After receiving a summons, Sorela was admitted into the castle dining hall by a short balding porter. The lord and lady were alone, as they had been most nights recently.

A single servant in attendance refilled Lady Salain’s wine glass, then promptly backed away to assume a statuesque stance as Lord Warfink cut fervently at the meat in his plate, the muscles in his jaw pronounced as if he were chewing with more force than necessary for the soft meats of a nobleman’s meal.

Lady Salain glanced at her husband, then tilted her head back to empty her second glass of wine—Sorela thought it was her second glass, it could have been her third—then dabbed at her glossed lips with what Sorela thought embarrassment. Her red rimmed eyes and nose seemed to almost match the hue of her wine.

An unfortunate development must have occurred, Sorela thought, looking at Lady Salain who seemed to be more distraught than usual, her swollen eyes following Sorela as she made her way across the forlorn chamber. Her footfalls echoed as she approached the dais. She laced her fingers together, proffering a small bow.

Lady Salain’s plate was full of food, her silvers untouched, a common occurrence of late. Sorela did not like to see her in such a way. Her beauty was beginning to fade, her cheekbones more pronounced. She often encouraged her lady to eat. “You called for me?” A hint of smoke wafted from the crackling brazier to her left. It seemed to give off no heat, making the chamber feel forbidding, brooding. It could have been the company. She wondered why the hearth was not ablaze.

Lady Salain glanced toward her husband jerkily, her eyes widening somewhat. He continued cutting, intent on his food, his knife scraping. Finally, for Lady Salain’s sake, Sorela broke the silence. “No news of your son, my lord?”

Lady Salain’s eyes filled, lips tremulous. Sorela pushed away a pang of emotion and raised her eyes when Lord Warfink’s silver clattered to his plate. Wiping his lips, he said, “None at all,” then slammed his fist. Silver clattered and Lady Salain jumped. Exhaling, he spread both hands out onto the table, made fists. Fingernails would have scraped if not for the smooth, polished surface of the table. Glancing at Lady Salain, his face softened. He took one of her hands into his. Then he turned his attention toward Sorela. “How long must we wait? I have sent over three envoys into Nelothar and none of them have returned!” His jaw clenched.

“Patience, my lord,” Sorela said, “is usually the best course of action when nothing else is to be done.” The words were hard to say in Lady Salain’s presence and would only cause the woman more stress.

His face sharpened. “They should have returned by now. I am through with patience, woman. Lord Nightkar has had them killed—I know it!”

Woman? Sorela served Lord Warfink, but she was not his servant. She was a servant of the Hall of Mages, and demanded respect by those she chose to give council to. She could leave any time she wished, though in this time of need, she decided to let some of her pride go, otherwise she would have had words for the man, high lord or not.

In her mind, Sorela admitted that it was possible. High Lord Nightkar was a devious ruler and seemed capable of anything when it came to getting what he wanted. A war in this case, one he did not want.

I must council diligence, she thought. We do not fully understand the situation. “Perhaps their journey has been slowed by the cold of winter, or the war, my lord?” Sorela said soothingly. “Brashness—“

Lord Warfink straightened. “No, Lady Mage...I see no other alternative than to go to war.”

Sorela closed her eyes, trying not to show her frustration.

“Yes, it is brash,” he continued, “but I must save my son—he is my only heir.”

Warfink was not the first, nor the most reckless ruler Sorela had served. He always weighed the advice of council, which was one of the reasons she had chosen to advise him. But now, rational thought was being overtaken by fear. And anger.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“My Lord,” Sorela said. “Is that wise? What if young lord Jalen is simply too held up to return?” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Do not forget that you are also fighting a war in the west. Invading Nelothar could prove disastrous. Nelothar is strong, and even fighting on two fronts, Lord Nightkar will be a formidable adversary.”

Lord Nightkar was a seasoned battle commander. The man had been instrumental in driving the Dar’nithie back to their islands, after all, and another war would only bring more death, poverty and desolation. No, these lands had seen enough destruction in recent years, starting with the invasion. There were too many wars raging.

