Frond at least knows what the cursed thing was. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“To answer her question,” Grima said. “Summoning is among the most forbidden of the forbidden arts. As you all well know.”

“Forbidden, but is it forgotten?” Brent asked. “We thought necromancy was a thing of the past as recently as three months
ago.”

“You’re welcome to visit our library’s forbidden section and see for yourself,” Grima answered. “It’s a bookshelf left completely empty except for a single urn. That urn is full of ash and cinder—all that remains of the evil books we put to the flame. That’s how serious I am about dark magic.” She turned back to Frond. “Ask your Hexam if you doubt my commitment.”

Frond showed her teeth, looking ready to hiss.

“Right,” said the king. “Hexam. We do have at least one wizard outside the purview of the Mages Guild, don’t we?” He tapped his chin. “And you…Lotte, is it? You were a steward once, is that correct?”

Lotte bowed her head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The king smiled. “And so a plan begins to take shape at last, despite the best efforts of this council to rob me of what remains of my hair, my humor, and my patience. Adventurers, please see yourselves out.” At Frond’s movement, he held out a hand. “Not you, Alabasel. I need you here for this. Your second may stay, too, if you like.”

Frond eased back into her seat and nodded stiffly. “Yes, Lotte would be…I should much, uh, like to have her present at the…present discussion.” She grimaced at her own awkwardness. Brock, however, was loving it. Frond was clearly much, much more comfortable in a hostile situation. Confronted with the king’s deference, she was at a complete loss.

“Wait for us outside the tower, kids,” Lotte said. “We should all walk back together.”

“Grima,” the king said. “Be a gracious host and give the woman your seat, would you?”

“Woof, that was hard to watch,” Brock said. “And yet I kind of hate to be missing the rest of it.”

“They don’t inspire much confidence, do they?” Zed asked.

They were descending upon the radiant platform, which moved slowly enough to make the experience more novel than terrifying. Still, Brock opted not to look down.

“Didn’t they solve anything?” Sulba asked.

“Not yet, but…I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about,” Liza said.

“I just hope they don’t suspend classes,” he said.

“You really like school, don’t you?” Brock asked.

“To be fair,” Sulba said, “by ‘classes’ I mean ‘learning to bend the fundamental laws of nature to suit my whims.’”

“Fair point,” said Brock.

Sulba opened the vault’s great iron door to retrieve their weapons. As he returned Liza’s sword, he asked her, “Hey, I don’t suppose you know Jayna?”

Liza smiled back. “Really well, actually. Are you friends?”

“More like rivals,” Sulba answered. “We were apprentices together. It can get a little…competitive around here, but I respected her talent. Sort of figured she was meant for great things, before she got drafted.”

Liza bristled. “She’s done some pretty great things since getting drafted, actually. You might have heard about some of them.”

Sulba waved her irritation away. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I just—Hey, get out of there!”

Brock and Liza whirled around to see Zed stepping out from within the vault. “Sorry!” he said, flushing with embarrassment.

“What were you doing in there?” Sulba asked.

“I was just getting my scepter,” Zed answered, holding it up with one hand and pointing at it with the other.

“You should have waited for me,” Sulba said crossly.

“Hey, ease up,” Brock said, matching the boy’s sharp tone. “He didn’t know any better. No harm done, right?”

“I guess.” Sulba’s eyes lingered over Zed for another moment. “Other than all the mud you’ve tracked in,” he grumbled. “Let’s get you out of here before you break any more rules.”

When Frond finally stormed out of the tower, she looked like she’d just swallowed a frog. “Come on,” she growled. That was all the greeting she spared for them as she stomped past, counting on the apprentices and Lotte to hurry after her.

“What happened?” Zed asked Lotte. “Did they decide anything?”

“For better or worse, yes,” Lotte answered. “We all need to be prepared for some changes in the days ahead.” She frowned. “The mages most of all. They’re all under suspicion. And the king wants Hexam and me to help sort it out.”

“Hexam?” Brock echoed. “Isn’t there bad blood between him and the archmagus?”

“Not the archmagus anymore,” Lotte answered. “For the foreseeable future, Grima is suspended, Ser Brent and an elite group of knights are moving into the tower, and…Well, for all intents and purposes, the Mages Guild is answering to us.”

Zed barked out a short laugh. “The irony is almost too rich.”

“I don’t like it,” said Liza. “The guilds are supposed to be separate, for good reason.”

“And it sounds like classes are canceled,” added Brock. “Poor Sulba.” Then a realization dawned on him, and he skidded to a stop.

“I’ve got it!” he cried. “Ugh. I knew something would occur to me as soon as it was too late.”

The adventurers turned to look at him expectantly. Even Frond had stopped in her tracks.

“What is it?” Liza asked. “What did you figure out?”

Brock smiled. “They should totally call it a spellevator.”