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This part of the library contained the original handwritten tomes by archmages and highmages who had lived before the printing press that had flooded the city with copies.

At first, the aisles of shelves appeared deserted.

But to Sciona’s surprise and total dismay, she turned a corner to find Highmage Renthorn at one of the tables, nonchalantly leafing through a crusty text that looked like it dated back to the Age of Founders.

He glanced up at the sound of her boots on the wood floor, and his face split into a slimy smile.

“Miss Freynan. How’s your first day going?”

“Well, thank you,” Sciona said, screwing her own smile in place.

“So well that you had to mysteriously run off and sneak back in secret?”

“I…” It would have been indecent to tell him the truth. “There was something I needed from the second floor,” she said and shifted the subject. “Don’t you have important work to be doing, Highmage Renthorn?”

“Only busy work at this stage,” he said. “That’s why I have my assistants doing it for me while I do a little background reading.”

“You have multiple assistants?”

“Four.” He smirked. “All research mages.”

Of course. A legacy highmage didn’t have to be any good if his assistants had the skill to do the bulk of his work for him.

But that wasn’t what bothered Sciona. What truly got under her skin was the knowledge that Cleon Renthorn didn’t need four assistants.

He was talented enough to pull through any project on his own; he just felt entitled to the work of others.

“I suppose your father’s made sure you have all the best,” she said icily.

“He knows I’m valuable. My time is valuable.” Renthorn the Younger was still wearing that grin that teetered on the edge of mockery. “Speaking of which, how is your assistant working out, Miss Freynan?”

“Wonderfully. Thank you for asking.”

“Really?” Renthorn leaned forward, putting his elbows on the ancient text before him, straining the hand-bound spine. For some reason, that was the last straw.

“Highmage,” Sciona snapped.

“Yes?”

“I meant—it’s not Miss Freynan. It’s Highmage Freynan.”

Renthorn’s smile soured slightly. “You know, arrogance never made a woman more attractive.”

“When I care how attractive you find me, I’ll let you know.”

“Of course, you’re right. Clearly, you’ve already manipulated the man you need to.”

“Excuse me?”

“Please. We all know how you persuaded Archmage Bringham to sneak you into the High Magistry. I suppose a woman of your class would be used to using her looks—such as they are—to cut corners.”

Sciona was mute for a moment in affront, which quickly turned to disgust. “You know, I’m eight years younger than you.” And only four years behind you into the High Magistry, she didn’t add but hoped it registered anyway. “Archmage Bringham is old enough to be my father!”

“Apparently, that doesn’t matter to some women.”

“You think that’s how I got into the High Magistry?”

A derisive scoff revealed the ugliness that had been lurking just under Renthorn’s smooth air since Sciona had arrived. “Please! I overlapped with you in Bringham’s laboratory, remember?”

“Barely,” Sciona said. “Not long enough to see even one of my projects come to—”

“Long enough to see how taken he was with you.”

“He saw my talent,” she said, “just like he saw yours. He’s always prided himself on his eye for future highmages. There was Highmage Halaros, then you. Why am I any different?”

“I didn’t think I needed to state the obvious.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, Tanrel thinks the Council let you in for political reasons, that they wanted to build support among Nerys’s pet radicals by trotting out a woman in white robes.

Halaros thinks Archmage Bringham is just a dramatic showman who wanted credit for making history.

I think his wants aren’t half so complicated.

” Renthorn’s eyes flicked significantly over Sciona’s skirt and bodice.

“Though I do feel he could have done a little better than you.”

For a moment, Sciona’s vision blanked. Red-hot rage had started in her chest and nearly boiled over into a scream, but she froze it, made herself ice-cold.

“Well.” Her voice had gone flat. “That leaves us with Faene’s first rule of magic, then.”

“What?”

Sciona might not cling to Faene the First’s edicts, but Tirasian-raised mages like Renthorn did. “Nothing is so until it’s tested thrice over. Seems like you gentlemen have had fun making your theories about me, but they’re just theories until we put them to the test.”

“Put them to the test?” Renthorn sneered. “Should I promise you a bigger office if you take off your dress and—”

“You assume I don’t have the skill to be here. That’s the basis of all your theories, right? Well, you and I are both putting forth sourcing plans for the barrier expansion. We’ll see whose work the archmages end up using and who turns out to be the pointless political hire.”

Renthorn’s sneer deepened. “Alright, sweetheart, no need to get defensive.”

“I wasn’t,” Sciona said, fairly sure her tone had been calm.

After all, you’d be the reigning expert on getting what you want in the absence of merit, she wanted to say but bit back the bile, knowing that she would end up snarling—and knowing it wasn’t true.

Renthorn did know what he was doing—in argument and in magic—and if she let him make her angry, he’d have won.

Renthorn seemed to claim her sullen silence as a victory anyway and pushed his chair back.

“It was just a joke, Freynan. You’re not going to survive here if you’re too sensitive to take a joke.

” He slipped around the table to stand before Sciona—perhaps a step too close.

“And you’re certainly not going to survive playing against me. ”

Before Sciona could respond, he turned and strode from the library, leaving her glowering at his white-robed back. She would do more than take his stupid joke; she would grip it tight and fashion it into greatness he couldn’t imagine.

She swept back into her office like a storm front, dour and crackling with energy.

“Tommy!” she snapped.

The Kwen looked up from where he was nearly done shelving her books. “Ma’am?”

“Leave the rest of the boxes. We have work to do.”