“I have made up my mind, Lady Mage.” He paused for a moment. “I am sorry.”

Lord Warfink had nothing to be sorry for, he was not hers to command, but going to war would be a personal failure on her part. He knew the Hall of Mages promoted prosperity and tried to prevent war. His apology was as far as his sympathy went. He was going to do what he thought best for his son.

She must have failed concealing her emotions, because the nobleman took notice. He studied her, then began to rub his chin in thought, his eyes unfocused on the black floor tiles. Finally his eyes met hers again for several moments. He glanced at Lady Salain, then back to Sorela once again. “Do you believe you, can find my son, Lady Mage?”

Sorela was taken aback, but tried not to show it on her face. He knows I cannot, she told herself. But it was an opportunity she could not wave aside.

“If I let you do this, I will delay my invasion. Otherwise, I go to war as soon as some of my Serafe Commanders return from the fighting.”

Lady Salain left her chair and arced around the table. She took Sorela’s hands up in her own. “Please, Lady Mage.” She smiled, sniffling. “Sorela. You can do this! I know you can.”

Actually, she could not, not without permission from the High Council. Sorela admitted to herself that a mage did have the best chance to bring the boy back alive. Assuming he was in danger. A war would only confuse things and likely get the young lordling killed.

Warfink’s face hardened when she did not respond. “You cannot?” He stood, chair scraping back. “Lady Mage, I fully understand what your Hall considers brash, but what else would you have me do, besides go to war? It is the only way.”

“Perhaps,” Sorela mused. Going to the Council would likely be futile, but she had to try—it was a chance to prevent yet another war. “If I were to discuss the situation with the Council, they may give me their approval to do as you ask.” Lady Salain’s hopes were beginning to rise. “It is unlikely,” she continued, not wanting to let her down. “I ask that you let me try, Lord.”

Lady Salain turned to her husband, hands clasped to her mouth. He grunted, obviously thinking for a moment. “Very well, I will give you this chance,” he said, jabbing a finger at her, “but only this one chance. Otherwise, I go to war.”

Sorela suppressed a smile, bowed. “Thank you, my lord. I will make the journey myself. I can ride faster than your couriers.”

Lady Salain smiled, tears running free now as she hugged herself. Lord Warfink glanced at her, worry plain on his face, then turned to Sorela. “See that you do, Lady Casen.”

Sorela paced back and forth, her hands on her hips as Leisa filled her saddle bags with clean shifts and riding dresses. Nothing fancy, she would be riding on the road alone. She could take care of herself, should she run into any trouble, but it was best to avoid those situations.

What will the council think? she wondered.

She was pulled from her thoughts when Leisa spoke. “Lady Casen, you should take me along.” The girl’s voice was very enthusiastic.

“No, child, the road is too dangerous. Besides I would have no use for you.”

Leisa folded another dress and placed it atop the others. “I might be ready for the Tanecine Mages,” she said hopefully. “You said so yourself.”

Sorela rounded on the girl. “When have I ever told you that, child?” The Council of Tenecine Mages was specifically convened to test and deliberate on whether or not a candidate would be suitable for training as a mage, with the recommendation of an actual mage, of course.

Sorela’s handmaiden lowered her eyes. The girl probably overheard when she spoke to Captain Commander Caldren about intensifying Leisa’s physical training. She doubted Leisa had been intentionally eavesdropping on conversations not meant for her ears. If she had, Sorela would have to take punitive measures.

Perhaps a beating. Or hard work.

It would have been better if she had not overheard. Now the girl will be overconfident. “Never mind that,” Sorela went on. “I said you might be ready. That does not mean that you are. You have not proven yourself yet, and with this war on, I might not be hard pressed to find the right circumstances in which you will be tested before my eyes. Be patient.”

Leisa smiled, becoming lighter on her feet, though with another sharp look, the girl turned to finish packing the saddle bags sitting at the foot of the bed.