Fresh sweat slicking his skin, Morgan undertook the next step: confirming the sigils. No azafris or susquinel or tilatantin for this task. Requiring pure and simple magework, it was a test in the blood. One breath too much power, one breath too little, a moment too long or too short, and the sigils would destroy themselves and most likely him as well.

Breathing rigorously controlled, he spread his fingers wide. Felt for the weft and warp of magic, for the power and glory in the air. The peoples beyond Dorana’s borders lived in kingdoms of the blind, the deaf, the dumb and the lame. They could no more see or feel the magic surrounding them than a stone could drink soup.

Poor wretches. Pitiful paupers. They might as well be dead.

He focused on the first sigil. Eased his mind around its trembling edges, feeling for any weakness in its fabric. Found none, and softly laughed.

“Belemi. Belemi. Ra’tu. De’sak.”

Slowly, so slowly, the sigil’s trembling stopped. It flared once, sun bright, then it settled to a mellow glow, green like new grass.

Morgan felt himself blink. Felt more laughter bubble into his throat. He swallowed it, swiftly. That was only one sigil. Two remained that could kill him.

But they didn’t.

It wasn’t until the third and final sigil firmed into permanence that he allowed himself to acknowledge his ruthlessly strangled fear. Shaking like a virgin facing her wedding bed, he felt his legs give way. Felt himself thud to the attic’s floorboards, his vision swimming with tears and relief and triumph.

Luzena. Luzena. I wish you were here.

Chapter Seven

It was agony, waiting for a reply from the College of Mages. Not even a second commission from Lady Grie, a natal clock for her aged mother, could ease the churning in her belly.

“Barl, you have to be patient,” Remmie said, sounding impatient himself. “Two weeks isn’t so long. Do you think you’re the only mage in Dorana with a question for the College?”

Elbows braced on the kitchen table, Barl glared. “This isn’t a question, Remmie. This is my life.”

“Your life,” he said, under his breath. “Barl, you have a life already, a good one, and—”

“So you say!” she retorted. “But I decide the quality of my life. If you choose to squander your gifts in some obscure little hamlet schoolhouse, well, that’s your choice. But I won’t make the same mistake and I won’t sit around hoping for scattered crumbs from the great mages’ table. I’m not stupid. I know what they’re doing. They think if they ignore me for long enough I’ll give up and go away. Well, I won’t. Not this time.”

Instead of answering, Remmie took his emptied plate and used cutlery and clattered them into the sink. Then he stood there, head lowered. She’d hurt his feelings, disparaging his precious little school. Disparaging him. Well, she was sorry for that, but she was right. And she was tired of him refusing to admit it.