A soundless boom. A flash of light. The catalytic inversion extinguished his glimfire, shattered the glass in the storm-lashed attic window and flung him into the far wall.

Sprawled on the floor with his dignity in tatters, blood trickling from his nose and his head ringing like a thousand hammered bells, he blinked into the attic’s storm-wracked darkness.

“So,” he said, sounding as wheezy as his afflicted father. “Not tilatantin. That’s useful to know.”

When he could trust that his bones wouldn’t splinter if he moved, he groped his way to sitting and conjured more glimfire. Even such a small burst of power flooded fresh blood from his nose. Relief gave way to anger.

I am Morgan Danfey. I am better than this.

He looked at his workbench, where all three crucibles lay in jagged pieces and his carefully hoarded supply of azafris smoked gently, perfuming the air.

Anger surrendered to despair.

I might as well have broken the damned horse’s neck.

He kept the attic well warded, so no hint of the disaster had been felt in the mansion below. And the servants knew better than to disturb him while he worked. It meant he could protest his latest failure as loudly as he liked for as long as he liked.

And he did.

By the time he’d recovered his composure the wild storm had passed too, dissolving into a steady, reasonable fall of rain. Before he left the attic, he saw his notes on the working updated, the window repaired and the floor dried.

The mansion’s discreet master servant greeted him at the foot of the central staircase. “Sir,” Rumm murmured, proffering a folded parchment. “This arrived while you were occupied above stairs.”

He knew what the message was, and who it was from, before he broke the plain wax seal and unfolded it.

“Lord Greve Danfey’s delicate condition notwithstanding, your presence is required in Council on the morrow.”

The curt missive was signed only with an elaborate “V.” Brice Varen, head of Dorana’s Council of Mages, disdained any signature more elaborate, confident that all the world would know who he was by a single inked flourish. Morgan felt his lip curl.

Such pretension.

But pretentious or not, he was answerable to the man. And in truth he’d been expecting such a summons. He’d not set foot in the Hall of Knowledge since Winsun, the rippled consequences of Brahn Sorvold’s untimely death handled without him. All of Dorana’s recent mage business handled without him. The neglect couldn’t continue. Any mage invited to sit on the Council accepted the appointment knowing full well that every other consideration must take a backwards step thereafter. In putting his father first for so many weeks he was trying not only Varen’s limited patience, but the goodwill of his fellow councillors.

And with one exception, he’d not had much of that to start with.

“Has his lordship stirred, Rumm?” he said, refolding the note.

“He has not, sir.”

“Be attentive. I would be informed the instant he does.”