President Driscoll rubbed his temples, “Tell me again?”

  “The Siro opened the Rite last week, as the man lay dying,” Dowager Sidorov said slowly. “This morning, she descended into the Sear to close it.”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone.”

  Heaving a sigh, he stood and poured himself a drink.

  “A bit early for that, don’t you think, Edwin?” Sidorov piqued a brow.

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  “Distinct chance we will now be down both Ashwalkers, with none rising,” he said, throwing the liquid back. “So, no, I don’t think so.”

  Sidorov pursed her lips, “She’s spirited. Well trained. There’s a good chance she’ll be fine.”

  “According to what precedent?” Dowager Fenon interjected from the sofa beside her. “We have no records of a Siro closing the Rite alone. It isn’t done. It’s isn’t doable, as far as we know.”

  “Unfortunately, Siro Innes is well aware that no one is about to follow her in there to stop her,” Sidorov gave a weak smile. “So now, we wait. Patiently.”

  Edwin Driscoll finished his drink and slammed the crystal tumbler onto his desk.

  The timing was beyond terrible. A small part of his mind kept screaming that the recently deceased Siro had timed it all deliberately. He needed to see the old man’s cause of death.