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.

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.