Mirk didn't know what he'd been expecting.

The Montigny men had looked disheveled and stunned on the recording projected from Laurent's memorial stone, but more or less themselves, from what little he remembered of them. His family had always run in different circles; he didn't know many of them personally. But his heart still ached for the men strapped to the line of cots at the far end of Mademoiselle Polignac's solarium. A half dozen writhing and whimpering men dressed only in braies, their chests covered in blood-soaked bandages, their hair and beards shaggy from weeks of neglect. A far cry from the imposing, well-dressed men he'd caught glimpses of at the edges of countless noble balls.

Not all of the members of the Circle were in attendance. Only Seigneurs d'Aumont and Feulaine and Rouzet, clustered together in the shade of an orange tree in a pot as big around as a cartwheel. The two men who had a personal investment in the affair, and Seigneur Rouzet, who seemed to naturally appear whenever there was trouble. Seigneur Feulaine offered Mirk a strained smile as he approached. Seigneur Rouzet's grin was far less comforting, and focused largely on Catherine and Kali still following along behind him. Seigneur d'Aumont, on the other hand, was stone-faced. Mirk wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.

"Seigneurs," Mirk said, bowing to them all, though he found it difficult to turn away from the Montigny men, even for a moment. "Thank you for inviting me."

"We didn't have any other choice, really," Seigneur Rouzet said, breaking the silence that followed Mirk’s arrival. "Nasty business, this curse. No one in my guild could make any sense of it."

A flicker of distaste crossed Seigneur Feulaine's face at Rouzet's words, but he soon refocused on Mirk. "Can you do anything for them? It's...I never imagined something like this could happen..."

Mirk nodded, drawing the sheet of mage parchment Genesis had given him that morning out of the breast pocket of his justacorps. "It isn't a curse, not really. It's a binding spell."

Seigneur d'Aumont's frown deepened. "A binding spell? What reason would the Empire have to bind them? And to whose will?"

"Lord Imanael is...ah...peculiar. It's a form of punishment among the angels. Not as bad as execution, but..."

Mirk approached the cots the Montigny men were arrayed on, scanning the sheet of mage parchment. Genesis's instructions didn't make any more sense to him with the trembling men in front of him than they had back in the quarters he shared with the commander. He tried examining the men instead. Only once his attention had shifted fully to them did Mirk realize that their emotions were muted, dulled down to a faint, ebbing pain. "Is there a shield on them? Or a ward? They feel odd..."

"A courtesy to the lady of the house," Seigneur Rouzet said, stepping up beside Mirk in front of the half dozen men. "She said their nightmares were crossing into her dreams. Do you need it banished?"

Mirk nodded. "And I'll need to see their wounds..." Rather than wait for one of the others to do it, or for Seigneur d'Aumont to give a pointed aside to Er-Izat, Mirk went to one of the men and began to carefully peel away the bandages that'd been wrapped around his chest. They must have called in a healer. The bandages were done up as well as if they'd been wrapped by one of the longest-serving infirmary nurses.

It took Mirk a few minutes to uncover all the wounds. As he did so, he felt Seigneur Rouzet begin to pick apart his shielding spell — the men's agony grew in a wave until it crested at a peak that left Mirk's eyes watering. Not as severe as a rush of casualties, but he didn't have the benefit of blockers or alcohol to take the edge off of things.

The notes that had been sent to him from the Montignys' private healer had described a singular wound in the center of each man's chest, one rune cut deep enough to scar, but not severe enough to interfere with the working of the muscles of their chests. A wound that refused to heal, no matter what poultices were applied to it. Now there were seven wounds on each man’s chest: the original rune, square over the heart, with six smaller runes arrayed around it, connected by bands of inflammation to make a six-pointed star. A sure sign of an angelic spell. The six point star was everywhere on things related to the Empire: on armor and shields, on the scrolls from the Emperor that Mirk had peeked at when his father wasn't looking, in the spells that Sae Lei had tried and failed to teach him. Mirk consulted Genesis's notes again, blinking his eyes a few times to counteract how they were still watering.

