It spanned from horizon to horizon, as far as her crow eyes could see. A great hedgerow labyrinth of deep green foliage and roses that bloomed in every color imaginable. The longer she flew, the more details crystallized amongst the chaos of color. There were villages in the maze—all covered over with moss and vines and roses too, and great twisting stairs that led down into the earth. There were fountains and ponds, rivers and canals.

And of course, there was the ever-present scent of mint. For all their explosive prolefireration in this place, the aroma of the roses themselves could barely be discerned. Most strangely of all, though a sliver of blush-colored moon could be seen through the gray haze of the sky, there was no sun in sight. In spite of this, the land was lit as though it were but a clouded midday.

As she flew, what looked to be an immense and very ancient castle became visible in the far distance. Its windows shone with glittering light, and both she and the crow longed to reach it. But the pull of the Wolf mage diverted her. So instead she swooped around to return, with the crow’s unerring sense of direction, to the hovering mirror portal.

The transition back through the flashing veil was rather warm this time, but no less pleasurable. The crow came to a landing upon the shoulder of the Wolf mage, who lifted his gloved hand for her at once. Opening it, he revealed in his palm her favorite treat…a bit of sausage. The elder stood at his side, and she gobbled down the treat as her mage finished describing for the man what they had seen.

Out of the corner of her eye, the mirror portal flared and was gone. The crow turned her attention back to the crowd, for they might make more shiny things. More things to investigate, which led to more sausage.

But the acolytes just stood and murmured amongst themselves as the elder stared, wide-eyed and ashen-skinned, at the Wolf mage. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Then he shook his head—one hard jerk to the side—and turned back to his students.

“De—” he coughed, cleared his through. “Demitri! Please come with us. The rest of you are dismissed.”

In the world outside of the long-dead crow’s memories, Beatrice’s blood ran cold.

For a moment she expected Gray to end the connection, for the lesson was over. But he did not, instead she found herself riding along with the crow and her Wolf mage master, through an arched doorway and into a long, dimly lit hall. The place had the feel of an abbey, rambling and old. The elder opened another door and beckoned his companions inside.

Light streamed in through narrow stained-glassed windows, bathing the dusty office in rainbows. Seating himself at the high-backed chair behind a battered desk, the elder bid the boy sit. Though there were two chairs set up across from him at the desk, the Wolf mage chose instead to stand just off to the side, arms crossed.

Demitri shook as he complied, his face milk-white.

“My son,” said the elder. “It pains me more than you can know to do this—“

“No! Father Ainsel, please…”

“But I must rescind your membership in our order effective immediately,” continued the elder, his kindly face contorted in anguish. Nevertheless, he forged on. “To be recorded for posterity as of this moment.“ At this he glanced directly over at the crow whose eyes through which she gazed. “Once dismissed, you must pack and be ready for departure within the hour. Crowkeeper Murtagh will accompany you.”

“This isn’t right,” said the younger fox Mage, trembling harder yet. “Whatever that was, if it’s bad, I can learn to suppress it. We both know I can open ordinary portals. I’ve done it before. I can—”

“No, Demitri, my son. I am forbidden to teach you. We all are. It would mean our lives.”

The boy leapt to his feet.

“But why?”

“There are things we humans are not to know, places we aren’t to go, dangers we cannot imagine. In your time here, you have learned how to suppress, withhold, and divert your power. But it is absolutely vital that you continue developing your self-control even after you leave our walls. Do you understand me?”

“It’s…it is forbidden to use magecraft without membership in an order,” said Demitri, eyes and tone distant, almost dazed.

“Yes, exactly. And so you must be careful to—”

“It is forbidden here,” said Dimitri, cutting through the elder’s words with a tone that was now dagger-sharp. “I don’t want a portal back home. I want a portal to the North.”

Father Ainsel looked aghast.

“My son, we cannot do that for you.”

Demitri’s nostrils flared, eyes wide and wild as his hands clenched into fists. His trembling ceased.

“Maybe you won’t help me, but you’ve no right to stop me either. I’ll leave Miurhall on foot.”

He jerked around then to jab a finger at the Wolf mage.

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“Do not think to have one of your creatures follow me, Crowman,” he snarled. Turning, he stormed from the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

And then everything softened around the edges and began to blur together.

“This may be a little disorienting,” said Gray’s voice, strangely distant. “But we are merely transitioning to the memory of a different ancestor.”

The blurred colors shifted and resolved until Beatrice found herself soaring along a road through a dense forest. The road, though sunk deep into the ground, seemed barely used—covered mostly in a thick carpet of moss. The forest itself rose up several feet to either side and the canopy closed in overhead. A verdant tunnel.

Abruptly, the crow veered right, plunging into the greenery. Somewhere up ahead a twig snapped, and a familiar voice cursed, and then she caught a flash of orange. Flapping up to perch in the upper branches of a gnarled tree, she peered down and ahead into the clearing just as Demitri brought up his hands. Then, far too hastily, he forced his power forward. The air raptured, twisted, reformed, flashed…

And became another mirror.

The boy spat a curse, threw a look over his shoulder, and saw her. His eyes narrowed and his lips twisted. Then, turning back to the portal, he squared his shoulders, dragged in a heaving breath, and strode through his own reflection. In the next heartbeat, the mirror door was gone…and so was all trace of Demitri.

