XXVIIDOMENICWINTER
That night, as the nation mourned the loss of land and lives, as refugees crowded into Gallamere’s train stations and camped in its parks, as overwhelmed magicians raced throughout the Citadel, the Council gathered solemnly in a conference room and locked the door.
“Well,” Iseul said gravely, “I’m not even sure where to begin.”
“So, not only have you posed that Living Wands and winterghasts are somehow equivalents,” Sharpe spoke through gritted teeth, “but that there is a traitor within the Order working as an agent ofWinter?”
“Yes, I believe you get the picture,” Domenic answered flatly.
The frost over the lancet windows utterly obscured the gleam of Gallamere’s nighttime skyline. The sconces burned dim. An enchanted typewriter clacked from a darkened corner.
Flames crackled in the ancient stone fireplace, casting every profile in stark shadows.
Domenic braced himself for Sharpe’s outrage. Yet the President of the Magicians Order only chuckled. He leisurely withdrew Ballathim to light a cigarette, then held it perched between two wizened fingers.
From the opposite end of the table, Domenic crinkled his nose at the tobacco’s reek and scrutinized Sharpe with disdain. It would take a heartless magician to betray the Order, and undoubtedly Sharpe fit the criterion.
Behind Sharpe, gilded paintings of famous Order figures and wands decorated the wall in an imposing backdrop. And forhowever much Domenic loathed the man, he couldn’t deny that one day Sharpe’s portrait would haunt the Council’s wing, glowering at pathetic new generations of magicians for all posterity.
Domenic and Ellery exchanged a glance. It ached to look at her, but he couldn’t dwell on the disaster of their conversation, not here, not now. They’d come to this meeting with a strategy.
As imperceptibly as he could, he shook his head.
Ellery’s jaw clenched. She hadn’t found Sharpe’s reaction suspicious, either.
“Glynn,” Sharpe said, his voice sinisterly relaxed in that way only he could manage. “What do you make of this notion that we’re all strolling around with monsters in our pockets?”
Glynn paused mid-pour, his grip throttling the neck of the whiskey decanter he’d snatched from atop the sideboard. “Wandlorists have always postulated about what makes a Living Wand truly living.”
“Oh, I see you’re taking this all in stride,” Sharpe quipped.
Though Domenic resented agreeing with Sharpe, he did. In less than twenty-four hours, the Council had shifted from strategizing an invasion to rethinking everything they knew about this war. And Glynn seemed far more curious than rattled.
Despite the weeks working beside Glynn and hearing countless stories of him through Ellery, Domenic didn’tknowthe Director of Education and Recruitment. Not really. Domenic avoided small talk with him, lest he be held captive in a conversation about some mainland opera star or recent development in the riveting world of antique restoration.
Now Domenic squinted at him, trying to read his fine print. Glynn had to be ambitious to volunteer for a position no one else wanted.
Glynn capped the decanter and waved Aetherium. A glass floated over to Sharpe, amber liquid glinting in amber light.
“Under the circumstances, sir,” Glynn said stiffly, “I don’t see the merit in wasting time.”
Sharpe smiled as he took a drag of his cigarette. “So for discussion’s sake, let’s say we agree with Barrow’s and Caldwell’s suggestions about the Dire Three’s counterparts. Obviously, the corporeal ghast does suit this charmer over here.” He jerked his head at Hanna, who scowled.
“But are you quite positive Decibel’s counterpart is Ravfiri?” Glynn asked. “It could be Calynia.”
“I certainly hope not,” Iseul muttered as she rose to claim the two other glasses Glynn had poured. In one she dropped precisely two ice cubes. The second she left neat.
“It’s Ravfiri,” Domenic cut in. “I’m sure of it.”
“Then it would seem destiny’s on our side,” Peak said confidently. “Its vigil is four days away, isn’t it?”
“Assuming Ravfiri finds a wielder,” Glynn responded. “It hasn’t bonded with a magician in nearly five decades.”
Sharpe tapped his cigarette atop the ashtray. “So what do you think of this, Peak? You fought Kythion, Thundersnow—whatever the hell that thing is named. Would you call it and Targath brothers?”
For the first time Domenic could recall, Peak donned a formal uniform, a black mourning sash draped across his torso and his chest adorned in medals. His broad silhouette was burnished gold as he stared into the fireplace.
“Truth be told, I believe them,” Peak answered. “When Targath and I took that beast on, the scale of its magic, even its temperament…” He winced and shook out his left knee.
