“Yes,” she said. “And I’m sorry to cut our visit short, Greve, but I really must speak to Morgan about the problem. There is some urgency to bear in mind. So if you’ll excuse me…”

“Yes, you go, girl. I’ll not have that goat Varen blaming Morgan for my dallying. Only—Venette—”

She looked down at his shrivelled claw of a hand, its twisted fingers clutching. “Greve?”

“Get my son out of that attic,” he whispered. “He won’t listen to me.”

“I’ll do my best,” she promised. “But you ought to know, my lord, he doesn’t always listen to me either.”

“Doesn’t listen to anyone! Headstrong. Reckless. Always has been.”

“I used to think you encouraged him.”

“I had to,” Greve said, defensive. “His mother was soft.”

Morgan’s mother had been the sweetest soul. Her husband’s iron will had broken her spirit. “Don’t fret, my lord. I’ll not let any harm come to him.”

“Fond of him, aren’t you?”

“Very fond. And proud, as you should be.”

Greve grunted. “I am.”

“Does Morgan know it?”

Another grunt. “I know it. That’s enough.”

Staring down at him, she thought of everything she should say to that. Only why bother? Morgan wasn’t the only Danfey who sometimes refused to listen.

“I’ll visit you again soon, Greve,” she said, and kissed his scabbed cheek. “You rest, and get well.”

His scornful amusement followed her out of the chamber. Standing in the corridor, shaking, fingers pressing back the tears, it was some time before she could trust herself to speak. Rumm, ever-attentive, waited, holding his tongue.

“Take me to Morgan,” she said at last, her voice rough.

Rumm bowed. “Of course, your ladyship. Please, follow me.”

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Sweating like some brute Feenish farm hand, stripped to bare chest and azafris-singed trousers, Morgan roamed his smoky attic and sucked on his burned hand.

“Do your worst!” he snarled at the incant-cradle on his main workbench, where the charred remains of failed magic pungently smoked. “I will have this incant!”

And to think he’d assumed that with the sigils confirmed, his troubles were over. But no, far from it, thanks to the intransigence of Hartigan’s original transmutation matrix.

Cursing, he returned to his bench. Surely he’d not been misled by Rubin Cylte. The man had been a genius in the deconstruction of incants. What was it he’d written about the spliced reversal of energies?

“For pity’s sake, I read it not an hour ago,” he muttered, roughly flipping the book’s fragile pages in search of the relevant passage. “And I understood it. I’m not a dolt.”

The thought of failure was a sharpened spur dug deep in his pride. He was a Danfey, born to succeed. And if he did not…

Then Dorana will pay the price.

Which meant it was imperative that this incant did not defeat him.