He hardly needed to. Genesis favored print over proper handwriting, for a reason that Mirk didn't quite understand. And his hand was precise, every line perfectly straight, every circle as balanced as if it'd been made with a compass. The whole of the spell, the entire process of unbinding, revolved around the center rune. Biting his lip, Mirk tucked the notes back into his pocket for the time being. If he took a harder look at them, if he listened to their pain, he might be able to find a way to modify the spell.

He tried to approach the problem the same way he would an injured patient at the infirmary, studying the men with his eyes and magic, feeling his way through rather than trying to remember the details of the lessons the older healers had taught him. The men's pain was mental more than it was physical. As Mademoiselle Polignac had said, they were trapped in their dreams, unable to either wake and recover or truly rest. That was what had worn their bodies down to the bone, what was making their muscles tense and causing them to shiver. They didn't have fevers, and none of the cuts on their chests had become infected, despite their inability to heal. Their dreaming was draining their bodies dry.

Curious, Mirk placed his hand on the forehead of the youngest-looking man, whose name Mirk had a feeling he must have known at some point. He was only a little older than himself, judging by the sparseness of his mustache. A cousin of Laurent's, perhaps. Bracing himself against the pain, Mirk lowered his mental shielding just far enough to see if he could pick up on any of the young man’s emotions.

Guilt. Fear. Dread. And a few images. It was as if Mirk was wrist-deep in the man's chest and fumbling for his soul rather than simply resting his hand on his forehead. He'd never been able to sense so much from such a great distance, never clear images, only vague impressions.

In his mind's eye, Mirk saw a woman weeping. Or a girl, really — she was dressed in the clothes of a common mortal, her dress rough-spun and green, her white bonnet hiding the parts of her face her long, straight black hair didn't cover. Then there was a flash, and all Mirk could see was the face of an older man, bearded and grim, his eyes flickering with his reddish magic. Though he could still hear the girl’s crying.

If you're old enough to make a man's mistakes, you’re old enough to do a man's work.

There was the sound of metal on leather. The feeling of something wet and hot on his hands. The crying stopped. And then came a surge of heartache, of loss, of shame...

Mirk drew his hand back and pressed it to his own heaving chest as he gasped for breath, hauling his shields back up. Steeling himself, Mirk looked down the row of cots. The bearded man was there too, shaking away on the second cot from the end.

Cautiously, Mirk went to the bearded man and set his hand on his forehead, lowering his shields once more. He saw flames, heard the screaming of horses. And a familiar voice laughing, each gale of it colored by a high, warbling hysteria that was all too familiar. It was the same laugh he’d heard as he’d run from the Lis de la Rivière. Shaking his head and trying to compose himself some, Mirk stepped back from the Montigny men.

"I...I understand now. I think."

"Considering how many notes you've taken, I'd have thought you already understood a great deal," Seigneur Rouzet quipped, with a low chuckle.

Seigneur d'Aumont cleared his throat. "Can you help them?"

Again, Mirk drew out the parchment Genesis had given him, turning his staff in his free hand. It made sense with what little he'd learned of Imanael from Samael, and from seeing the cruel way that the bindings on Genesis changed him into what he hated the most, stripping away the control he worked so diligently to cultivate, robbing him of the lodestar of his odd, ancient K'maneda morals. "I'll do my best, seigneur. Though they'll all need the mind healers if they do wake up. I’m not good enough with mind magic to help them through this."

"I promise, the guild will give them the best," Seigneur Feulaine said, his voice low and full of emotion. Mirk felt for him. Although he couldn't feel anything from the other two Grand Masters, who had come prepared for their meeting with the best shields against empathy that a non-mind mage could craft or buy, Seigneur Feulaine's distraught at the sight of the struggling men was plain to be felt, a soft and keening counterpoint to the constant low thrum of their pain.

After skimming through Genesis's notes one last time, Mirk raised his grandfather’s staff and began.

