Looking at her, Jervale felt a great surge of affection. Felt it for all of them, these men and women he’d dreamed, who’d trusted him because he asked it… and for no other reason.

“Before I drink any herbery muck,” said Boyde, “I want to know what you want of us, Jervale. You dragged us out here for a reason. Time to tell us what that is.”

Even Bannet was nodding. And he couldn’t blame them.

“I know things,” he said, after a moment. “But not everything. I can’t see every twist and turn in the road. But I know this. I know it. You and me, we were born to be the secret keepers of Lur’s magic. I know we’re tasked with the saving of this land. I know the day will come when what we know, what we’ve held onto, will make the difference between life and death for the Olken.” One by one, he looked at them. “And in your bones, I think you know it too. Why else did you let me drag you out here?”

Silence, as they thought about that. As he thought about the other things he’d learned from last night’s dreams, that instinct told him they weren’t ready to hear of, like the other ways Lur would change and the other sacrifices they’d be making.

Like the Innocent Mage.

Oh, yes. He’d keep that truth to himself a good while yet.

It was Bannet who spoke first. “That’s a mighty heavy burden, Jervale.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“And counting you, there’s only seven of us to carry it. That ain’t what I’d call a lot of folk to save Lur.”

“Seven’s enough to start with,” he said. “But don’t fret. In time, we’ll have more. In time our Circle will have all the folk it needs.”

Old Phryn rolled his eyes. “Our circle?”

“The Doranen have their Council. And we’ll be a circle, so strong the strongest Doranen magic will never break it. No matter what.”

“To our Circle,” said Emmie of Hoyne, and held out her hands. An acceptance. A challenge. A promise to stay true.

Holding hands with them, in a circle, Jervale blinked back tears.

I’ve done it, Bene. I ain’t mucked it up. Come what may, we’ll survive.

At breakfast, Maris asked after Remmie.

“He’s feeling poorly this morning,” Venette said, and patted her hand. Years on the Council kept the truth out of sight. “He’s staying abed. But I’ll tell him you were asking, my dear. That’s bound to cheer him up.”

And Maris, for whom life had become such a wretched disappointment, nodded, believing her, and chatted with Mage Jarralt’s son instead.