Merlin laid his palm against the center of it. It lit up at his fingertips, and veins of light spiderwebbed like cracking glass. When the network of glowing tributaries reached the edges on all sides, the weight of it evaporated, and as the granite slab slid backward, it didn’t groan against the floor. Its movement sounded like a breeze against tall grass. The door slowly slid to the side, leaving a gap only large enough for them to pass through single file.

The room they entered was unsurprisingly round, with three rows of tiered seating in a semi-circle. Each row sat behind narrow desks.

It was a stone auditorium, and where they entered was the stage, with an audience of mages observing them. Vera’s eyes were drawn to the front row, where four of six seats were occupied. The man who sat right of center held command of the space and these people in an unnamable way that Vera thought must be magic. His energy drew her, and when he made eye contact with her down his hooked nose, he smiled in satisfaction. There was no kindness in it. She averted her gaze quickly and felt his pleasure at her intimidation.

On the hooked-nose mage’s left side sat a man who looked much closer to how Vera had imagined Merlin to look. His silver beard hung down to his navel, and his eyes were clouded with grey pools of cataracts. The backs of his hands had golf ball-sized knots on them. On the hooked-nose mage’s right was a woman who wore a silk turban. There weren’t any lines on her face, though she bore the wisdom of centuries. And beside her, Vera had to focus on seeing the fourth mage in the front in order to notice her. She was a petite wisp who looked quite comfortable with not being noticed.

The rows behind them were in shadow. Vera couldn’t see any of those mages’ faces, but they all rose at Arthur’s entry, an impressive wave of identical cream silk robes winking in the darkness.

“Welcome, Your Majesty.” The woman in the turban spread her arms wide. Her voice effortlessly filled the room. “We are honored by your presence.”

Arthur stepped forward. “Thank you, Naiam. I wish it were under different circumstances.”

She smiled, her head tilted. “You are always welcome, sire. It need not take a disaster for you to visit. Please, sit.” Naiam gestured at where they stood. A row of chairs appeared behind them.

They sat down. With a wave of their arms, Merlin and Gawain changed into their cream-colored robes to match the rest. They stood in the front row. Vera assumed these six were the high council. Following Naiam’s lead, all the mages performed the breath of life in unison before they sat. “I call this special assembly of the full council to order on the matter of a magical crisis.”

Vera caught Gawain releasing a long-held breath and saw his shoulders relax.

The mages had heard the story of Crayford but asked Arthur to recount it—and the attack against them that very morning.

“You’re certain it was a trigger hex?” Naiam asked Merlin.

“Absolutely. Gawain extracted the vial of blood, and I destroyed it.”

“That was unwise.” The hooked-nose mage glowered at him. “There could have been information to be gleaned from it, and you destroyed it without running any tests.”

“The hex lay in the blood itself, Ratamun,” Merlin said. “Do you think there’s any test worth the risk of an untamable spell’s spread? There are maybe three of us in this room who could even theoretically perform such a hex. I was not willing to risk the queen in such a way.”

Vera didn’t chance half a second’s look at Lancelot, who, in Camelot, would have audibly scoffed or shifted in his seat. She imagined he’d like to pummel Merlin for claiming the moral high ground about Vera’s safety after being ready to risk her mind hours prior.

Ratamun snorted. “The queen risked herself when she took ranks with the traitor, Viviane.” Her name snarled from his lips. “A crime which we have continually been denied the right to try or call to account.”

Of course they couldn’t call her to account. Viviane was dead.

Then Vera realized they meant her.

“Queen Guinevere should be questioned and tried,” Ratamun said. A murmur rose from the other rows of mages at his proclamation. Some in protest, others in agreement.

Ratamun had a talent for holding a room, but so did Arthur. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes darkening as he set them on the mage.

“Ratamun,” he said with dangerous quiet. It called silence over the assembly as sure as if he’d shouted them down at sword point. “You sent a mage to my court who undermined the kingdom. The kingdom, I might add, that we built and would have called an impossibility before it was the reality we now live in. Guinevere was bewitched by Viviane, your trusted high council mage, and Guinevere ultimately had the fortitude to stand against her at her own peril. Her crime was against the kingdom and against me. I am satisfied by the resolution, and she has been pardoned. If you need evidence of Guinevere’s loyalty, search no further than the attack on her this morning. I did not call the council of mages to trial for raising up and sending forth the traitor Viviane, and you will not call the queen. Do I make myself clear?”

Ratamun’s snarl was twisting to form an argument.

“Enough,” Naiam said, but she eyed Vera like she had questions of her own.

The small woman spoke up next, with a soft voice that matched her stature. “And you believe it is the dark mage Mordred?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, “and I believe it to be tied to the declining magic within the kingdom, too.”

There was a stirring amongst the mages. Merlin pursed his lips and stared at his feet, displeased.

“Why?” the quiet mage pressed.

“I call on Mage Gawain,” Arthur said.

“Gawain, this theory comes from you?” Naiam asked, surprised yet kind. The way she looked at Gawain, her junior by at least thirty years … Others among them looked at him the same way; the only mage to ever be raised in the Magesary from childhood. He was their collective child.

Not all of them, though. Notably, Ratamun glowered as Gawain straightened in his seat.

“It does. The description of Crayford matches my own experience in Dorchester. But there is more. And—and I first must apologize to the convened council,” but he addressed Arthur as he said it, “because I have concealed much of what needs to be said. There is a bigger matter than Mordred to address regarding the disappearance of magic.” He didn’t allow anyone the time to interject, forging on after barely a breath amidst a titter of discomfort.

“We know that magic isn’t infinite; it’s a type of energy that recycles itself. For the six hundred years of its recorded history, the birthrate and regeneration of magic remained steady.” Many among the council nodded their confirmation. “It changed when the mages began amassing power, especially during the wars.”

The room had been quiet, but all fidgeting, all movement, and most breathing altogether stopped with a palpable gasp. Even Merlin turned to Gawain in horrified shock.

Ratamun broke the stillness. “Any magical deficit should only have been felt among the Saxons.”

A brief flash of triumph crossed Gawain’s eyes, replaced in a blink by his regular sullen expression. “We all know that’s not how the gift works. It doesn’t discriminate against one nation’s people over the others. And then there’s the advent of the Retention Spell. How many mages have died, and their powers destroyed with them? How many were lost with Viviane alone?”

Arthur and Lancelot looked as confused as Vera felt.

Gawain went on. “Crayford is a microcosm of what we’re doing at large. In Crayford, the mage took all the gifts of those he felled. Every known bit of magic in an entire town was sucked dry by one man, and what happened? The earth itself shriveled and died. We are draining the earth of its powers.”