He followed the spell as Genesis had written it, at least at first. Maybe the commander had foreseen the change that had taken place and had accounted for it. By the time he was midway through all the gestures and nonsense Latin, Mirk knew that wasn't the case. The central rune on each man's chest had begun to glow with the golden green color of his own magic, the ends of each cut slowly growing less raw and inflamed. But the rest weren't impacted by the spell at all. Nevertheless, Mirk slogged through to the end, his mind half on getting the words right and half on what else he could do.

The staff was warming against his skin, more and more with every sweep he made with it over the Montignys' twitching bodies. Once Mirk gave the last command written on the parchment, he released it, letting it fall to the floor and instead taking the staff in both hands. The central rune on each man's chest was glowing brightly, but another magic was struggling against it. Six lines of pure, white light that passed over the central rune like a net, keeping it from being lifted. The magic had the same cold sheen as the white magic Genesis had gone to such lengths to try to shove off of himself, until the effort of fighting against it had driven him near to madness.

Mirk shuffled down the row of cots until he was standing over the young man whose dreams he'd intruded on. Biting his lip, Mirk held the staff out over his heaving chest, then closed his eyes and fully lowered his shields.

The Montignys' emotions were an invisible maelstrom around him, a vortex that his shields and his preoccupation with Genesis's notes had kept him from being pulled down into. But in his mind's eye, they were the color of bruises, dark purples and blues and greens, obscuring the glow of his grandfather's staff in his hands. If he listened closely, Mirk could hear snatches of phantom conversations — sharp commands to know his place, pleas to stop that fell on deaf ears, whispered threats. He focused harder, trying to hear the staff through the chaos.

The staff was always quiet, oddly distant despite it allowing him to draw on its strength, from time to time. He tried speaking to it as he listened, in a desperate attempt to wake it, his hands going tight around it.

They don't deserve this. Reliving it, again and again.

Though he could only catch the barest glimpses of their nightmares, fragmented voices and images, Mirk knew the men had done terrible things. The young man beneath his staff included, whose own worst memory was close to the dark inverse of his own. Their own judgment, Mirk felt, had to be worse than any that could be levied upon them. And even if the men were unrepentant before for what they'd done, then surely they had to feel the drive now, after being caught in the nightmares of their past for days. Or maybe they wouldn’t; maybe he was too naive. Either way, it didn’t feel right not to give them the chance to start again.

It wasn't Imanael's place to judge them. No matter what Serge did to Aena. And Kae. And maman. And grand-père…

He shook his head, hard. Now wasn’t the time to think of it, to feel sorry for himself for what had happened. That was what had brought all of it crashing down on them, generation after generation, each one seeking revenge in the wrong way for a wrong that never should have been done in the first place. Mirk refocused on the feel of the wood under his palms, warm and unyielding.

Please, help me. Help me make it stop. Can you hear me?

Still, Mirk heard nothing from the staff.

He scrunched his eyes shut even tighter. Then he moved on instinct, on impulse. He dropped to his knees at the head of the young man's bed, the staff resting along the length of his shoulders. Mirk felt better, more certain of things, down on his level and closer to the earth. Even beyond all the men's tortured memories and the faint, crystalline ring of Imanael's magic, he could still hear the stone beneath all of it, a gravelly, murmuring voice. Indifferent to the chaos above, fainter than usual because of all the illusions coating Madame Polignac's home, but always there. Mirk focused on it, his hands tightening on the staff once more.

Give me strength. Give me the strength to forgive them. It's not my place to say what they deserve.

The voice of the earth grew louder. A grumbling, rumbling digression, like an old dog that'd been warming itself beside a fire, stirred to its feet by a loyal impulse that never faded, despite the aching in its bones. And in it, very faintly, Mirk heard another voice, high and fair and ringing, speaking too softly for Mirk to understand it. He reached down further into the earth, ignoring the tears he could feel streaming down his face as he was buffeted by the Montigny men’s emotions, gritting his teeth.

They aren't dead yet. It's not our place to judge. None of ours. Please, take what you need from me.

There was a sound like a laugh, half-delighted and half-scornful. Mirk barely heard it. Warmth surged up in him, like an inverse bolt of lightning, lancing out of the ground and into his chest. Then everything went black and silent.

