AT THE SCHOOL OF WIZARDRY, the elite institute of young magicians—turning wayward royals into would-be witches and saving heirs from their own pampered felony—Rafel brought in the chained, naked woman to the stricken faces of the patrols and few students who were conversing on the long acred fields.
They came in from the north gates in twilight. But up in her tower, in her swanky penthouse office a mile off, Dr. Nicara Shetty had sighted them.
With the piercing oculus of a falcon, a stern mouth, and fingers knuckled into fists, she reasoned, impressed. 'Bravo, Israfel. Bravo!' And then she turned to her closest assistant, a [C Rank] mermaid, saying aloud; her voice bare of soul, "Bring the bitch to me. I will find the rapist's head swing from the beach palms even tonight!"
The girl in fetters had murdered her son. Nicara had blood already dripping down the skin of her hand from her ripping claws.
