The man’s robes were a riot of silk and color. Red, orange, amber, gold—every color that flame could be at one point or another in its capricious existence—this man managed to wear them all at once and wear them well. It was nothing short of a stunning fashion achievement.

“Maestro, this is Raine Benares,” Mychael said. “Raine, this is Maestro Ronan Cayle.”

If you were a magic user, you’d heard of Ronan Cayle. The spellsinging master. The legend who only taught future legends. The maestro who turned out the finest spellsingers the Isle of Mid and the Conclave had to offer. Mychael’s teacher.

Mychael was a spellsinger and a healer. Each was a highly desirable magical talent, and Mychael was gifted with both. With the power of his voice alone, a spellsinger could influence thought with a quietly hummed phrase, or control actions with simple speech or carefully crafted tune. One person or thousands—the number didn’t matter. One spellsinger could turn the tide of battle. Gifted spellsingers were highly prized and sought after—not to mention rare and dangerous. Mychael could do virtually anything he wanted to with that baritone of his, and not only would his intended victim not mind in the least, he’d enjoy it. I know I had.

His spellsinging teacher’s appearance didn’t match his reputation. Ronan Cayle’s features were strong and solid, but it was the kind of face that would go unnoticed in a crowd. He was human, but from the amber glint in his hazel eyes, there was elf in there somewhere.

The maestro extended his hand for mine. I gave it to him and was treated to a most proficient hand kiss.

So this was Piaras’s future teacher.

Piaras Rivalin was an elf, my Mermeian landlady’s grandson, and the little brother I’d always wanted. He’d also attracted unwanted attention last week as a result of the Saghred. Piaras had fought off that attention with a level of spellsinging talent unheard of for a seventeen-year-old. His singing voice was magnificent, but it was also an incredibly powerful weapon that he needed to learn to control. My godfather, Garadin Wyne, had been Piaras’s first voice teacher. He knew Ronan Cayle from his Conclave days and had sent the maestro a letter of recommendation. Mychael added his recommendation to Garadin’s, effectively securing an audition for Piaras.

Tarsilia Rivalin and Garadin had come with us to Mid, but at my insistence had returned to Mermeia. Piaras and I were surrounded by hundreds of Guardians; we were as safe as we were going to get, so there was no reason for them to stay. Plus Piaras would be going to school; I would be looking for a way out of my Saghred predicament. Neither were short-term activities. I snorted to myself. The way my luck was running, Piaras would graduate before I was out of this mess.

Piaras was practicing downstairs in the citadel’s music room for his audition tomorrow with the maestro. The poor kid was already scared to death. Hopefully he hadn’t heard the maestro was in the citadel.

“We need your help,” Mychael was saying. He didn’t sound too happy about it.

I didn’t move. “With what?”

“The Saghred. Since spellbinding isn’t containing it, I asked Ronan if he knew a spellsong that would work. He does. You can sense that the Saghred is awake.” His expression darkened. “Unfortunately, we cannot. It would be helpful to know whether the spellsong is working.” He paused uncomfortably. “We need you to go down into the containment rooms with us.”

That was the part he really didn’t like.

I hadn’t been down to the Guardians’ containment rooms, and I didn’t want to go now. But I also didn’t want the Saghred awake and in my head.

“I’ll go,” I told him. “What kind of spellsong are you going to use?” I asked the maestro.

“A sleepsong,” Cayle told me. “Since binding the Saghred itself was ineffective, Mychael and I thought that the souls inside would be a better target.”

I bristled. I didn’t like hearing my father described as a target.

“The song I’ll be using is for the binding of wayward souls,” he continued.

“Binding?” My voice was tight with restraint. My father was not a wayward soul. Being trapped in the Saghred was torture enough; I did not want him bound and unable to move.

Ronan Cayle sensed my growing anger. So did Mychael.

“Raine, it’s like sleep,” Mychael explained.

“I would think you would want Sarad Nukpana bound,” Cayle said, clearly puzzled at my reaction.

“I’m not talking about Sarad Nukpana,” I said, my voice low and quiet.

“Ronan knows about your father,” Mychael told me.

“Ah, then I understand your concern,” Cayle said. “I can guarantee that your father will not be harmed.”

“Have you ever been hit with this sleepsong?”

“No, but—”

“Then you can’t guarantee me a damned thing.”

Mychael stepped between us. “Raine.”

“This is my father we’re talking about!”

“And Sarad Nukpana,” he reminded me sternly. “And who knows how many others just like him. Raine, your father gave over eight hundred years of his life to keep the Saghred out of the hands of people like Sarad Nukpana.” Mychael’s intense blue gaze never wavered. “It can’t remain active. Your father is a Guardian; he knows his duty. He would want us to do this.” Mychael’s voice lost some of its edge. “He’s trapped inside the Saghred. You’ve been in there; you know what it’s like. Sleep would be a mercy.”

I remembered what I had seen. Those who had been in the Saghred the longest had been reduced to filmy, faceless wraiths. Other prisoners seemed to be more solid, but their bodies looked ravaged and wasted as if from disease. I had seen my father. Elegantly pointed ears, a beautiful, pure-blooded high elf. His hair was silver, and his eyes were the gray of gathering storm clouds. Eyes identical to my own. He had only been inside the Saghred for a year, and he had already begun to fade.

I had been able to see through him.

I gritted my teeth and stifled a sniff. I would not tear up in front of Mychael, and I sure as hell wouldn’t in front of a stranger.

Mychael looked at me. I stared at him. I didn’t say anything because I knew he was right. My father had been taken by the Saghred while trying to hide it from the Khrynsani and Sarad Nukpana. He would want us to do this.

“Is it really like sleep?” I asked Mychael quietly.

He gave me a sad smile. “Yes, it’s like sleep.”

I looked from Mychael to Ronan Cayle. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

The Guardians’ containment rooms were beneath the basements of the citadel. They were rooms that could be locked down tight enough to hold something as powerful as the Saghred. The corridors were cold stone; the doors to various rooms were thick wood and banded with some serious iron. There was nothing supernatural beasties liked less than iron. I wondered if those supernatural occupants had included the two-legged variety from time to time. Considering that Mid was an island full of sorcerers, I would be willing to bet these rooms had also been used as prison cells.

The farther into the depths of the citadel we went, the thicker the air got. Chilled and constricting. Breathing became an effort. It wasn’t the closeness and thickness of the walls that gave me that impression; it was something else.

“What kind of containments do you have on this place?” I asked Mychael, using more breath than I could actually spare.

“Level ten here, level twelve on the next two floors down.”

Containment spells only went up to twelve. Mychael had arranged housing for the Guardians’ newest guest on the bottom floor of the citadel. Bottom floor, subterranean, level-twelve containments, plenty of experienced Guardian chaperones—and someone was trying to break curfew. I bet I knew who the bad boy was. I didn’t need any proof to know that Sarad Nukpana would have turned ringleader the moment he was inside the Saghred.