Seiren followed the base of the wall. Acrise had reinforced the initial stone wall with beams of metal, but in the windy, rainy climate, the metal began to rust. Chunks of the support were eaten away, leaving a flaked surface or even small pieces missing. Seiren was provided with waxy paper that survived in the perpetual drizzle in Acrise and chalks embalmed in a violet rune that made them hardy and able to penetrate the paper's surface, and instructed to blend the metals provided together to make steel.

"You're too conservative with the locking runes. It's limiting the power potential," said Maura Woodbead, hovering over her shoulder. Seiren fought back the urge to slam her hand over the rune she was creating. "You're Rowan's protegée, huh? I'm not surprised he hasn't corrected this. He's too lazy to invest in something as time-consuming as rune magic. Leave some empty."

"Empty?!" Seiren couldn't believe her ears.

"It's against that tosh King's teaches you, I know. They're careful about control because an out of control mage is collateral damage. They'd rather you be underpowered. Leave two empty."

Seiren hesitated. This went against every theory she'd studied. Sigils should always populate locking circles and runes should either have the prerequisite numbers of circles or go without. But under Maura's unforgiving stare, she dutifully left two empty, filling the other three with extension sigils and one with a delayed activation so the workers could activate it themselves. She primed it with magic and passed it to waiting hands, half-expecting it to become unstable and explode prematurely.

She held her breath when the worker applied it to the metal beam he was hoping to repair. It glowed a fierce orange, the energy searing out of the centre and hitting the locking sigils. The energy remained contained. The extension sigils kicked in, elongating the period of activity. The metal turned white-hot before melting into the defect and filling it.

It would have taken Seiren perhaps another three runes to achieve that if she hadn't left the sigils empty.

"Th-thanks," she muttered. Maura withdrew without a word. She looked about eighteen, like Seiren, but Portendorfer said she was under his tutelage when she qualified nine years ago. That made her at least twenty-seven years old. It must run in the Woodbead family to look younger than their age, but her fierce persona ensured nobody disobeyed her. There were no other rune mages beyond her and Seiren in this area. The others in the debriefing room must all be flash or burst mages. Seiren couldn't help but feel a little disappointed; she'd rather be on the frontlines seeing the action rather than packing in the back ensuring the wall stayed up and the stocks dry.

She kept an eye out for anything exciting as she lined the gunpowder shed with violet runes to keep out the moisture. It was not particularly taxing or stimulating, but she could see why mages were needed. She was only surprised the native mages assigned to Acrise weren't able to do something like this.

The walls stretched up almost as far as the eye could see. The scaffolding behind it was at least ten storeys high, bound together with a mixture of resistant rope and runes, and men hammered and hauled away. Seiren worked her way along, ensuring every sector had enough reinforced, non-rusted metal to attach to the old foundations. The workers offered few words beyond grunts of thanks, but it didn't really matter. She was able to tune out the mundane chatter and put her runing on autopilot, studying the size of the defect from weathering and adjusting her runes appropriately without too much effort. More pertinent information filtered in soon enough.

"King Pollin has never asked fer mages to join them soldiers like this before."

"Aye, you reckon it means it's gonna be bad?"

"I reckon they ain't been telling us nothing, have they? This winter's been all kinds of crud and our harvested food's running low. Didn't tell us to prep for that, did they? If we ain't careful, it's like them Benover lot want us to starve or sum'ink."

All along the wall, the men exhibited the same sentiments: anxiety -- for what was to come, for what the king had planned, for what they hadn't been told. And Seiren had a bad feeling about all this.

She shared the underground bedroom with two other female mages that night. The third female mage took no notice of Maura or Seiren and went to bed immediately, turning her face to the wall. Maura stayed up reading, the side of her face thrown in sharp relief with the yellow rune she'd plastered against the wall. She'd somehow created it so that it bathed her bedside and her book in light, but it never reached the other sleeping mage. Seiren squinted against the brightness, studying the symmetry. It was then she noticed the breaks along each of the sides; the shape remained symmetrical in the centre with enough intersections to promote brightness, but it was an incomplete shape.

