Rook took a seat, closed his eyes, and focused on the auras near the hunting lodge. Doing so from such a distance was a skill particular to him, and one that he had neglected to pass on. As such, it was doubly effective as a form of covert surveillance. The trick had been mastering the ability to focus on multiple things at once. With magesight, you could never truly look away from the searing bright of an aura. To look far afield, one needed to see the nearby auras, take them in, and simultaneously extend their mind beyond. The effort would extol its price as swiftly as Malone’s healing magics chased him to his grave, but Rook had long ago resolved to pay whatever price necessary for power. For him, it would be madness in place of death, but the end result was much the same.

  He found the rebels. There were three. He felt a hint of scorn. Any men who could be lured and manipulated by a fanned rumour were as unfit to lead the country as Bryant himself. They were speaking with the girl, who had come through the other end of her Snap. He could not hear what they were saying, but he could imagine. From the taut nature of Tynan’s aura, she was as unimpressed as he would have been. He observed the guard approach. They moved steadily towards the lodge, spreading around it in tight formation.

  When the guard descended, the rebels didn’t have a chance. Their souls, cleaved free of their mortal forms, hung lazily in place. Tynan tried to flee but was quickly apprehended. Rook waited, feeling a bead of sweat form on his forehead at the strain of keeping up his surveyance. He could not afford to miss his cue. After what felt like an age, the solid, white light of Malone’s aura bobbled towards the lodge. Before the guard had departed, Rook had suggested that the king would be prudent to guard against poison or other underhanded attacks on his prize by sending his healer to check the girl over.

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  It happened quickly, in the space between heartbeats. He had been watching for it and yet still, it startled him. Tynan’s soul, pale and shimmering, floated free like a ribbon of cloud. It was rising, rapidly, towards the ether. At that point, it would be too late for him to retrieve it. He breathed slowly, evenly, in an attempt to calm his suddenly jangling nerves. He could do this. The theory was sound. He spared a moment of irritation for the fact that the souls of the rebels moved slowly, still hanging in place. He schooled his mind to calm. Souls all moved at their own pace, the same as people. It was part of necromancy, not a personal affront. He held his breath and grasped at the soul.

  He did it. His eyes came open and a grin spread slowly across his mouth. His body tingled from head to foot with her captured power. He’d just pushed the boundaries of his art further than since Irida herself had walked the earth. No one had ever captured a soul from beyond eyeline before. He looked back to the king, who was fretting as they waited for news.

  “Don’t worry, Sire,” he said, “I trust everything has gone smoothly.”