Marek peered across the hilltop through the alabaster trunks of the hayadra trees. Lady Orova stood alone, hair and dress streaming in the wind as she stared out across the bay. A frequent guest at Freemont, but one he’d never taken a shine to. Wore her heritage too lightly, as if that made her the better for it.

“One or two toasts.” Lady Ebigail smiled wryly. “And more besides, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“But if you need me, then of course . . .”

Lady Ebigail waved a dismissive hand. “No. I won’t hear of it. The young must have their rituals, and I’ll not have you abandon Roslava.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, she was a good friend to your brother, and we should repay that in kind. Marek will take care of me. Won’t you, Marek?”

“To my last breath, lady.”

Lady Ebigail lowered her cheek to her daughter’s kiss. “Now be off with you. But have care not to fall into too much mischief. The burden of our name falls heavier on your shoulders than ever.”

“Of course, Mother.”

With a brilliant smile, Lady Sevaka withdrew.

“Do you mind telling me why you’ve sudden interest in Captain Orova?” asked Lord Akadra. “It was only last week you deplored her for a bad influence on Kasamor.”

“Yes, I do mind,” snapped Lady Ebigail. She sighed. “It occurs to me that we have invested poorly in those who are to follow us.”

“A disrespectful child who shouldn’t waste time grubbing around in the mud and playing at soldier. Your words, Ebigail.”

“Much has changed this past week, and it is my business where I spend my affections.”

Lord Akadra scowled at the sidelong threat. “Then I’ll leave you to your grief. I’ve much to do this afternoon.”

“Don’t we all?” Lady Ebigail murmured. “Don’t we all.”

Eighteen

Eighteen

The proctor bowed low, the hem of his ceremonial scarf brushing the driveway’s gravel. He set aside his sun-stave and extended the velvet cushion in offering. Viktor’s shadow seethed in discomfort as he plucked a ward-brooch from its velvet nest. The magic locked within hummed beneath his fingers, but it was as likely that the silvery metal – and not the enchantment – had offended his gift.

Fortunately, neither was enough to spur the shadow to full wakefulness. Just as happily, the proctor gave no sign of recognising his inner conflict. But it had always been the smallest of risks. Those who bore the gift of magic in the Council’s service did so under the strictest discipline. It left them blind to much.

Viktor gave a last glance at the brooch’s woven filaments and pinned it to his coat. Kurkas followed suit. Calenne did not. She regarded the proctor’s leonine simarka with apprehension – a wild animal frozen in the act of bolting for safety.

“There is a problem, Miss Trelan?” asked Viktor.

“No,” she replied, with tremulous defiance.