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cloaks. Heléri was sitting with a cloak spilling in silvery folds over her lap, hands pressed together about a corner of it, eyes closed in deep concentration. Though he rarelysaw khi, he thought he sensed a pale glow in the air around her head and hands. It made her appear even more beautiful. Turning away from this distraction, he took his seat and reached for a cloak, preparing for a long night’s work.

     
    Turisan arose early, partly because the sunrise coming through the Star Tower’s glass dome disturbed his rest, partly because Eliani also rose with the dawn. He was glad, for it gave him time before the Council would convene, and he wished to visit the city garrison. He would stay away from Kelevon as he had promised, but he wanted to ensure that the Steppegard was being well treated.
    He sent Pheran, his attendant, to fetch clothing for him and quickly donned the tunic and legs, grateful for their warmth in the chill morning.
    “A cloak? I am going down into the city.”
    “Yes, my lord. The broidered wool or the velvet?”
    Turisan was about to say “neither,” then remembered that he had given his guardian’s cloak to Eliani. He would have to request another.
    “The velvet.”
    At least it was not covered with ornament. Turisan smiled at himself, acknowledging that his distaste for ostentation—not new, by any means—had increased significantly since he had met Eliani. Pheran had been clever enough to realize this was not a temporary state and had given up trying to dress him in grand style.
    He drew a deep breath of chill air as he left Hallowhall to cross the public circle. Few others were abroad this early, only a handful of folk in the marketplace, trading early. Turisan sensed them watching him as he walked toward the magehall, paused briefly to collect himself, and went in to inquire for Rephanin.
    The magehall was steeped in silence and shadow, its hearthroom vaguely lit by a single hanging lamp and a bank of coals on the welcoming hearth. Turisan paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness, relieved to be out of the wind.
    The attendant who greeted him—a slender female whose cool air suggested that no one’s importance was greater, at least here in the magehall, than that of the magelord himself—deigned to lead Turisan to the hall’s main chamber. She stopped outside its door and turned to him, speaking softly.
    “Lord Rephanin may yet be inside with some of his circle. If they are at work, we must not disturb them.”
    Turisan waited silently while she opened the door a little way and peered in. A moment later she pushed it wide and invited him to enter.
    The chamber, which Turisan had never seen before, was windowless, roughly circular, and furnished with more practicality than elegance. It was clearly a room for working rather than ceremony, and that surprised him somewhat. Ten chairs sat empty in a half circle before a dying fire, small worktables scattered behind them.
    Rephanin stood near the hearth, dressed in a simple long tunic of dark gold, talking quietly with one of his mages. On a table that had been pushed against the wall between hearth and door was a small pile of cloaks. They were all sage lined with silver, the colors of Clan Greenglen, worn by Southfæld’s Guard. The sight pleased Turisan, who had come in hopes of acquiring one. He waited until Rephanin’s conversation ended and the other mage departed, then approached the magelord with a bow.
    “Greetings, Lord Rephanin.”
    “Greetings, Lord Turisan. How may I serve you?”
    Turisan gestured toward the cloaks. “I have given my cloak to my lady, and the garrison’s stores have all been issued to recruits. By chance, have you one ready that I could take?”
    Rephanin nodded and turned to the table, passing his hands through the air above the cloaks before selecting one and handing it to Turisan. “This is the best of what I have here.”
    Turisan accepted it with a small bow and ran his hands over the soft,