“Yes, Mage Lindin, you weep,” he said, sneering. His harsh fingers were warm. Branding her. “Weep for the stubborn pride that will keep you diminished like this forever unless you come to your senses and trust me.”

The cloud-streaked sky above the fringing woodland was tinting rose and gold. Sunrise, swift and glorious. Deep within the sheltering trees a joyous chorus of birdsong burst forth. For a moment its sweetness dulled the binding that wrapped her tight in streamers of fire.

Morgan Danfey leaned close. “You’re in pain, aren’t you? Good. Remember it, Mage Lindin. Burn the pain into your memory. Burn it deep so you don’t forget.”

Helpless, she stared at him as he watched her suffer. And as she stared, his eyes shimmered and sheened. She felt her laboured breath catch.

He weeps for me? No. He can’t be. I’m dreaming.

He snatched his hand free as though her pain burned his fingers.

“Ba’tari,” he said, and sketched a swift sigil. “Nebek tu.”

Another flare of light, a final pulse of flame, and the worst of the pain fled. He’d deactivated the estate’s warding. The relief was enormous.

“Sit up,” he said roughly, then caught her by the elbow and tugged. “No mage should cower on the ground.”

Struggling, she managed to lift herself. “But I’m not a mage, am I? Not any more.”

“Don’t be foolish. Your binding is temporary.” His fingers still tight around her elbow, he shook her. “And what were you thinking, attempting magic while bound?”

The mystery clock. Remembering it, Barl felt her heart hammer her ribs. She pressed a fist to her chest. “I didn’t.” Dropped to a whisper, her roughened voice broke. “I was dreaming.” A wonderful, beautiful, impossible dream. She turned on him, lashing out. “And what kind of man are you, to give me agony in my sleep? Is that the Council’s justice? Is indiscriminate cruelty all an unranked mage can expect?”

He made no attempt to defend himself. Releasing her elbow, he allowed her to strike him again and again. Let her rage and weep, freshly woken to what she’d lost, what was taken. What he’d taken. This was his fault.

I hate you. I hate you. Stop looking at me like that!

Why, oh why, was he looking at her like that?

Exhausted and hurting, she let her fists fall. Stared at him, dispirited. “And now I suppose you’ll punish me for hitting you.”

She’d marked his face. A little red smudge high on his cheekbone. His fingers touched the bruise, lightly. She braced herself, expecting retribution.

“I can make you a posset,” he said. “It will help you sleep more deeply, and most likely stop the dreams.”

The sympathy in his voice was a ruse, it had to be. A cunning strategy to lull her into further personal betrayals.

“Why would you do such a kindness for me?”