“And that’s meant to lull us, is it? Make us believe you share our sufferings?”

The speaker this time was a woman, as unfriendly as Mage Garven. She wore plain, drab green linen. A servant’s garb. What was the woman doing causing trouble in the street? Surely she had shelves to dust or boots to clean?

“Lulling you is not my purpose,” she replied. “I merely point out that rank is no protection.”

“Your rank is meant to be our protection,” said Mage Garven. “You mages on the Council, aren’t you meant to have the answers? You lay down the law to us. Tell us what magics we can and can’t have. There’s a price for that, Lady Martain. Why aren’t you paying it? Why are we the ones paying for what you can’t do?”

Sparked tinder to dry grass, his demand whipped through the pressing crowd. Loud voices echoed him. The day darkened with rising fear.

“All you’ve done is ban the use of magic!” a second man complained. “You’ve made our lives even more of a misery and we’ve got nothing to show for it!”

Venette pointed at him. “For shame, Mage Tolomew. How many times have you drunk my wine at one of our parties? You know better than anyone that I don’t look to burden you. And not all magic is banned, only such incantery that isn’t needful. Do you say a Brantish farmhand is more capable than a Doranen mage?”

Humiliated by her open scorn, Tolomew mumbled something then looked away. Not liking his swift capitulation or a harshly spoken truth, the crowd started muttering again.

Then another shout. “Mage-mist! Run!”

As the resentful crowd scattered like startled mice, Venette watched the drifting dazzle of raw, unrestrained magic. Afraid and furious, she stood her ground. Dared it to come nearer, to disfigure her. To kill her. The mage-mist drifted closer. Closer. So close she could feel its unbridled heat crisping her skin.

“Bas’fana!” she shouted, clapping her hands. “Bas’fana disnoi!”

In a shower of sparks it collapsed and vanished. Her breathing ragged, Venette pressed trembling fingers to her to lips. Held back the sobbing relief that did not become a ranked mage, let alone a councillor. Then she glared at the few mages still scuttling away. Ungrateful jiggets. For days she’d foregone comfort, Orwin’s company, her own bed, decently cooked meals, fresh clothes and a bath, just so she could remain at the College to work with Bellamie Ranowen toward finding the key to their saving.

What more do they want from me? Shall I slit a vein in my wrist and bleed for them? Take a knife and cut my own throat? Must I die for Dorana to prove I’m trying to save it?