“A custom I deplore, my lady.” Niko, on Sandry’s other side, leaned in to meet Inoulia’s eyes. “University training does not cover all magic, and unusual power requires unusual teaching methods. Lady Sandrilene can perform prodigies unknown to Lightsbridge.”

The expression in Inoulia’s eyes clearly said she would believe that when she saw it.

With an inner sigh, Sandry looked over the length of table that stretched between the dais and the main doors of the dining hall. Halfway down, just above the salt-cellar, were Lark and Rosethorn in fresh green habits, and Frostpine in red. At the far end sat Briar, Daja, and Tris, talking among themselves. Didn’t she wish she sat with them!

The main course was over; the subtlety—a spun sugar and fruit peacock, made to be admired, not eaten—had just been presented when the main doors opened. A gray-haired white man entered, leaning on a tall staff decorated with bright enamels. He dressed in much the same fashion as Niko, wearing dark gray silk breeches and shirt and a short-sleeved overrobe of a garnet red velvet, its hems and collar embroidered in black silk. Unlike Niko, he wore his gray hair short; his face was shaved clean, and the scent of expensive soap floated in his wake. Seeing all the guests, he stretched his thin lips in a smile that betrayed no real feeling of pleasure. Sandry, eyeing him, thought that he didn’t look all that well. His large, moist brown eyes sported bags on bags, and there was a sallow tone in his skin.

“My lady, forgive me,” he said as he walked past the salt-cellar. “I was inspecting the cattle ranges when I heard that his grace the duke had come. I could not be laggardly in paying my respects.” He bowed deeply to Vedris. “Your grace honors we northerners by taking so personal an interest in our troubles.”

Inoulia smiled. “Your grace, may I present our chief mage, Yarrun Firetamer?” The duke nodded a greeting, and the lady continued, “My dear Yarrun, you have a colleague in my honored father-in-law’s party, Master Nikiaren Goldeye, who has been in residence at Summersea.”

Niko got to his feet. Yarrun bowed, though not as deeply as he had to the duke. “Everyone knows the name of Goldeye,” he said, as if he’d bitten on a sour apple. Niko returned the bow, though if the sideways twitch of his mustache were any clue, he was unimpressed by the newcomer.

Some of these university mages are like overbred cats, thought Sandry watching Yarrun as the lady introduced the most important of her other guests. They dress to kill and don’t want to get their paws wet. Even Niko is a little that way sometimes, especially when he’s on his dignity.

Since the diners were almost finished, the new arrival stood on the dais, talking quietly with the duke and Lady Inoulia. They were all about to leave the table when a boy stumbled into the great hall, panting as if he’d been running hard and long.

“Master Yarrun, you’re back!” he cried. “Thank all the gods!” He staggered up to the dais, still puffing. Everyone stared at him, noting the burns and soot marks on his rough peasant’s clothes.

The duke murmured something to one of the servers, who poured a crystal goblet full of water. The boy gulped its contents between gasps.

Yarrun had drawn back a step, as if to put distance between himself and the messenger. “I take it there is a fire,” he murmured.

The boy nodded vigorously, draining the goblet. The server took it back and filled it again as the lad said, “It—it was the croft’s chimney, the night drawing down cool and them not cleaning it out first.” He took the goblet from the server once more and drank. “Their house is burning. We thought we had it under control, but the wind—”

“How bad is it?” demanded Yarrun.

“Treadwell’s roof’s burning, and one of the barns. It’s in the gardens. If it reaches the wall—you know our wall is just logs, sir—”

Yarrun held up a finger to silence the boy, then pondered for a moment—a long moment, Sandry thought, impatient—while everyone in the room shifted nervously. The village at the foot of the hill on which the castle stood was surrounded by forest.

Come on, Sandry ordered the mage silently. This isn’t a play on a stage, it’s real people—

Yarrun smiled brightly. “Would you like a demonstration of my skills?” he asked Niko. “I’m sure you will find it amusing.”

Tris’s magical voice rang as clearly in Sandry’s mind as if the redhead were shouting in her ear. Amusing! He calls a fire amusing! Why not put a torch to his tall and see if he finds that amusing, too!

Sandry shook her head, though she couldn’t help but think that her grouchy friend had a point.

Yarrun led the way outside. Niko rose and followed, beckoning to Sandry. A glance at Frostpine, Lark, and Rosethorn called the dedicates to him; Briar, Daja, and Tris ran to catch up.

As she passed behind Inoulia’s chair, Sandry heard the lady say to the duke, “This is a small matter, of interest only to those in Yarrun’s craft. I thought we might sit in one of the private rooms. Some of my ladies are really quite accomplished musicians.”

Is Yarrun so good at this that she doesn’t think anything will go wrong? wondered Sandry, joining her friends as they followed the adult mages. Or does she just not care about the village?

Yarrun led the way out of the castle and across the main courtyard, walking briskly. A servant girl caught up with him halfway, delivering a leather bag. Yarrun accepted it and walked on, until they reached one of the thick towers that flanked the main gate. Niko caught up to him there and walked beside him, talking quietly, as they entered the tower. A corkscrew flight of stairs led to the upper reaches and through a door that opened onto the wall.