Again, the colors ran together, and again they resolved.

She was sitting upon a high perch inside what appeared to be a greatlodge in the style of the old northlands—a construction made entirely of black pine logs that interlocked in a tapering dance to a pointed roof high overhead. She was but one of many crows in attendance.

Below were gathered several people in woolen finery and others in silk, lit by the glow of a massive hearthfire. By the styles of their dress, about half the guests appeared native to the northern kingdoms, while others looked of Dustren. The wind outside could be heard howling and wailing, but inside the lodge, it was warm. A couple held hands before the fire as a northern priestess waved a burning branch about them, murmuring a chant. Just to the side of her, a Dustrish priest stood—lips drawn into a hard line, garnet knife clasped in his hands.

The groom beamed crookedly down at his bride, whose face was out of view but whose strawberry golden curls cascaded down her back, all aglow with firelight. Demitri, perhaps some five or more years older than he’d been in the last memory, smiled on even as their arms were cut, never glancing away from the other’s face.

“And so it is, under the eye of crow and Spirits, by the rites of both our peoples, we declare this day these two bound: Demitri Styrgson and Adelais Lavigne, Husband, wife, pack—” said the priest, wrapping about their arms a length of silk. “Forever.”

“Skalvor t’aka!” Shouted the northerners, raising tankards cut from tusk and horn and drinking all as one. When they had done and set aside their cups, the attendants burst into mist and color as they shifted form. And when the glimmer settled, they all of them surged from the hall to run together.

The memories shifted again.

They were in the same lodge, or one very much like it—though in a much smaller chamber. She was perched atop the shoulder of an old and bearded man, and across from them stood the fiery-haired man, Demitri.

His face was a mask of fury and anguish.

“They took her,” he said. “The bastards took her and fled. They left a message. Your treaty is now moot, though they are willing to renegotiate the terms so long as I cooperate. Repatriate. And my wife will live. So long as I cooperate. They say they will return her after the child is born, and then keep the babe in her place as their foster.” He snarled, looking as though he might spit upon the ground. “Their hostage.”

The old man drew a deep and rattling breath.

“Then they have left you no choice, and you know what you must do,” he said.

Demitri met the old man’s gaze, hatred burning through his eyes.

“Go to them. Play their game for as long as you must,” said the elder. “But when the time comes, flip the board.”

At that, the outcast mage set his lips into a hard line, and the fire in his gaze flared. He bowed his head, turned, and in a riot of color was gone.

The memory faded, and the cord of power binding her to Gray came loose. He released her hands, and the connection was lost. She opened her eyes to find herself looking into the silvery porcelain approximations of Gray’s mask as he leaned back from her. And she found herself wishing, for the first time, that she could truly meet his gaze.

“The Fox Lord, from the story,” breathed Beatrice. “That was him, wasn’t it?”

Gray favored her with a rather grim smile.

“That is the conclusion I came to as well, when first I happened upon these memories,” he said.

“You…you don’t suppose he could be an ancestor of Victoria’s Demitri?”

“Perhaps he is,” said Gray. “Or perhaps the truth is stranger still.”

Beatrice frowned.

“Whatever do you mean?”

But Gray only shook his head. “I dare not say yet. I must seek out more memories. Learn more. Lest I make a fool of myself to you again.”

“Lord Gray, you have not—”

He put up a hand. “It’s quite alright, my lady. At the least, my failures drive me to betterment. It can be a dangerous thing, to become too content with oneself.”

“I suppose, my lord,” said Beatrice, though she wished still to comfort him.

He favored her with a gentle smile.

“But if he is indeed the Fox Lord of legend, and I am able to locate the necessary memories…I may be able to learn how he tore the Liminal. And if I can do that, we may be able to decipher how to fix it. But for now, that’s little more than fancy. As for your first training and practice session, I should like to have it today—with the lesson so fresh in your mind,” he said. “But I fear Arron will not have the space ready for us until tomorrow.”

“That’s quite alright, my lord, I shall review it in my mind until then.”

He inclined his head to her.

“Just so.”

And again the light glittered becomingly off his mask, defining the fine angles of his features and teasing out the rich colors that hid in the darkness of his hair. Beatrice found herself breathing deeply, savoring his scent. And the next thing she knew, she had reached out and laid her hand lightly over his.

“My lord, it truly is important to me to be sure that you know, I do not hold any blame in my heart for—”

“Gray! Lady Stagston!”

It was Charles’ voice, bellowing down from the great hole at the dome of the ceiling.

“Get yourselves up here at once. At once!”

Charles did not at all sound himself. The crows squawked and cawed, the one at the other end of the chamber flapping its way hurriedly to Gray’s side.

The Silver’s chest was heaving, eyes wild with panic, hand raking at his hair as they met him at the tower’s first level landing.

“Darcy’s back,” he said, and Beatrice’s heart leapt.

“Already?” There was a sour edge of fear in Gray’s voice, and both his crows fixed their eyes straight upon Charles.

“Yes,” he said, with a tone as though Gray had just asked if he were to die that very night.

“And the Lord High Inquisitor’s come with her.”