“I’m getting him out tonight,” said Oreg in oblique reply. “Help me move this furniture, I need a clear space on the floor.”

By the time they’d cleared the floor, Lord Duraugh, looking more tired than Tosten, had come up to see what the noise was.

Oreg produced a sheet of vellum and made Tisala stand over his shoulder as he drew the section of the Asylum where Ward was. When he was finished he had a fair map. Then he picked Tisala’s memories to pieces again. She found she remembered details she couldn’t possibly have: how many stone blocks there were between each doorway, where the paint was scratched on the inside of Ward’s cell door, the shape of the lock.

When he was finished with her, Tisala sat down abruptly on a bench and realized he’d used some magic on her—she could feel its absence now that it was gone.

Without a word, Oreg took a piece of charcoal and began marking the polished wooden floor.

“What are you doing?” Tosten’s voice startled Tisala. She’d forgotten he and Duraugh were in the room, too.

“Transportation spells without a definite destination are difficult in the best of times.” Oreg replied. “This”—he paused in his drawing to gesture at the marks he’d made on the floor—“will help me return here if something goes wrong. Hopefully I’ll be able to get myself to where they’ve stashed Ward, and then I can get us both out.”

“They have the area magicked to prevent someone doing just that,” said Duraugh. “I’ve asked a few friends about it—discreetly.”

“Jakoven’s pet wizards don’t have the power to ward it against me,” said Oreg contemptuously.

Tisala had watched her father’s mage use symbols to work magic before, but there was something different about the way Oreg moved—like the difference between watching an artist and a talented amateur. Oreg never stopped to look something up in a book, never paused in the detailed lines he placed on the floor, though she could barely see the marks in the dim light. He never had to stop and go back to redraw anything. Even so it took him quite a while before he was satisfied.

After setting aside the charcoal, he jumped lightly over his artwork and sat, cross-legged, in the unmarked section he’d left in the middle. He closed his eyes and became still.

Nothing happened for such a long time that when the first few sparks sputtered from the marks on the floor, Tisala thought she was imagining things.

Then between one breath and the next the temperature in the room shot up from winter-cool to unbearably hot. Blue and gold sparks spewed from the black marks and lit the room, forcing Tisala to bring up her arm to protect her eyes.