"I told you: what they taught at King's is complete tosh," said Maura, noticing Seiren's curiosity. "They seek control, not power. For a leader, a horse needs to be reined, not let free. If you're such a stickler for rules, you'll end up weak like my pathetic little brother."

Her lips curled with disdain.

"What... what have you got against Rowan?"

Maura blinked slowly at Seiren, using her hand as a bookmark to keep her page. Her expression of how she perceived Seiren's question -- purely idiotic -- was quite clear.

"Let me put it in terms you can understand." She shut the book with a snap, a haughty look in those familiar blue-green eyes, framed with black lashes. She pursed her lips. "Where do you get your chalk?"

"Birdwhistle's."

"Right. So most mages purchase in bulk from one of the Lydden chalkmakers -- MacQuoid's or Birdwhistle's, usually. Imagine you have a collection of chalk -- high quality stuff from Birdwhistle's, not the rubbish you buy from a stall in Danaway. Reliable, strong, clean. In the heat of battle, you rely on that kind of quality to not get you killed. You expect that kind of quality chalk from that kind of quality chalk maker. Then one day, in the heat of battle, your chalk breaks, and you almost die. No reason. It just breaks. But it's from the same pack as all the other reliable ones. The other ones are fine -- or are they? This one didn't work. What if the others don't work? You can't use that chalk maker any more, or that kind of chalk, for that matter. You can't risk that kind of compromise in battle, not when your life -- and others' -- depend on it. So what do you do?"

Seiren frowned, unsure where this conversation was going.

"Use a different maker?"

"Exactly." Maura's nostrils flared but she remained still, even though heat radiated from her. "And would you tell others your story? That you were let down by your chalk? That your entire team died -- because of Birdwhistle? Of course you would. What if it happens to someone else? But Birdwhistle has made chalk for over a hundred years. They have generations of reputation. Does that matter? No; in that one moment, when your life flashed before your eyes, all you could think of was how that chalkmaker let you down."

It was obvious Rowan was meant to be the bad chalk in the analogy, but Seiren couldn't see what the rest of the packet of good chalk had to do with it.

"You're looking as vacant as ever, Nithercott. I suppose you're ignorant of what the name Woodbead means."

"You're a military family." It was all she knew -- from what Tylene told her: the Woodbeads were strong militants and disapproved of Rowan enrolling at King's Academy of Magic. "But what about it? You're a mage, too. You're not military."

"I'm a military mage. I'm trained in combat as well as magic. The name Woodbead promised excellence and infallibility. Generations of prestige. Perfection is expected. My little brother failed to deliver."

Seiren almost choked.

"You're kidding me."

"Am I?" Maura's eyes could kill. Seiren fought back a shudder.

"He's a remarkable mage. My burst magic improved in the past two months more than it ever had at King's."

Maura snorted. "That's more of a reflection of your own skills -- or lack thereof -- than anything my brother possessed. My brother is about as mundane as mages come. He is a pure disappointment to the Woodbead name: nothing more, nothing less. He should have joined the army after my older brother; at least he would have died early in action before he could tarnish any names."

Her eyes glimmered, as if challenging Seiren to object. There was so much vehemence in her tone. She might look just like a female version of Rowan, but those eyes held no warmth and she had none of his genuine, caring personality or his passion. Her world was a stark black and white. Seiren swallowed a retort.

Not your fight today. Save it for another day.

But she's a total cow.

"But also thanks to him, Woodbead no longer possesses quality. You should have kept your Harred name if you knew how renowned your mother was."

"I prefer to be known for my talent, not my name," said Seiren through gritted teeth. It was a lie; she would rather not be reminded of that night every time anyone spoke her name. It was the only escape she had. Maura's lips curled, as if sensing the waver in Seiren's conviction.

"Or neither, as may be the case."

With that, Maura Woodbead slammed her book shut and, with a wave of her hand, extinguished the light rune, plunging them into pure darkness. Not even a star could be seen through the topmost, barred window that opened to the level of the ground above. Seiren stayed up, watching it, feeling the reassuring presence of Madeleine.

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