Farilane sighed. “Fine. Be that way. Doesn’t matter. But I’ll tell you what does. Mawyndulë is coming to kill us all. He’ll begin with the emperor, then my father, and finally Nordyan and me. Once the line of Nyphron is gone and he has the emperor’s key, he will unlock the box he stole, take out the horn, and blow it. The elves across the Nidwalden River will hear that horn and come to see what happened. As the horn was not presented to the Aquila properly, I suspect there’s going to be an altercation of old-world proportions. You know—dragons, earthquakes, the sort of things born of magic. Problem is, the empire no longer has magic. We are defenseless against it, and I suspect we’ll fare badly in the rematch. Unless, of course, magic still exists within the imperium.” She folded her arms and stared at the First Minister. “Ruby Finn is proof that human magic still exists. And it is fairly obvious that the Monks of Maribor are what The Book of Brin refers to as Artists. And you’re one of them. Tell me, Minister Dray, can you explode trees with a snap of your fingers?”

“If I could, shouldn’t you be terrified? If I were, as it seems you are alleging, a powerful—what did you call it? Artist? Shouldn’t you be fearful that I might snap my fingers and destroy you to preserve my secret?”

“Not at all.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re on our side. Because when Ruby Finn set my brother on fire, you were the one to put it out. Because the monks fought to protect Nordyan and the Teshlors. And because in all the years you’ve been minister, you’ve never done anything remotely malevolent. You aren’t here for nefarious reasons. You’re here to protect the empire, and apparently, the imperial family.”

“Interesting theory, but if that’s the case, why are you writing on the walls of my office?”

“I came here to tell you it’s not enough—you’re not enough. We need more help.”

For the first time, Martasen Dray looked puzzled.

“Mawyndulë is over eighteen hundred years old. He grew up learning magic the way Teshlors learn the sword. You’re no match for him. None of us are. At least not when we’re alone. Call them in, Martasen. Call all of them in. It’s time for the empire to remember magic.”

Holding a mug of watered wine and balancing a plate of pastry-wrapped venison complete with a killer blueberry smear, Farilane struggled to open the door to her chambers. She had an established habit of grabbing meals and eating them in her rooms, but since returning from Merredydd, it had become less a habit and more a necessity. Farilane couldn’t imagine relaxing enough to eat anywhere else. Not that she ate much anymore.