Morgan returned to the College amidst a confusion of feelings. His years spent studying within its ivy-clad walls hadn’t been a misery… but they’d not been an undiluted delight, either. As ever, ranking counted. The fact that in raw talent he’d outstripped nearly every son and daughter from the more prestigious First Families could not make up for his less illustrious name.

In many ways, his talent had only made things worse.

The other boys from Dorana’s lower-ranked families had formed a little herd that kept them safe from the worst of the subtle sneering by those students, like Brahn Sorvold, who were born to greater privilege. They’d made a few tentative overtures in his direction, but he’d spurned them. The thought of hiding amongst that mediocre gaggle had sickened him.

And so his years in the College were spent mostly solitary. He was noticed, of course. The quality of his magework couldn’t be denied. But when it came down to choices, to the tutors favouring this student and not that one, he’d spent four years more often than not being that one.

The sting had never quite faded. Which was why he took Sallis and Shari’s disparagements so amiss, of course. He wasn’t a fool. He knew that inside Councillor Danfey still lived the shade of his younger, student-mage self.

“Sir? Sir, is something amiss?”

Startled out of melancholy thought, he stared at the youth who had so intemperately plucked at his elbow.

“Are you blind?” he demanded, and flicked the Council insignia pinned to his pearl-embroidered, blue velvet tunic. “Is it censure you’re seeking?”

The student opened his amberish eyes wide and let his small, wet mouth fall open. From the look of his merely serviceable attire, he was the offspring of a very lowly placed First Family. The upper ranks dressed their sons and daughters in brocades and velvets, not hardy linen. To be sure the boy’s tunic was dyed a rich forest green, and stitched here and there with gold thread, but at the end of the day it was linen. And that was that.

“Councillor!” he gasped. “Forgive me. You looked stricken and I thought—I thought—”

Morgan cuffed the gibbering fool on the side of his unkempt head. If you can’t afford a decent haircut, dolt, what are you doing here? “No, you failed to think or pay attention. And you would be a mage in the world beyond this College? Numbskull.” Another cuff. “Name?”

The student blinked. “My name, sir?”

“No, pibble! The name of my wet nurse’s big left toe!”

Shuddering, the boy gathered his wandering wits. “Werik Gowen, sir.”

Gowen? Yes indeed, a most lowly ranked First Family. If he’d been admitted as a student then he had to have talent, but talent wasn’t enough. When would people learn?