Brice snapped his spine straight. “No. I have it on excellent authority that Greve Danfey will very soon breathe his last. Given that, not only would it be cruel to take Morgan from his side but even if I did, would his counsel be reliable with his mind mired in grief?”

Shocked, Venette retreated to her chair and sat. Greve was that far gone? Why hadn’t Morgan told her? With an effort she smothered the swift hurt.

“You underestimate him, Brice. As much as Morgan loves his father, he loves Dorana more. If we truly are facing a disaster then—”

“Then there will be time for him to help avert it,” Brice said flatly. “Venette, I’m in no mood to sit in a room listening to Morgan and Sallis bicker while Dorana’s mageworking fabric unravels around us! And please, do not try to tell me there’ll be no bickering.”

She wished she could, but of course he was right. “Then exclude Sallis, not Morgan. He provokes most of the unpleasantness, you know he does.”

“Impossible,” said Brice. “However provoking Sallis might be, he is the senior councillor and Morgan is already excused.”

She knew him well enough to realise that further argument was pointless. So she stood again, with all her dignity on show. “As head of the Council your word is final, of course. But Brice, I warn you, this is a mistake.”

Brice offered her a wry, tired smile. “And if it is, Venette, it’s not my first and likely won’t be my last. Come. We should make haste to the Hall.”

“Give me a moment,” she said, resigned. “I’ll need to tell Orwin I’m going out.”

“Then I’ll see you in the Council chamber,” he said. “But Venette, you cannot mention this discovery to your husband. No-one can know. Not until we know exactly what we’re dealing with. And perhaps not even then.”

After nine years, dear Orwin was used to her keeping Council secrets. But even though she knew Brice was right, that news of Bellamie Ranowen’s dreadful discovery could not be allowed to escape, still she found herself resenting the stricture.

She had a terrible feeling that this was one burden she’d soon be desperate to share.

“Barl. Barl.”

Moaning, Barl opened her eyes. “Morgan?”

“Here,” he said, bending down and holding out his hand. “Can you sit up?”

There was blood on his face. Why was he bleeding? And why did her ears ring as though her skull had been turned into a bell?

Then she remembered.

Gasping, she knocked aside his offer of help and scrambled to her feet. “Did it work? I felt—I thought I felt—” Her tongue was stumbling over the simplest of words, and she could feel the salty tang of blood on her lips. “Morgan, did it work?”

He was laughing, his eyes brilliant, hands clasped behind his back. “Of course it worked!”