Ah; of course. Anton looked at Amberdrake again, with a new eye, an eye to see what he ordinarily dismissed as irrelevant. He still found it surprising, the way mortals fixated on trivial things; most sorcerers did. Most sorcerers of any age remembered a time when racial tensions were between national borders, rather than skin colour, and were more likely to be prejudiced on the basis of nationality. (For the Irish, that was usually the French--or the English.) Sometimes they needed to be reminded the tension had shifted.

Then he smiled slightly, at Amberdrake's echo of his words. "We've had one of those as well," he admitted, "but he was mortal, and rose to power some time after the magical war."

God only knew what might have happened to the world if Hitler had been around at the same time as Mevolent--if the secrecy pact had even managed to survive that long.

"Kestra-chern," Anton repeated thoughtfully, with the intonation of a man well-used to learning new languages on the fly. "We call it psychology--the study of the mind. Psychologists, or psychiatrists, for the therapists. The principle is academically recent, and there's still a good deal of doubt as to its uses--even among sorcerers." Who ought to know better. So much for that. "Hopeless had been interested in that study for quite some time. He always said he didn't have much of a choice, given his abilities."

And still not a twig of discomfort, though the wistful regret grew a bit sharper, underscored by quiet, grim concern. It was nearly impossible, these days, to think of Hopeless without thinking of Erskine.

"Will you--" Anton began before he'd really thought it through, and then checked himself. No, terrible idea; even if the mannerisms Anton had noticed went skin-deep, they would still be liable to make Erskine miss Hopeless all the more. Bad enough, to try and get Erskine to see someone about his mental pains, without that someone reminding him of the man he'd lost.