It was nearly noon when Mirk glimpsed what he'd been waiting for out the narrow window of a patient room up on the second floor. The fighters of the First and Fourteenth had been mustered in front of the parade grounds transporter since daybreak. But only now, after they'd had a leisurely morning and indulged in a hearty luncheon, did the mages and officers decide to join them.

  That was all an assumption on his part, Mirk supposed. He was letting his distaste for the K'maneda's more powerful members color his opinions. Considering what he'd seen of them as of late, their abuse of the djinn and their grandstanding at noble balls, he was willing to give himself the benefit of the doubt for once instead of chiding himself for being judgmental.

  Mirk threw the rag he'd been wiping the room's furniture down with into a bucket on the floor, scrambling to tug off his robes. Underneath it he wore his most formal and somber gray suit, the best thing he could think of confronting them all in short of finding a formal uniform like the ones K'aekniv and Genesis had. But that kind of show of force wouldn't have fit his purposes anyway, no more than the formal uniform’s harsh, unforgiving lines would have fit his soft, yielding frame. That aside, he'd done nothing to earn the right to wear K'maneda blacks.

  As Mirk hurried down the hall past the floor barrier, he double-checked his breast pocket for the sheaf of thick, lavender envelopes. Not the done thing with noble correspondence, usually. But there was something so final about the cream and bone white stationary the others favored, something that always made dread course down Mirk's spine whenever he found one waiting for him at the house matron's desk. It was impossible to tell from the envelope alone whether its contents were a warm letter from a friend or an imperious summons from the Circle.

  If he was going to take part in all of it, Mirk had decided, he wasn't going to keep inflicting that same fear on everyone around him. The K’maneda’s commanders included.

  When he reached the waiting room, Mirk paused to smooth a hand over his hair, tamping down any unruly curls and tucking loose ends back into the gilt clip he'd used to pin it back. Then he took Jean-Luc's staff out of the same breast pocket, twirled it up to an inconspicuous length, and headed out down the steps, a cheerful smile fixed on his face.

  It was easier to keep up the facade with the weather being so fine. If it'd been gloomy and drizzly like usual, the physical chill, coupled with the aching and worry of the fighters assembled out on the parade grounds, would have made it hard to put on a happy, friendly front. Mirk dodged the puddles left over from last night's rain as he crossed the street, making a beeline for the officers and mages who were huddled together discussing strategy at the rear of the two infantry companies.

  Everyone he'd been hoping for was there. Percival, Richard, Casyn, Paul. And Ravensdale. The head of the K'maneda had brought five of the djinn with him for that contract, with two more flanking Percival, who was scowling down at a sword he was putting through its paces as he listened to the commanders bicker. Aside from the djinn, the others were keeping a prudent distance from Percival.

  "Are you sure you want to go out yourself, my Lord?" Paul, the stocky, balding mage who was always at Richard's side asked Ravensdale, groveling in advance, should his superior not take kindly to his questioning. "You remember what happened the last time you went out. And this realm's a hell of a lot more unsettled than the last."

  "I know what I'm doing," Ravensdale said back at him, frowning in distaste at Paul's contrite bows. "Or should I be worried you lot won't be willing to make the same sacrifice that Elijah Oliver, of all people, was willing to give?"

  A chorus of mumbled apologies rose from the commanders, while the officers arrayed behind them remained prudently silent. For a moment, Mirk thought it might have been best if he practiced the same caution. Ravensdale was in a terrible mood, judging by what little Mirk could feel through his haze of stolen magic and the cold, hard look on his face. But Mirk pressed onward. Playing the fool would be a key element of the plan they'd argued over all last night at Fatima's back table.

  "Comrade Commanders!" Mirk called out as he closed the gap between them, trying to make the swinging of his staff as he walked more jaunty than threatening. "I know you all must be very busy, but would you have time for a quick word?"

  The bickering between the commanders died as their gazes all swung toward them. Without any words passing among them, they elected to let Ravensdale take the lead. "Comrade d'Avignon," Ravensdale said, looking him up and down. As always, his eyes lingered on the staff in Mirk's left hand. "Is there some problem with the healers?"

