She’s up to something,” said Remmie, morose. “I know she is. But she won’t tell me what and she won’t let me help. Venette, I’m telling you, this will all end in tears.”

Venette eyed her sour porridge, swallowing nausea. If she never ate another bowl of Olken porridge in her life, she’d die happy. Not that she complained, of course. As the last surviving member of the Council of Mages, it was her duty to set an example. So set an example she did, always smiling as she graciously thanked the Olken for their generosity… and ate the dreadful porridge to the very last smear in the wooden bowl.

“Venette! Are you listening?”

She looked across the narrow, rough-hewn wooden table at the young man who’d become like a second son to her. The good son. The honourable son. The son who’d never hurt her. He was so decent. Everyone liked Remmie. Even Maris liked him, though her hatred of his sister continued undimmed.

“Of course I’m listening, my dear. I’m just not sure what you want me to do.”

“Talk to her! Make her tell you what she’s thinking, what she’s doing!”

Another rule she’d made for herself was that she must always take her meals in the camp’s small, root-knotted central square. That no matter how sad or weary or defeated she felt, she could never retreat into solitude, into the privacy of her tent. The exiles of Dorana must see her every day, brave and determined and undefeated by their tragedies.

Which meant that on this one hundred and twelfth morning in Lur, she ate her breakfast with Remmie in full sight of their fellow mages. The few who’d braved the sunrise, at least, aside from those whose turn it was to cook. Hayne Jarralt, Tarlin Amsher, Vonie Trevoyle and her young son, Abbet. Most everyone else stayed late abed, though, these days… and while she deplored sloth, she found it hard to lay blame. With nearly all magework forbidden for the time being, so as not to alarm the Olken, there was little for the weary, heartsick mages of Dorana to do.

Hearing Remmie’s raised voice, those hardy few early risers cast surreptitious glances at them.

“Now, now, Mage Lindin,” she murmured, reproving. “I’ll have no ructions causing dismay.”

Glowering, he pushed aside his half-finished porridge and leaned forward. “Are you going to talk to Barl, or not?”

“Remmie…” Venette sighed. “I’ve already talked to her. Well, I tried. She’s no more forthcoming with me.”

“And that doesn’t alarm you?”

Of course it did. But she saw little purpose in telling him so. He was on edge enough already. “My dear, your sister will confide in us when it suits her, and not a moment before.”