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a heated dialogue with himself. Carensa found herself holding her breath.
    Finally, Quintrel rounded on them, his face still flushed with anger. “Dolan and his group have chosen to abandon us,” Quintrel announced. “He thinks the Knights of Esthrane will be welcomed as the salvation of Donderath,” he added, contempt clear in his words. “I believe he will be sorely disappointed.”
    Carensa and the others said nothing, unwilling to send Quintrel further into rage. “We don’t need the Knights,” Quintrel muttered. “Dolan and his Knights didn’t build Valshoa. They inherited it—stole it, really—from the original Valshoans.” Quintrel’s agitation showed in his short, shallow breaths, the ruddiness of his face, and the way his hands reflexively opened and closed.
    “What would you have us do to prepare?” Jarle asked. If anyone could talk Quintrel down from one of his rages, it would be Jarle.
    “Prepare?” Quintrel nearly shrieked the word. “Are you implying that we will be damaged by the Knights’ defection?”
    “Of course not, Vigus.” Jarle had been one of Quintrel’s inner circle for many years, a supporter long before the war, when they were both scholars at Castle Reach’s university. He was also one of the first to be chosen by Quintrel for the journey to Valshoa. “But it will cause some disruption until we adjust.”
    “We will get along just fine without Dolan and his men,” Quintrel replied through gritted teeth. “We don’t need the help of untrustworthy
talishte
.”
    “Perhaps, in light of this development, you may want to rethink our relationship with Rostivan,” Jarle said. “After all, losing the Knights removes some of our military support.”
    “Our plans do not depend in any way on Dolan and his Knights!” Quintrel exploded, wheeling to face Jarle. Quintrel’s right hand rose suddenly, and the closed fingers of his fist snapped open and spread wide.
    Jarle dropped as if struck, his eyes wide, mouth taut with pain. A hard glint came into Quintrel’s eyes. “Don’t doubt me, Jarle. You, especially, should know what I can do.”
    Quintrel let his hand fall, and Jarle slumped to the floor. Quintrel’s gaze swept the other mages, and his mouth twisted into a thin-lipped half smile.
    “Don’t allow your fears to make you weak,” he said. “Our time is near, and we will rise ascendant.” With that, Quintrel swept from the room, leaving Jarle and the others behind. Esban, Quintrel’s second-in-command, followed a moment later.
    Carensa rushed to where Jarle lay. To her relief, he was still breathing, and his pulse was steady. “Jarle? Can you hear me?”
    Jarle moaned, but did not move. Carensa looked to Guran.“Help me,” she said. “I can’t get him back to his quarters by myself.”
    Guran and Carensa got under Jarle’s shoulders and managed to half carry, half drag the injured mage to his quarters.
When did everything go so wrong?
Carensa fretted as they moved through the narrow corridors of the ancient building.
Vigus was supposed to be our protector. What happened?
    They made their way through the narrow corridors. Valshoa was an ancient city, hidden in a mountain valley. More than a thousand years ago, the city had been built by mages who wanted isolation in which to study their craft. Murals and frescoes, mosaic floors, statues, and bas-relief panels chronicled the history of those long-ago Valshoans. Deep beneath the ground, currents of raw magic power, ‘meridians,’ flowed across the world. Where two or more meridians crossed, a ‘node’ formed a potent well of energy. Mages could draw from the energy of the nodes and meridians to extend their power. Beneath Valshoa, a confluence of meridians formed a very powerful node.
    Jarle’s quarters were sparsely furnished. The few personal possessions were a testament to how quickly the mages had fled to follow Quintrel to refuge during the last, chaotic days before Donderath’s collapse.
    “Let’s