She glanced at Quen, who had taken Isha’s place on her right. The older mage had insisted that Sandry would turn up—the ball was large enough that she might be in one of the other rooms, or in the gardens, being romanced. No real inquiry could be made until morning without causing the kind of gossip Her Imperial Majesty wanted to avoid, so Isha was going to bed. Many of the older, more staid courtiers were also making their farewells. The younger members of the court were known to dance until dawn, with the empress joining them.

Sipping a goblet of wine, Berenene inspected the crowd. If Daja knew Sandry was missing, she showed no sign of concern. She and Rizu were surrounded by Rizu’s friends. They made a lively group, and Daja and Rizu practically glowed as they smiled at each other. That worked out quite well, thought Berenene with satisfaction. My Rizu is happier than I have seen her in months, something I had not anticipated. And I shall have a strong smith mage to serve me by the time autumn closes the mountain passes to the south.

The empress looked for Tris, but the redhead was nowhere in view. I hadn’t expected to see her, Berenene reminded herself. I will leave Tris to Ishabal. Oh, my. It looks as if Briar and Caidy have had a tiff. He is nowhere to be seen, and Caidy is flirting with every personable young man at court.

Berenene was about to ask Shan to fetch her a glass of wine when she saw that Ishabal had returned. The mage still wore her ball gown, and she carried a folded document in her hand. What business is so urgent that it could not wait until morning? the empress wondered.

Quen and Shan stepped aside as Ishabal approached the dais. The mage took his spot, offered the document to Berenene and whispered, “They wait in your personal audience chamber.”

Berenene raised an eyebrow and opened the note. It read:

I beg the favor of an immediate audience with Your Imperial Majesty. I have been insulted tonight in the most vile fashion and wish to inform you immediately of what was done to me under your roof.

The signature was that of her missing guest: Sandrilene, Clehame fa Landreg, Saghad fa Toren.

Berenene looked up. Something had gone amiss, it seemed. “Isha, I think I will need both you and Quen. You should be prepared for any…mishaps. Who is with her?”

“Briar and Tris,” replied Ishabal softly. “Majesty, Sandry looks battered. Her hands and feet are bandaged, her clothing torn. Trisana is throwing off sparks.”

The empress bit her lip. This could be even worse than the note had implied. “Then I suggest you and Quen arm yourselves with defensive magics before we enter that room.” Berenene beckoned to the captain of the guard as Isha whispered to Quen. When her guard approached and knelt beside her chair, she bent down to murmur, “Get one of your mages and a couple of guards to watch over Viymese Kisubo, subtly. Do not let her go anywhere but to her own rooms or to Rizu’s.”

The man nodded. Berenene got to her feet. As the dancers stopped and the conversation came to a halt, she smiled. “Amuse yourselves, friends. Imperial business calls me away, but there is no reason for you to interrupt your evening.” She left by the rear entrance rather than have her departure slowed by farewells. “Did you read this?” she asked Ishabal as she strode along, the older woman at her side and Quen rushing to keep up.

“I would not presume,” Ishabal replied stiffly.

Berenene slowed down and handed over Sandry’s note. Ishabal read it, twice, closed her eyes briefly as if in prayer, then passed it to Quen. “Who would be fool enough to assault a noblewoman in the imperial palace?” Quen wanted to know. “And how would such an idiot think he could do it and escape?”

“We’ll learn soon enough,” retorted Berenene, stopping to collect herself. “After which I shall decide what to do with that fool, and with anyone idiot enough to assist him. But first, I would like the two of you to be ready. I would hate to learn the hard way that their teachers had underestimated our guests’ control over themselves when they granted them their medallions so young.”

Taking a breath, Berenene smoothed her gold skirts. Then, as leisurely as if she walked in her gardens, she led her mages to her private audience chamber.

A guardsman stood outside. Years of service kept his face blank, though confusion showed in his eyes: Most visitors to the private audience chamber arrived during the day. When the empress stopped in front of him, he bowed and held the door open for her and her companions.

The three young mages seated there got to their feet as Berenene came in. All three, including Sandry, wore their medallions outside their clothes. Tris looked disheveled, two fat, kinked hanks of hair hanging loose from her usual netted bundle. Her face was pale and glistening with sweat, but her gray eyes were ice cold. The glass dragon sat on her shoulder with one paw in her hair, like a guardian statue.

Briar, too, was sweating. His face was unreadable as he looked at the empress.

Ishabal’s description of Sandrilene’s looks was about right. Sandry’s hair was a tumbled mess, tangled and knotted. Her clothes at least were unrumpled, a testament to her power over thread, but her hands and feet were masses of rag bandages. Her face was dust-streaked and bruised. The look in her cornflower blue eyes was pure steel.

“My dearest Sandrilene,” the empress said, striding toward her with her hands out. “Whatever happened to you?”

Sandry’s eyes caught and held hers. “Finlach fer Hurich happened to me,” she said, her voice an alien croak. “Fin, and that disgusting kidnap custom you let thrive in this country.” She began to cough, wincing as she did. Tears of pain streamed down her face. She dashed them away angrily.