Mirk couldn't be completely sure what happened. But the next thing he was aware of was Seigneur Feulaine shaking him by the shoulders and yelling for someone to go find the healers.

Shaking himself awake, Mirk blinked his eyes open. Everything had changed. Most importantly, the Montigny men had stopped aching, leaving space enough in Mirk's mind to think again. The sunlight that'd filled the room previously seemed dimmer, greener, though his vision was too blurry for him to make out why. As Mirk rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, he became aware of a solid, constant thwacking and grunting going on behind him.

He was still on his knees on the floor at the head of the youngest man's cot. Not through any choice of his own — doubtlessly, he should have collapsed onto his side, considering how weak he felt. But the lower half of his body was, for some reason, tangled in vines.

That was why the light in the room was so different. It was as if twenty years had passed, and all of Mademoiselle Polignac's plants had been left to do whatever they wanted for the duration. Ornamental trees had surged upward and sprouted branches so thick they blocked out most of the sun, along with enough roots to burst their pots and make the floor nothing but a shattered ruin of broken tiles as the trees searched for space to sprawl and earth to draw life from. The dainty pots of violets and orchids had become masses of flowers, all in full bloom. The orange tree that the three Grand Masters had greeted Mirk from the shade of was heavy with fruit.

"It's...I'm all right, seigneur," Mirk croaked, finally having enough sense to try to put an end to Seigneur Feulaine's panic. "Are they..."

"Bravo!" Seigneur Rouzet cheered from beneath the orange tree that had tripled in size, giving a few sarcastic claps for emphasis. "You've freed the Montignys. Really, you shouldn't be so concerned about Seigneur d'Avignon, Antoine. You have competition again in the Briquets."

None of the Montigny men were awake. Rather, they were solidly asleep, for what was probably the first time in weeks. The weeping, raw wounds that had marred their chests had all closed, leaving behind scars as white as ones that'd been healed for months. Mirk sighed, drawing the staff back off the shoulders of the youngest man, looking down at it. As unremarkable and silent as ever. And yet...

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"Get off, damn it!"

Mirk looked over his shoulder. Kali had sprung to his defense, not against the other members of the Circle, but against Mademoiselle Polignac's plants. For each vine or root she hacked away with her sword, it seemed like three more rose to take its place. Clearing his throat, Mirk waved to catch her attention, struggling to find the right English words. Doubtlessly, the opportunity to get into a fight had caught her attention before she could think to activate her translation charm. "It's all right, Comrade Kali. They're not hurting me. They're just...euh...enthusiastic?"

Kali whirled to face him, sword still drawn and streaked with sap. "What?"

"It's fine. Where's Comrade Catherine?"

"Went to go get the healers or something," Kali said, noticing the sap and trying to wipe it off on her skirts. All it did was tear them, when her sword stuck to the fabric and refused to budge any further. "Damn it!"

"Is it all right, Mirk?" Seigneur Feulaine asked him in French. The Grand Master of the fire mages’ guild looked bewildered by everything that had happened, unable to decide what to gape at first. But as Mirk gently untangled himself from the mass of vines that had curled around his lower half and braced the end of the staff on the floor for support, Seigneur Feulaine reflexively offered out a hand up, which Mirk gladly took.

"Yes, I suppose it is. The Montignys are better, anyway. Although..." Mirk took a slow look around the room, taking in all the small details: the cracked windows, the shattered pots, the ruined floors. And Seigneur d'Aumont looking on in silence, frowning slightly, Er-Izat beside him.

The djinn's collar was flickering gold again, as his magic stirred restlessly within him. No doubt Seigneur d’Aumont had called on his servant to defend him from any plants that might have gotten the wrong idea about who was an appropriate target. Mirk's eyes were drawn to a spot on the side of Er-Izat's collar that remained illuminated well after the light had faded from the rest of it. It was trapped in a symbol engraved deep in the metal. A cross, with a rose in bloom wrapped around it. Mirk forced himself to look away, back down into the face of the young man he was standing over.

