She shouted after him as he walked away. Shouted pleas, shouted threats, shouted ’til she was hoarse. He didn’t stop. He didn’t listen. He could hardly see for tears.

I’m sorry, Mama. I am. But there are some things I won’t do. Not even for you.

Because she was obliged to set an example, Venette ignored Orwin’s objections and made her way from their town house to the Hall of Knowledge on foot.

She’d not walked more than three streets’ distance before she was regretting her choice.

So deeply alarmed, so uncertain, were the people of Elvado now that they did not fear to accost her. But worse than their jostling, pointing, barging and weeping was the inescapable evidence of Dorana’s dreadful decline.

How did we come to this? Where did we go wrong?

She didn’t know. None of them knew. But as she stood in the middle of Asvoden Way, staring over the crowd at her neighbourhood’s buckled walls, its cracked windows, the boarded-up gaping holes where stained glass once glittered, the oddly melted roof tiles and uneven front paths, she accepted—for the first time—that unless the Council and the College performed a miracle, and quickly, this city would fall to ruin… and after it, all Dorana.

Shaken, she looked at the waiting mages around her. A scant handful she recognised. The rest were unknown. But they all knew her, because she was Lady Venette Martain, Councillor. Too important to bother… until today.

“I know what you want to hear,” she said to them, raising her voice. “And justice knows, I want to say it. But if I did, I’d be lying. All I can do is ask for your patience.”

“We’ve been patient!” an angry voice in the middle of the crowd retorted. “It’s not helping!”

A ripple of muttered agreement. Every face she looked at was unfriendly.

The angry voice wasn’t familiar. “Whoever you are, sir, do me the courtesy of showing your face.”

The unhappy crowd parted. A slender mage of middling height shifted through the space made for him and stood before her, belligerent. The right side of his face was puckered scarlet, the wound reaching past his hairline into his scalp. His hair had been shorn close, revealing one ruined ear.

“Mage-mist,” he said, sneering. “Caught me unawares. And I’m not the only one who’s been afflicted, Lady Martain.”

She swallowed. “I know. The Guild of Pothers keeps the Council apprised of such unfortunate incidents. I am sorry, Mage—”

“Garven.” The man’s right eye, its drooping lid bubbled, leaked a blood-tinged tear. “My daughter Tiva was with me. Not yet twelve. A pretty child, with a great touch of talent about her. She’s not expected to live.”

If she touched his arm in sympathy she thought he’d spit on her. “I’m sorry. I had a narrow escape myself, the other night. Terrible.”