  "Oh, pas du tout! Everything's fine, we're all ready for today. Though methinks with so many of you going along with, it'll be a safe and speedy contract," Mirk said, with smaller, polite bows to each of the commanders staring down at him from behind Ravensdale. The djinn were the only men within the small group who didn't react at all to Mirk's arrival. Am-Gulat wasn't among them. Mirk wasn't certain whether to be heartened by that fact, or worried by it.

  "Easy as can be," Richard piped up, with a wide and nervous grin. Richard was always nervous. Mirk was sure none of the other commanders would see anything untoward in it.

  "I hate to distract you all from your business with something less important, comrades, but it's so rare to see you all in one place, except for at balls," Mirk said, tucking his staff under one arm as he rifled through the invitations, finding the one addressed to Ravensdale. Mirk had written and rewritten it half a dozen times; he would have gone to Genesis for help, but he was certain Ravensdale would be able to sense the commander's lingering magic on it. Or see evidence of him in the immaculate regularity of Genesis's penmanship, even when badgered into using script instead of print. Holding the invitation by two corners, he offered it out to Ravensdale.

  "What's this?" Ravensdale asked, grudgingly accepting the envelope, but making no move to open it.

  Mirk explained as he divvied out the rest of the invitations, with a polite nod to each commander as he passed them along. "I'm so grateful for the warm welcome you've all shown me, both here in the City and at the balls. Methinks it's only right for me to repay the good fortune that God and you all have given me."

  Apparently, this was a bridge too far for Percival. With a derisive snort, he let his envelope flutter to the ground and stormed off toward the infirmary, jamming his new sword into a sheath clipped to a belt at his waist. Although Mirk knew Percival couldn't be up to anything good, he forced himself to keep grinning at the remaining commanders. The fact that he'd left the djinn assigned to him behind was at least a little reassuring.

  "I asked around a bit and heard that there's only three more balls left in the English spring season, with Lord Pendelton's being cancelled in a fortnight,” Mirk explained. “I thought I might be of service to everyone by hosting one in its place. And, well...methinks it's a bit selfish of me, but I was a little sad that the Festival of Shades falls so close to my birthday. It would have been gauche to have a party for myself during the K'maneda's special season. Anyway, spring is so much nicer for a party, non?"

  Paul had ripped open his invitation, none too gently, squinting down at the details scrawled across the stiff paper. "What? You got yourself some big townhouse out in the mage quarter now?"

  "Thought you were living in the dorms," Richard added, making an attempt at replicating Paul's incredulous, sneering tone and failing badly.

  "My godmother has been kind enough to provide me with a space," Mirk said, not letting his smile waver in the face of the remaining commanders' skepticism. "And she's been kind enough to provide a private teleportation portal for the event. Which means I'll be able to invite all my friends, not just the ones from here in England. The French mages really are very curious about the English, and the K'maneda especially. The Marquise has been talking my ear off looking to meet you all. She needs protection for her business and has been finding the French mercenaries lacking. She’s the head of the Bachelot, family, you know. With their shipping concerns."

  It was clear to Mirk that none of them had heard of the Marquise, despite her ships being responsible for the majority of the mage commerce on the Mediterranean that had slipped out of Venetian and Genoan hands. But all the commanders made a show of nodding and considering the matter like real men of business. Mirk would have laughed, had he not been so concerned himself with making the right impression back at them.

  The rest of the commanders awaited Ravensdale's judgment before giving their own. Mirk decided to sweeten the deal before Ravensdale could dismiss him out of hand, or give a non-committal response that was as good as a rejection.

  "Oh! Comrade Commander Casyn, I almost forgot." He pulled another envelope he'd been keeping in reserve for precisely this situation out of his justacorps pocket. "Would you be so kind as to pass this along to Comrade Commander Margaret? I'd really be so very happy if she could take time out of her busy schedule to come. It'd be so nice to speak with her personally instead of hearing about everything through Catherine. And since Seigneur Rouzet has already said that he'll be attending, methinks it might be to Comrade Commander Margaret's benefit to be there in person so that her and Catherine might...euh...address anything that might arise together at the right moment. What is it...strike while the iron is hot? Methinks the expression is the same in English..."