“Although?” Seigneur Feulaine prompted.

"...I'll be needing to speak to the ghosts once everything is done here. I've ruined poor Mademoiselle Polignac's solarium."

- - -

"I must thank you, Seigneur d'Avignon. This is the most fun I've had at a meeting of the Circle yet."

From across Mademoiselle Polignac's parlor, Seigneur d'Aumont shot Seigneur Rouzet a dark look. It had taken a good hour for the three of them to recover from what had happened in the solarium, Mirk waving off the trio of healers recruited by Catherine and Mademoiselle Polignac, reassuring them that the Montigny men needed them more than he did. The Montignys were exhausted, weak, steadfastly unconscious, but their pulse and breathing were stable. One of the healers had made an attempt at lifting the scar off the eldest's chest, to no avail. Mirk wasn't surprised, considering the state of Genesis's arms.

Mirk hadn't been prepared to do anything more after freeing the Montignys. He'd been hoping that the fiasco would put the other members of the Circle off him entirely. Although Seigneur Rouzet was highly amused by the whole affair, and Seigneur Feulaine was mostly relieved, it was clear to Mirk that Seigneur d'Aumont was skeptical of his usefulness, at best. Or perhaps all of his suspicious frowning was motivated by something else entirely. Mirk didn't allow his mind to linger on it, lest he lose track of the conversation going on around him.

"Are you well, seigneur?" the woman seated across from him asked, her arched eyebrows betraying her own skepticism, though her voice was warm and friendly. Marquise Bachelot, the Circle's water mage. Not the head of a guild, but of a mercantile enterprise she'd inherited from her husband and revitalized after his passing. Her attendants, two burly men tanned so deeply that they almost looked like djinn, spoke to that. Mirk supposed they must have felt as out of sorts in that noble parlor as he did, albeit for a different reason.

"Ah, yes, thank you, madame la marquise. A little tired, but I'll be fine."

Seigneur Rouzet, despite having already been scolded indirectly by Seigneur d'Aumont, wasn't about to let things go. "A shame about your suit, though. The Nasiri twins, yes?"

Mirk nodded. But before he could answer, Rouzet was carrying on.

"You d'Avignons do have a taste for oddities, don't you? Marrying with angels, mystic tailors, women for guards. Are these the infamous women warriors of the K'maneda that we've all heard so much about? I have to say, that was some fine swordsmanship, Mademoiselle...?"

Seigneur Rouzet had turned in his chair and was eyeing up Kali. Her sister and Mademoiselle Polignac had done quick repairs on her torn dress, but the only thread they'd managed to scrounge up had been white. Kali had been in a mood ever since, though Mirk wasn't sure which of a dozen things was keeping her ire high at the moment. He decided to cut in and answer for her, lest Rouzet start trying to goad her into drawing her blade again. "Comrade Kali, seigneur. And her sister, Comrade Catherine. They're the daughters of two of the divisional commanders."

Mirk gestured to each of them in turn; while Catherine performed a deep curtsey and bowed her head, Kali remained stock still, glaring down at Seigneur Rouzet. The dark mage wasn't fazed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs as he studied Kali, drumming his fingers on his kneecap. When he spoke again, it was in flawless, though heavily accented English. "Remarkable. I've seen women carry swords now and then, but never with so much...intent. Comrade Kali, is it? Forgive me, but I'm not familiar with your terms of address."

Kali managed a grudging nod. "Some women fight. Others are mages. Like Catherine."

"Ah, yes, I see that...an interesting wand...and carried like a sword as well? My, you all really are a fierce lot..."

Catherine dipped into another modest curtsy. "Thank you, seigneur. We're honored to be here."

Rouzet chuckled. "I certainly hope so! I'd hate to make a poor impression on you ladies. I quite like my head where it is."

Seigneur d'Aumont cut in then, clearing his throat and shooting Seigneur Rouzet another disapproving look that the dark mage ignored in favor of continuing to attempt to stare down Kali. "Seigneur Rouzet is correct on that point. We were hoping that you could speak to us about some K'maneda matters, Seigneur d'Avignon," he said, turning his attention to Mirk.

