She turned as Remmie’s hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. In his eyes she saw a sorrow that drifted perilously close to pity. But she didn’t want his pity. She wanted him angry, sharing her outrage, her burning desire to right what was wrong in Dorana.

How can he be my brother, my other half, and be so complacent?

She saw him hear the unspoken question, but before she could speak he shook his head. “Not now. The children. Barton.”

And he was right, about that, anyway. Not about anything else. About everything else he couldn’t be more mistaken. She shrugged his hand away and turned back to the dais.

The Council’s members had climbed to its top and now stood neatly arranged, the three men and two women staring over the crowd. A pace back and to one side stood the last three mages, all women, each one dressed in silks, decorated with jewels, trembling with ill-concealed excitement and pride. But there were four new incants approved, so where was the fourth mage to be honoured? Surely he or she wouldn’t risk insulting the Council by not attending?

Lord Varen, a man well past his seventieth year if the lines in his face spoke the truth, stepped to the edge of the dais and raised his hands.

“Winsun greetings to all. The Council of Mages welcomes you on this auspicious occasion.”

An enhancement incant carried his melodious voice to every mage in the plaza.

“With us this day stand three talented mages,” Varen continued, “who by virtue of their diligence and creative vision have created new incants for our lexicon of knowledge, and in doing so further burnish the lustre of Dorana’s magical heritage. Mage Lakewell… Mage Tranter… Mage Folet—” One by one, the women stepped forward as their names were called. “Dorana thanks you for your service to our arcane lore.”

As applause rippled through the audience gathered in the plaza, enthusiastic from the gathered school children, more polite and restrained from everyone else, each of the three acknowledged mages pressed a hand to her heart and lowered her head in humble appreciation… or an excellent imitation of it.

Watching them closely, Barl felt a pang of envy so sharp she had to swallow. That Mage Folet was so young, a mere handful of years older than she and Remmie. Yet there the woman stood, elevated to the status of an Incant Mage, her name to be recorded for all time in the Council register.

For one terrible moment, she thought she might weep.

“Alas,” said Lord Varen, his expression darkening, “magic is not without its dangers. Today we mourn the loss of Mage Brahn Sorvold. Two days ago, emboldened by his recent success, he attempted an even more daring incant… and paid for his ambition with his life.”

Shocked gasps from the crowd. Remmie and Barton murmured to their students, patting heads, whispering reassurances. Barl frowned, disapproving. They might be children, but they were mages first. There was no such thing as being too young for the truth. But if she opened her mouth on that score Remmie would be furious.