  Casyn had no idea what Mirk was talking about, accepting the second invitation with a shrug, crudely folding it in half along with the first and jamming it into his trouser pocket. Ravensdale, on the other hand, was immediately interested. His stolen djinn magic flared to cloud how much of his ire Mirk could sense, but the reaction of the nearby djinn made up for it. They'd long since learned to be mindful of shifts in Ravensdale's mood. All of them tensed, shifting into defensive postures, as if preparing themselves for a blow. The sight of it, along with Ravensdale's vicious grin, made something inside Mirk bubble and fizz with frustration.

  "Who is this Rouzet?" Ravensdale asked. Whether his poor pronunciation of the name was a deliberate slight or not was unclear. "I've never heard of him."

  "The Grand Master of the French dark magicians' guild, Comrade Ravensdale. He only just inherited the role from his father a decade or two ago. He's very interested in making amends between the French and the English. From what I've heard, he's been writing letters about it to Comrade Catherine nearly as often as the Marquise has been writing me about the K'maneda." Mirk paused, letting a wistful, happy smile that he didn't feel an ounce of to rise onto his face. He needed to tap into his memories of last weekend's wedding, of resting safe in the embrace of Genesis's chaotic aura as the Earth rioted around him, to make it come off as even a bit genuine. "It's so much better when everyone gets along, non?"

  To Mirk's astonishment, the gambit worked. Ravensdale really was hopelessly fixed on Catherine, on the potential that her magic offered him. So fixed that he was willing to throw caution to the wind and nod as he pocketed the invitation, albeit more gracefully than Casyn and the others had. "I'll be there."

  The words came out sounding more like a threat than a grateful acceptance. But Mirk smiled on obliviously, nodding in satisfaction, forcing his grin wider as the other commanders murmured their agreement despite their own reservations. "Wonderful!" Mirk cheered. "I'm so happy there's no bad blood between us. I promise, I'll do everything to make this worth your time, Comrade Commanders, Comrade Ravensdale."

  Ravensdale didn't see fit to respond to him. Instead he stormed past Mirk, calling out an order to one of the fighters loitering in front of the transporter. A low-born officer, judging by his sturdy boots and cuirass with crude enchantments scratched into its leather. Mirk let the slight sail straight past him, the same as Ravensdale's obvious dismissal of him and his offer of friendship, such as it was, remaining where he stood until the other commanders and the djinn had moved off. Then, as fast as he dared, Mirk returned to the infirmary to see what horrible business Percival had decided to get himself into.

  He was greeted at the door by Emir. From the look of things, he'd been pacing the waiting room for some time by them, waiting for Mirk to come back inside. "I don't know what he's up to," Emir said to him in a low voice, inclining his head toward the hall leading back toward the exam rooms. And the floor barrier up onto second. "But he took Cyrus with him."

  "We'd best go look, methinks," Mirk sighed, shifting the staff from his left hand to his right, spinning it up to full fighting length as he passed it over. "I might have offended him."

  They'd just set foot onto the second floor when all the magelights along the main corridor dimmed, just for a second. In the distance, there was the sound of bellowing. Only half of it was in English. The other half, though too rapid for Mirk to follow, was unmistakable in its cold, ringing overtones.

  "Samael!" Mirk gasped, breaking into a run. "He should be up on the long-term ward..."

  It wasn't hard to find him. All the patients who could walk had gathered outside the room at the end of the hall to watch as Percival and Cyrus faced off against Samael and Sharael across a patient bed in which another patient was slowly wasting away to nothing in his sleep, oblivious to the magic and tension crackling in the air. Both Percival and Sharael had their swords drawn. The sudden dimming of the lights must have been from Sharael using their magic to move herself from the Academy building across the parade grounds to the infirmary to come to her brother's defense.

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  "What's going on here?" Emir barked, shoving his way through the crowd of patients and into the room. Mirk took his time in following, pausing to encourage the patients to head back to their rooms. And to catch his breath before coming face to face with Percival.

  "The brat's the one who started things," Percival said, without taking his eyes off Sharael or lowering his sword.

  "You have no right to even look at him, human," Sharael sneered back at him. "You don't have any magic."

  "Shae, you're not helping," Samael said weakly, rubbing at his temples.

  Cyrus, as always, was all business. And smugness, as he presented Emir with a piece of mage parchment. "Transfer order. Your angel's getting reassigned to the Third."

