An image of Shia flashed in her mind. The torn, blood-drained body. The blind, staring blue eyes.

Melliandra shook her head. No, she would not think of Shia. Especially not while pushing a refuse cart through the Mage Halls.

But Shia was on her mind. Ever since Lord Death had spun that sweet picture of a happy, loving childhood, Melliandra had been thinking of Shia, of the songs Shia had sung as she’d combed a young umagi’s hair and given her the first taste of kindness she’d ever known, and the first name she’d ever had: Melliandra.

It was possible the Fey had plucked those memories from her mind when he’d spun that fanciful Fey tale of a wonderful childhood in an effort to manipulate her four days ago. That’s what any Mage would have done. And why she’d let him know it wasn’t working.

Even though it had been.

Melliandra, you are such a dimskull.

She reached the stairs and, despite not wanting to go anywhere near Lord Death again today, headed back down to Boura Fell’s lowest level. The lower floors were usually the most likely to have the most revolting surprises in their bins, so whenever it was her turn to run the refuse carts, she always preferred to start at the bottom and work her way to the top. That way, no matter what retch-inducing foulness she found in the bins, she could tell herself the next floor would be easier.

It wasn’t always true, but at least it gave her something to look forward to.

* * *

When Melliandra reached the level of Boura Fell that housed the High Mage’s offices, she pulled the floor’s refuse cart out of its storage closet and rolled it along with an almost light-hearted feeling in her chest. She’d just learned that the High Mage was away from Boura Fell. He’d left a little over a bell ago to visit one of the other Bouras—Koderas and his great new fortress, Toroc Maur, if the rumors she’d overheard in the Mage Halls were correct. Apart from the fact that his absence meant his refuse bins would be empty (which was always a great relief; she hated finding those small, lifeless infants whose blood he used to communicate with his Mages afield) the great, crouching malevolence of his all-seeing presence was gone, too, and with it the probing worms of his consciousness, digging into her soul, rifling through her thoughts, poking, spying. Owning.

Melliandra could not recall a single day of her life when Vadim Maur had not been near. But since he’d incarnated into Master Nour’s younger, much fitter body (and, oh, the cursing and Rages that had erupted in the Mage Halls over that!), he’d become much less reclusive. Much more likely to be found roaming the halls of Boura Fell rather than simply sitting behind his desk or locking himself away in his spell rooms.

When she reached Master Maur’s offices, the guards were standing at their usual posts, but a trio of Primages were arguing beside them. Two of the Primages were attempting to gain entrance to the High Mage’s office on some pretext—fabricated, no doubt—while the third Primage, Master Maur’s assistant, Zev, was steadfastly refusing to admit them.

“My orders are clear,” Zev was saying. “No umagi enters unsupervised, and no Mage enters at all until Master Maur returns. If you need something from his office, you may submit your request to me. I will communicate your desire to Master Maur, and if he approves it, I will bring the item to you.”

Outraged and grumbling, the two Primages stalked off.

Primage Zev turned, swift as a tunnel snake, and speared her with a sharp look. “Why are you here, umagi?” His will, like a dark, suffocating cloud, pressed down on her, tendrils of command and inquiry prodding at her mind.

Melliandra swiftly shoved every free thought and emotion back into the private space in her mind and slammed the door hard shut. She filled her mind with umagi concerns. She was hungry. She’d have to find someone weaker to sit beside at dinner tonight and steal their portion. Who best to single out?

“Mistress sent me, master.” No need to feign that tremble in her voice. She was really frightened. Zev was no Maur, but he was still a Primage, and still perfectly capable of shredding her body and mind if he discovered even a hint of her desire to kill Vadim Maur.

The tension in her chest didn’t begin to ease until the Primage grunted and turned to face the office doors. A dark glow massed around his hands, a cloud of shadow shot through with slivers of light, like shining threads in a dark cloth. More threads began to glow about the door. She only saw them for an instant. A strange web of light and dark plaited together in a complex and oddly beautiful pattern. Then she blinked, and the vision went away.

The Primage opened the doors to Vadim Maur’s office and motioned her to go inside. “Do what you came for, and be quick about it.”

He followed her in and watched her as she crossed the room to the High Mage’s great desk. She glanced furtively around the office as she went, looking for more threads of shadow and light. She knew she’d just seen magic: the weave this Primage had spun and the weave he’d unraveled to let her pass. She’d actually seen it—the individual threads and their pattern, not just the hazy glow visible to anyone when someone wove strong magic. She recognized it because she’d heard the appearance of magic described many times. The novices in the Mage Halls were young and chatty, and not yet learned enough to spin effective privacy weaves.

She couldn’t see any other magic in the room, not even around the door at the back of the office. Umagi weren’t allowed across that threshold. So far as she knew, no one was. If there was going to be more magic anywhere in this room, she would have expected it to be there, warding that door. But perhaps wards only showed themselves in the presence of other magic?