That night Irenya walked the passageways of silent Ilkyrie, her head too full of baffling, impenetrable information to sleep. Her fur boots lisped on the floor and the heavy cloak around her shoulders smelled faintly of wool grease and horse. She sat on the main staircase, gathered the cloak around her, and pondered the catastrophe Dar Orien was facing. According to Leachim, the MageGate Gift had always been rare, and to ensure continuance the search for apprentices was never-ending—but two whole years searching with no result at all. Surely just one would have popped up somewhere. She thought about the uncertainty, the livelihoods suffering, the communities backsliding into isolation, and the loss of something of enormous value that might never be regained. Scary stuff. At least she didn’