  Emir scanned the sheet of parchment, his brows drawing closer and closer together the more he read. There was a tenseness in the head healer's shoulders and back that Mirk recognized. Even though Emir had no wings to puff up in indignation, not like Sharael across the room, the instinct remained in his body, in his angelic blood. "This is nonsense. Comrade Samael has no training in combat magic."

  "Doesn't matter," Cyrus said. "He's useless as a healer too. The djinn don't work as well with Lord Percival's new magic as someone with his same element and orientation would. All the boy will be doing is serving as a well for Lord Percival to draw on."

  "Methinks it'd all be better if everyone calmed down a little," Mirk said, before Sharael could start ranting again. "Lord Percival, Sharael, would you please put your swords down? You're upsetting the patients."

  Behind him, the patients were placing bets on who would win if things came to blows between the two, with rock hard infirmary rolls in place of coins. And the patient on the bed between them remained as lifeless as ever. But at a slight nod from Cyrus, and a whispered plea in angelic from Samael, the two lowered their swords. Though neither of them sheathed them.

  "What do you mean by serving as a well?" Emir asked, folding his arms, the transfer order half-crumpled in his hand.

  "My magic is not gone," Percival said, shooting Sharael a pointed look. "You all simply do not have either the knowledge or the senses to comprehend it. I have been granted the ability to make use of the magic of mages who are not striving to their highest potential. By redirecting it toward a more proper use."

  It made a little sense, Mirk supposed, considering what had happened the last time Percival and Samael had crossed paths. The young angel had said that it didn't feel like Percival had drained his magic, more like he'd caught hold of it and channeled it through his body to purposes that were contrary to Samael's wishes. Danu's description of what it'd felt like when Percival had dodged her own magic was roughly similar. "Comrade Ravensdale has given you djinn to help, non?" Mirk asked.

  "If you'd been listening, you'd know I already spoke on that. Their magic is too inferior for me to reach my highest potential. I need light magic. Heavenly magic, like my own."

  "If you took one look into the Well of the Light Eternal, you'd turn to dust," Sharael spat.

  Samael had recovered enough by then, reassured that things wouldn't actually come to blows, to offer a more rational defense. Though he was still distracted by all the anger and disgust in the room, Mirk could tell, by the way his wings were twitching. "My elemental magic is not strong," Samael said. "I’m an empath."

  "That doesn't matter," Percival countered. "What matters is potential. And you have five times the potential of the other brat," he said, with a dismissive wave at Sharael. "I've made use of your magic before. I will make use of it again. And in a much more worthy fashion than whatever it was you were doing here."

  "Can I see the letter, Comrade Commander Emir?" Mirk asked, stepping up beside him and holding out his hand. Emir handed it over, and Mirk busied himself with smoothing it out, to try to read the slanted, poorly formed handwriting scrawled across it.

  Mirk wasn't much interested in the contents of the transfer order, though he did keep his eyes fixed on it, making note that it was signed by Ravensdale himself. Instead, after bracing himself for the full force of Percival and Sharael's combined rage, which he could feel simmering beyond his shields, he banished the walls around his mind. And projected his own concern, very lightly, at a level that no one other than a very sensitive empath would pick up on.

  Samael took the opening. What do I do? he asked into Mirk's mind, his mental voice strained with worry and confusion. Lor...Imanael never trained me in combat. Something else is going on, I'm sure. But I can't read...

  Without raising his head, Mirk surveyed all the people crammed into the too-small room. Cyrus had barely any empathy, and Percival, of course, was completely blind to the emotions of others, his lack of empathy aside. Sharael's empathy was tuned precisely to her brother's, but Mirk could feel that she was too furious at Percival at the moment to be paying Samael much attention.

  All he had to work with was Emir who, though his empathy wasn't as strong as his own, had the same precise control over his abilities that most angels did, even though he was only half. Although the half-bloods who'd abandoned the Empire in favor of living among the towering dunes of the great desert across the Mediterranean had eschewed most Imperial customs, they still trained their empathy as hard as any Imperial angel did.

  The fact that Emir was the only one who could help was a blessing and a curse — he was also likely to be the only one who sensed what was happening. As long as he was on board with the plan, which Mirk suspected he would be, if he could catch Mirk's meaning, they stood a chance at putting a stop to things. "I'm afraid that everything does seem to be in order," Mirk said with a sigh, as he offered the paper back to Emir. "It's very sad, methinks. Samael was just starting to make progress with Comrade Jonah," Mirk said, gesturing at the man on the bed.