Mirk had to fight not to fidget with the staff across his knees, as the eyes of all the remaining members of the Circle and their attendants, Seigneur Rouzet excepted, turned back on him. "Ah...yes? I'm at your service, of course, seigneur."

The Comte de Coudray chose to finally speak then, making a show of noisily clearing his throat. One of his two attendants — both older men in heavy robes, light gray and stitched with enchantments in silver thread — produced a handkerchief for him, should he need it. "The whole country is overrun with brigands. It's impossible to get anything done. The light of the Sun King is only bright enough to scare off the mortals, apparently."

The Comte was cut from the same formal, reserved cloth as Seigneur d'Aumont, though the Comte's mannerisms pressed the image past propriety and into something close to parody. His wig was nearly as grand and voluminous as his godmother's hats, but the Comte didn't have bold enough features to balance its weight. On the whole, the wig looked as if it was wearing the Comte rather than it being the other way around.

"Ah...is that so, monsieur le comte? I'm afraid I haven't kept up well with the situation here..."

"He does have a point," the Marquise said, smoothing some minor imperfection out of her wide, cerulean skirts. "I've lost seven ships this year. The Artificers Guild is threatening to go to the Low Countries for supplies. Though, really, they're not much better off."

Seigneur Rouzet saw a new wound to poke at in her words, his gaze finally shifting from Kali back to the members of the Circle. "And would that be such a terrible thing, madame la marquise? It isn't as if the Dutch are barbarians pounding at the gates, whatever the mortals think of them aside."

"That isn't the point, seigneur" the Marquise countered smoothly, turning Seigneur Rouzet’s title into a barb just like he had hers, though she didn’t bother to look at him. "The point is, Black Banner is falling short. And the guild guards aren't manned well enough to pick up the slack. We've been discussing hiring from abroad."

"It isn't the fault of the guilds themselves," Seigneur Feulaine said. Though he could tell Seigneur Feulaine was trying to keep up his usual cheerful, friendly attitude, more for Mirk’s benefit than to put on a brave face for the other members of the Circle, his worry was constantly overwhelming him. First it had been the matter of the Montignys, now it was something else. Something different, but just as dire, if Mirk was reading his expression right. "I've been spending a lot of time reviewing the Briquets’ ledgers since being elected as Grand Master. We've been losing at least fifty strong mages a year to war, at least in my guild."

The Comte nodded, his wig coming perilously close to sliding off his head. "Your predecessor was at the forefront of defending the honor of French magecraft. We've never been very combative in the Quatrevents, since the weather isn't a thing easily confined to one territory..."

"In short," Seigneur d'Aumont said, as the Comte fell into a coughing fit, making use of the handkerchief he'd been handed by his attendant, "the current state of affairs is untenable."

"Just because the mortals decide to go to war every decade doesn't mean the mages need to follow suit," Seigneur Feulaine agreed.

"It's bad business," the Marquise added.

"Depends on what your business is," Seigneur Rouzet joked, though he nodded along.

Mirk was at a loss. But he had to say something, had to do something more than just smile at them and wish he could sink into the floor. "Ah...yes. War is never kind. I've...seen that. Working with the K'maneda healers. But what can I do to help? If you'd like to present a united front, perhaps you should speak to the Duc de Saint-Simon, if he's still Grand Master of the Briseurs..."

"A patriot to the very end, the Duc de Saint-Simon," Seigneur Rouzet said. "Impossible."

Though it could have been a trick of the light, Mirk thought he saw Seigneur d'Aumont's eyes narrow. "The K'maneda has become...very formidable under the guidance of its most recent leader. And connected to English magecraft, in some ways."

But he didn't have time to consider Seigneur d'Aumont's words for long, as the Marquise was quick on his heels. "Yes. My associates in England have been doing quite well with the K'maneda looking after their ships. They haven't lost a single one in five years."

"And not for a lack of effort on the barbarians' part," the Comte interjected, after stifling another cough.

