“Mm. By the way?”

“What?”

“You can call me Alex.”

Caldera gave me a curious look. After a moment, she nodded.

We sat in silence for a little while, broken only by the rustle of paper as I turned the pages. “Do you think what we did to White Rose will change anything?” I asked.

“Short term?” Caldera said. “Sure. Longer term?” She shrugged. “Demand’s still there. People are still the same. You can make things a little better if you work at it. But in the end, nothing really changes.”

I thought about that for a moment. I remembered the Keepers, and the feeling of sitting in the Belfry, watching the mages of the Light Council go about their business. Even in the middle of everything that had happened, there had been a sense of inertia there, a stability. It was easy to believe it would always be the same. Caldera was paging through the report, distracted, and all around us, the bureaucracy of the Keepers hummed quietly. It didn’t feel any different.

At least, not yet.

| | | | | | | | |

It was a month later.

The Conclave is a semicircular amphitheatre, the largest of the three chambers at the heart of the War Rooms. Gold leaf covered the domed roof above, and gilt-framed paintings and works of art looked down from between velvet curtains. I’d never been inside the Conclave before. Usually the room is forbidden to all but an inner circle of Light mages, but there are a very few events where the gates are (reluctantly) opened to outsiders. This was one of them.

The room was crowded. Mages sat in rows at the curving benches, while those who hadn’t been able to get a seat stood in the stairs or at the back. Security was everywhere, Council operatives and Keepers standing at vantage points at the lower levels and scanning the crowd from the balconies above. I could feel the presence of literally hundreds of defensive wards and spells, but few of the mages seemed to be paying attention to them. Everyone was focused on the stage below.

Thirteen chairs stood at the centre of the stage, one row of seven, slightly raised, and a second row of six in front and below. Ten of the chairs were occupied. One of the ten people was Levistus, sitting still and silent. The other nine I’d never seen before. All wore elaborate mage robes; none were young. The one thing all shared was that each of them wore a simple gold chain over their shoulders. These were the Junior and Senior Councils, the leaders of the Light mages of Britain, and collectively they wielded more power than any other group in the country.

I wondered what they thought of what was happening in front of them.

“Who comes before the Council?” the master of ceremonies asked.

The man he was addressing looked about thirty, though I knew he was far older. He had dark hair, the polished good looks of someone who spends time cultivating them, and a half smile that rarely left his face. His robes were black, which I was sure had been a deliberate choice. This was Morden, one of the most powerful Dark mages I’d ever met. If the mages sitting in those chairs were the strongest amongst the Light faction, Morden was their counterpart. “One who is summoned,” Morden replied. He didn’t raise his voice, but it carried to the edges of the room.