  Emir shot him a skeptical look, only the slightest arch of his eyebrows. Mirk carried on. "The only problem is what Comrade Samael mentioned before, Lord Percival. His magic really is mostly empathy. If the gift transfers along with the potential, methinks it might...euh...be more painful than helpful to you."

  Percival scoffed. "Pain is only a distraction. Easily managed."

  Mirk flared his projection as he spoke again, that time making it align with his words, the genuine sadness he felt over the prospects of Samael being taken away from them. Though he'd probably have to draw on a deeper source at the crucial moment. It drew Emir's attention, though the lead healer didn't interrupt him. "Methinks we should try a small experiment, maybe? If you'd be willing, Samael."

  Lower your shields when you pass it, Mirk thought to himself, hoping Samael would hear. I'll project as hard as I can. Emir too, maybe.

  Warily, Samael nodded. "I won't give you a lot. Only a fragment. Otherwise it might break your mind again and you'll be back in here," he said.

  Without comment, Percival held out his hand. Sharael kept herself between Samael and him, though she did duck one wing and look back over her shoulder at her brother, hissing something at him in angelic. Samael only nodded, then stepped up beside her, slowly raising his hand.

  Samael's eyes didn't waver from Percival. But Mirk felt him lower his shields all the same, the chilly void where Samael's mind once had been replaced by an equally soft dread that pulsed with the young angel's winglight, more prominent than usual under the diminished glow of the room's magelights.

  The instant Samael’s shields were down, Mirk began to project all the despair and horror he could bear to summon, making himself draw from all the scattered memories he usually did his best not to think about — the sight of the Lis de la Rivière in flames, Father Jean turning his back on him and casting off his rings, the hiss of drizzle on stone as a voice laughed in the darkness, Genesis lying dead on an exam table with the pale-faced Death looming over him, his soul in hand. Mirk had to fight not to let his relief pass through as he felt Emir echo him, not with sadness, but with frustration and rage.

  Percival grew impatient with Samael's hesitation, reaching across the bed and its comatose occupant, grabbing hold of Samael's hand. He only managed to keep hold of it for a few seconds before he let out a distinctly un-Christian string of curses, his hand flying to the side of his head as he squeezed his eyes shut tight against the invisible emotions filling the room. "What the hell is that?" he snapped, glaring across the bed at Samael once he found his bearings.

  Samael only shrugged, looking over at Mirk and Emir. As soon as Percival had dropped Samael's hand, they'd both stopped projecting, drawing their mental shielding back up. "That's how it always feels," he said. "They're not even that upset. It's nothing to me."

  Whirling to face them, Percival searched Mirk and Emir’s faces for visible signs of distress, for tears or bared teeth or clenched fists. Instead, he only got a pleasant smile and a helpless shrug from Mirk, along with a skeptically arched eyebrow from Emir. "They've all got to be lying," Percival snarled, looking to Cyrus for confirmation instead.

  But the commander of the Tenth hadn't been expecting such a reaction. And, with his thick mental shields and weak empathy, Mirk was guessing Cyrus hadn't felt anything else beyond Percival's reaction to the touch of Samael's magic. Much like K'aekniv’s, Percival's emotions got quite loud when he wasn't being mindful of putting on a cool and disdainful front.

  "The boy does have an exceptional amount of empathy," Cyrus admitted. "But I'm sure you'll get used to it."

  "We've got our own empaths," Percival grumbled, giving in and sheathing his sword. "I'll speak with Ambras about making some kind of spell to compensate. He’s a barbarian, he must know how these things operate. Then I'll be back to collect."

  Without another word, Percival stormed out of the room, shoving his way past Mirk and Emir without looking at either of them. The patients out in the hall had already vanished. With a pointed look that made it clear things were far from resolved among them all, Cyrus followed the mage out, already offering suggestions as to which healers from the Tenth he could offer to help Ambras with the necessary spells to make empathy bearable for Percival.

  Mirk deflated, leaning against the room's door frame, pausing to take a few deep breaths and try to clear the fog from his mind that came with so much directed use of his empathy. He wasn't accustomed to projecting hard, trying to influence others directly. He preferred to take stock of the emotions of others instead, using them as a way to guide his actions. "Methinks that went as well as we could hope," Mirk said to no one in particular.

