And now he was come to the knife-edge instant of creation, to the calling forth of the recrafted sigil at the heart of his new incant. Once, he’d done this… but the sigils hadn’t held.

They’ll hold this time. They will. They must.

His eyes were burning. Sweat, not susquinel. He dragged his embroidered sleeve across them, heedless of stains. A small part of him wanted to shout down the stairs, shout for Rumm to rouse Lord Danfey and haul the sick old man out of his bed and up to the attic so he could see the kind of mage his son was. Because he knew, he knew, that this time was different. He could feel it, he could taste it.

Slowly, so very slowly, he traced the shape of the sigil onto the shimmering air above the first crucible. Antithetical. Clockwise. The very opposite of what was known. And then he watched, teeth sunk into his lower lip, as the green substance within the crucible spun itself into a thin thread, idly at first and then picking up speed. It spun and spun itself into the air, spun itself into an echo of that slowly traced sigil. Became the sigil, green and glowing, crucible-cradled and strong.

If he smiled any wider his face would tear in two.

Carefully, for overconfidence would undo him, he traced the second sigil and after it the third. Then he stood back from the workbench and savoured the sight of all three glowing sigils. No sign of inconstancy. No hint of poor cohesion. No teetering on the brink of pathetic collapse. Laughter bubbled through him, washing away what remained of fear and doubt and pain.

Venette’s right. I am the future. And I will keep Dorana safe.

Of course, this was but the first step in the creation of his new transmutation incant. The next step was to transform the sigil into a malleable part of the recrafted working, something that could be called and used and banished at will. In many ways that was as tricky as the creation of the sigil itself. Mages had died, or been ruinously injured, attempting such a feat. Brahn Sorvold had died attempting it, slowly and in great pain.

But not me. I won’t die.

Only first, the sigil had to prove itself stable.

Waiting, he paced the attic again. At last he halted before the window and stared into the night. Rested his hot forehead against the cool glass and could have wept for wanting.

Let them hold. Let them hold. Let this be the moment of my making.

Time dragged by, slow as a hobbled horse. He kept his back turned, knowing he’d feel the first instant of disaster. But the sigils held. At last he swung round.

Green and glowing and sturdy, each sigil sat in its crucible. Their extravagant, cursive signatures were imprinted on his eyes. They lived in his fingers. They dwelled in his mind. Let him see one hundred summers, he would never forget them.