"Have you made any friends among the English yet?" Seigneur Feulaine prompted.

"Ah...well. I've been occupied...but..."

"I'm certain a man with your potential wouldn't have any issues," Seigneur Rouzet said, eyeing the staff across Mirk's knees. "Such a curious thing, that staff...that aside, a man who's the head of his own family at such a young age is something to be envied. Not only for his ledgers." His eyes drifted back toward Kali lurking behind Mirk’s chair.

"I'll see what I can do, of course," Mirk said, hoping to draw Seigneur Rouzet’s attention back. "But I can't make any promises."

"And the K'maneda," the Marquise said, locking eyes with him across the parlor once more. "As I said, I've been very dissatisfied with Black Banner as of late."

"An arm of the King, incompetent rabble," the Comte said, dismissively.

"Of course, they have their excuses," the Marquise continued. "Bad weather, overladen boats, strange magic from foreign mages. Perhaps there's some truth to all of it, but I'd still be very interested in an alternative."

Mirk nodded. Protecting a noble's wares wasn't the sort of work that Genesis would favor, he knew. But perhaps he could connect the Marquise to another division, or K'aekniv and the other Easterners could convince Genesis that not every contract needed to be part of some existential struggle for liberation. It would certainly be safer riding boats across the Mediterranean than getting involved in wars on other realms, which truly said something about how grim the majority of the K’maneda’s contracts were. Provided Ravensdale allowed the Seventh to take on a contract that offered them halfway decent pay without making them endure the worst of the fighting.

Ravensdale. The thought of him drew Mirk's eyes back to Seigneur d'Aumont, and to Er-Izat, standing motionlessly behind him with his hands clasped behind his back. Seigneur d'Aumont's other attendant was a high-ranking guild mage, politely disinterested in the current proceedings, but Er-Izat was at full attention. Mirk was sure it was his mind playing tricks on him, but Seigneur d'Aumont's expression seemed to darken every time the K'maneda was mentioned. It was less the lord's own face that gave him away than it was Er-Izat's. The djinn's focus shifted to Seigneur d'Aumont whenever someone spoke the K'maneda's name, as if anticipating some unspoken request from the lord.

"I can't promise you anything from the K’maneda either, madame la marquise," Mirk said, slowly, once it became clear that he wasn't going to be spared having to reply by another one of Seigneur Rouzet's asides. "I'm only a healer, after all. But I'd be happy to speak to whoever I can."

She nodded, grudgingly satisfied. But one of her two attendants spoke up in her stead. "What mages do the K’maneda have? All dark, like them?" he asked, nodding at Kali and Catherine behind Mirk's chair.

"Oh, no. There's all kinds. They...well, they seem to accept anyone who's willing to fight, no matter their element."

"It's mostly fire and water mages who've been giving us trouble," the Marquise's other attendant said. "And the usual monsters."

Mirk nodded. "They're used to that sort of thing as well, from what I've seen. Since they work off-realm so much. But, as I said, I don't know very many of the specifics."

"Anyone would do a better job of handling them than Black Banner," the Marquise muttered under her breath, seeming to grow more annoyed the longer the conversation lingered on her business troubles. It had to be worse than she'd described aloud to the rest of the Circle, Mirk thought. He didn't think a lady of her standing would be so easily agitated otherwise.

"In the meantime, you know House Hyacinth is always willing to help, Delphine," Seigneur Rouzet said. "I know you've taken on help from House Rose in the past, but I'm aware that things are...difficult with them, at the moment," he added, glancing Mirk's way. Though his continual, smirking sort of grin didn't waver.

Mirk made a conscious effort to keep his own pleasant smile fixed on his face, electing not to step into the conversation. But Seigneur Rouzet pressed the issue, turning in his chair again so that he was facing Mirk directly. "I'd like to offer you my sincerest apologies, Seigneur d'Avignon. Both on my behalf, and on behalf of House Rose, since I'm sure Seigneur Feulaine has already extended condolences on behalf of his guild. With so many different kinds of demons and factions in the House, they've been having a terrible time keeping everyone on the same page. But I've been assured that those connected to Serge have been cast out."