  "What do you mean?" Sharael said, finally sheathing her own sword as well. She'd made further modifications to the ladies' uniform since the last time he'd run into her, Mirk noticed. She'd found a way to wrap the extra fabric of the dress-like trousers around her legs, to make them look more like the garments that angels wore under their armor. Like the clothes his father had always worn, save for when his mother goaded him into dressing up for a party or Mass. "You heard him. He's going to come back for us." She looked back at Samael for confirmation.

  Samael nodded, going to the room's chair and collapsing into it, rubbing at his temples as he thought. "He will. But not until he's sure that he can stop the empathy from carrying with my potential. He really didn't like feeling all of that."

  "Then methinks maybe it might be best if we found somewhere else for you both to stay for a while," Mirk said with a weary sigh, his mind already groping for possibilities.

  "I don't need the shielding on my room as much as I used to," Samael offered.

  "Yes, you do," Sharael insisted. Samael's feathers lifted in protest, but he didn't say anything.

  Mirk smiled a little, despite himself. He was accustomed to the strain of an overbearing sister. And something in the way that Sharael paced in front of Samael's chair as she tried to think up a solution, her feathers standing on end and her hand still on the hilt of the sword at her waist, reminded him of Kae's reaction whenever he made the absurd suggestion that he could do something on his own, like walk down the road from his parents' manor to the nearest village unattended. Though Kae had always had less of the Imperial haughtiness about her protests, and more of the rough-and-tumble grandstanding that was rampant among his father's house guard.

  The thought of Kae, of her jet black hair and the proud upward tilt to her jaw, reminded Mirk of another strong-willed, dark-haired woman. "Methinks I might have an idea," Mirk said, brushing his hands absently down the front of his plain gray suit. His godmother would be sure to roll her eyes at him looking so formal, but it was better than showing up on her doorstep in infirmary robes. "My family stayed in London with my godmother for a time before they came to the infirmary. Maybe she's left the wards on their room? They're not as strong as the ones in the healers' dormitory, but methinks I might be able to fix them up. They were meant for concealing rather than keeping out emotions, but hiding you both might be the most important thing, for now..."

  Sharael looked skeptical. But Samael nodded. "Anything to get out of the City. And I'm getting better at making my own wards, so I can help too."

  "It might be nice to be somewhere a little less cramped," Sharael said with a sigh. "But I'll fall in the class rankings."

  Mirk smiled at that too, feeling a bit more sure of himself. "I can have Genesis or Monsieur Am-Hazek give you lessons instead. They're both excellent mages."

  Sharael shuddered. "I'd rather not."

  Emir nodded in agreement, crumpling the order Cyrus had given him fully and tossing it in the room's rubbish bin. "I'm sure Mordecai is wherever Danu is. Hopefully it takes him four or five jumps to get you out and he'll be too tired to come back," he muttered to himself as he left the room to go looking.

  "And you can have your room back," Sharael said, once Emir had left. "At least for a while."

  Mirk laughed. "I'm happy where I am."

  "He is," Samael confirmed, when Sharael seemed at a loss for words.

  "Is your godmother as mad as everyone else in this Light-forsaken place?"

  All Mirk could do is shrug. "Her cook is wonderful, though. Methinks you'll like his cooking much better than the cooks at the dining hall. He knows how to cook for me, so that’s a start."

  Some of the gloom lifted from Samael at this and he shoved himself back up to his feet, shaking out his wings. "Let's go, then."

  Sharael rolled her eyes. "You're too easy."

  He said something to her softly in angelic as he went to the room's bed and went to tend to the comatose patient he'd been working with before. From what little Mirk could catch, it sounded like a vow of thanks. For being strong for him.

  Although Sharael huffed again in disgust, she didn't keep Samael from going about the small rituals that came so easily once a healer found the flow of infirmary life — arranging a patient's limbs so that they wouldn't wake up sore, checking the mattress to ensure it hadn't been soiled, making sure they were tucked in well to keep any chill or bad air from claiming them. It made Mirk feel better to see that Samael was learning those rituals too. That he was finding his own place, in a way.

  It was only unfortunate that those quiet routines had to be broken so soon. But if Mirk had any say in things, Samael wouldn't be away from the infirmary for long.