The Throng of Seven
an excerpt

I told Shaama I would do it. I just didn’t say when. Now he’s looking for me, but he’ll never find me here.
Well, never is a long time. A very long time. I suppose he’ll find me eventually, but in the meantime I may do as I please.
For now I needn’t look for Mezzmer. Which is a good thing. Mezzmer hates me. In all honesty, it’s not about me as much as it is about creatures in general. He hates all of us. With the possible exception of Fendrefialla. The slimy thing. Crawling around Etton, hiding under bushes, hanging from trees. Brrrruhh!
Mezzmer will come soon enough of his own accord. Always eager to show his willingness. Which is not willingness at all, only will. Will to take over. Will to have things his way. Will to be noticed, appreciated, by he whom he most hates and fears: Shaama.
The others of the Throng I may actually have to invite to the gardens. Though not Engchantre, come to think of it. She’ll come, invited or not. She wants Shaama’s attention too—but for different reasons. She wants his eyes. On her alone. She wants his approval. Most of all, she wants his Magic. She will be dangerous until she gets it. Then she will be invincible. Oh, yes, she’ll come, she will sense when to come, she will sense where to come. But only she will know why she comes. It is not for Shaama’s reasons, but for her own: to find him at his Magic, to take it from him, through will or through wile. She will not need me to invite her.
“Invite.” A nice word. Not quite what Shaama wants. But they’ll know. They’ll all know. Shaama has easier ways than sending me to fetch the Throng, but it’s me he chooses. And the Throng will all know this is no simple “invitation”—it is a command they must not disobey.