It was a total, bald-faced lie. Mirk didn't have to know anything specific about the demonic houses to know that. And he suspected the other nobles gathered in the parlor knew that as well, especially considering the pained expression that had come onto Seigneur Feulaine's face. But none of the other members of the Circle chose to step in, and Mirk knew he had nothing to gain by protesting.

Who was he but the unfortunate remnant of a once noble family, only relevant now because he could further the other members' ambitions by knowing the right people? Who was he to spit on their charity by protesting the lie? Mirk nodded, hoping his smile was still holding up well enough to come across as genuine. "Thank you, seigneur. It will take time to recover, but God doesn't give us any burden too heavy to bear."

"A full investigation will be made of the other Montignys once they've recovered," Seigneur d'Aumont said. "Though the Empire saw to it in their own way, I promise we will undertake our own measures to ensure that such a thing doesn't happen in the future to another family."

"Despicable behavior. Befitting only savages," the Comte added, dabbing at his nose. Though it wasn't clear to Mirk whether the Comte was referring to the Montignys or the angels.

Seigneur Feulaine leaned forward in his chair, looking like he wished he could reach across the gap between them and take Mirk's hands. He was the only lord who seemed genuine in his condolences — the rest, Mirk assumed, were less concerned with him, and more with maintaining order among the nobles, to ensure that the fate that'd befallen Mirk's family wouldn't come for their own. "You have nothing to fear from them ever again, Mirk. And my son-in-law wishes to send his condolences as well. He was...upset by what happened to Serge and the others, but he's come to understand that it was all out of your hands."

Thinking of Laurent, of his impotent and unending rage, and of the Montigny men writhing under the spell Imanael had put on them, only made Mirk feel worse. But he made himself keep smiling, made himself nod as agreeably as if they'd been discussing how pleasant the weather was outside Mademoiselle Polignac's parlor windows. "Of course, seigneur. I trust you completely."

"Perhaps it would be proper for House Rose to send their own emissaries to the next meeting Seigneur d'Avignon attends to offer their formal apologies," Seigneur d'Aumont said. He was ignoring Mirk at the moment, instead eyeing Seigneur Rouzet and his two attendants — not fully human, if Mirk's time working at the infirmary had taught him anything about demonic physiology — with a disapproving frown.

Seigneur Rouzet made a helpless gesture with his hands, returning Seigneur d'Aumont's disdain with a sort of contriteness that Mirk could tell was completely manufactured, though he couldn't feel a trace of the dark mage's genuine emotions. It seemed to convince the others, though. Or they simply didn't feel inclined toward getting into a dispute with Rouzet at the moment. "Of course, Herbert. They'd very much like to. Unfortunately, they may still be in mourning then. I'm unfamiliar with their particular customs, but that was the reason they gave when they said no one could come this month."

"Mourning?" Seigneur d'Aumont asked. Both he and the Comte seemed to doubt the notion of demons having any customs related to mourning.

"Yes. I'm afraid Lady Karin lost a child two months ago. A boy. Days away from being born, I was told. The same would be painful for one of our own ladies too, of course, but apparently that business is considered a particular tragedy among her kind of demon."

It was as if all the world stopped, the sound of the continued conversation among the members of the Circle fading away and his vision blurring until Mirk was caught in an indistinct haze of fright. His blood pounded in his ears; his breath caught in his throat. Mirk hoped that his outer facade wasn't collapsing as rapidly as his insides. He clenched his grandfather's staff tight in his hands and focused hard on its distant warmth, the faint hum of its magic, in an attempt to compose himself.

There was no hope in following the conversation any more. Thankfully, the Circle seemed finished with him and his potential connections, and with the nasty business of what had happened to his family. But the latter was all Mirk could think of.

The longer he sat still, the more he thought he could hear drizzle hissing against the side of Madame Polignac's chateau, despite the sun streaming through the windows. The more he thought he could feel claws pressing deep into his flesh.

He needed to get back to the City and talk with Genesis.