Because Dorana’s Council of Mages was a sham. It was meant to protect every mage from harm, not just the ranked ones, but if not for Morgan Danfey she’d either be dead now, or waiting to die. She still found it difficult to believe he’d saved her. That haughty mage, who’d stunned her at Winsun with his easy wielding of power?

Why did he speak for me? It did him no favours. That prune-faced mage, he wanted to see me thrown down. He’ll not forget Morgan Danfey’s defiance. He’s like Arndel, that councillor. He has a mean, shrivelled soul.

So did the older woman. What a hateful look in her eyes! As for the younger woman, she wasn’t sure. There’d been anger at Danfey, that much was clear, but the reason for it was unclear. Something else stirred there.

And Lord Varen. Why did he support Councillor Danfey? Does he lull me into a false sense of reprieve? Does he hope to catch me law-breaking again, so he can condemn me to death with a clean conscience?

It seemed more than likely. He’d not be head of the Council if he wasn’t first and foremost a champion of Dorana’s ranked mages.

How long do they intend to leave me bound? And after I’m released, if I’m released, what then? Will this binding leave me damaged? Will I live the rest of my days a cripple?

The thought of that left her almost paralysed with fear. Could even the Council of Mages be so brutal?

I think they could. I think, given free rein, there is nothing those mages would not dare to do.

Round and round inside her aching skull the questions marched, so she couldn’t find a moment of peace.

What about Remmie? Is he never to know what’s become of me? Will they let me at least write to him? Or would they rather he gave me up for dead and forgot me?

She’d wanted to ask the Council to at least tell her how long she’d be held on Morgan Danfey’s estate, but the binding incant had stolen her voice. It had stolen everything.

Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. She didn’t care. There was no-one to see them. How long had she been locked away down here? It could be sunrise outside, or midday, and she wouldn’t know it. Thanks to the Council, until the binding was lifted she’d need a clock made by someone else to know what hour it was.

They’ve made me no better than a Brantish tramp.

The injustice of it burned, even hotter than the binding. It felt like every nerve in her body was seared.

I think they wish I’d never been born. I think it’s their hope that this binding will destroy me, so they can pretend Barl Lindin never existed.