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Dawsyn places her hand on his arm, feeling the coiling tension there. She meets his dark eyes and tries to take some of the panic from them. “You can try not to vex me,” she says, a grin appearing. “Lest I become too excitable. You heard Baltisse.”

Ryon takes her hand in both of his, cradling it as though it were a life source. He brings it to his lips, lets his breath warm her fingers. “There is not enough distance in this valley to keep that from happening,” he grumbles.

Dawsyn finds Gerrot sitting by the campfire. Surely, of their party, Gerrot is of the most calming persuasion. The wood carving has only led her thoughts to the Ledge, and that will not do. She needs restful distraction.

Dawsyn joins him, and after a few moments, the man wordlessly collects twigs from the ground and offers some to her.

The pair spend an hour sitting opposite each other, playing a game typical of Ledge children. Gerrot holds three twigs in his hand, Dawsyn four. She is losing. Gerrot taps Dawsyn’s free hand with his twigs, and she narrows her eyes. “Just get me out, old man. Don’t toy with me.”

Gerrot only grins, his remaining teeth showing. Dawsyn bends to pick up three more twigs from their stash. She taps Gerrot’s hand, and he collects three twigs, before bringing both of his own down on Dawsyn’s, defeating her.

“All that to beat me on both hands, Gerrot? Really?”

Gerrot gives a husky breath of laughter and then bows his head in mock humility.

“Save it,” Dawsyn says, thinking Gerrot is likely as obnoxious as the rest, without the advantage of having a tongue.

“Where is that damned mage?” Ryon appears suddenly, stalking amid the camp. His wings unfurl at the sound of his urgency. His arms are marked with shallow scratches, as though he’d blundered through the forest without regard for low-hanging branches.

“Easy there, Ry,” Salem calls. “She’s only gone to the Mecca.” He squats before the fire, roasting pheasant on a poker.

Ryon, far from placated, rounds on him. “What?”

“She went early this morn,” Salem adds, eyeing the hulking man warily. “What’s wrong with yeh, Ry? Put them fuckin’ wings away.”

“The Mecca?” Dawsyn says, standing. “Is that not dangerous?”

“In case yeh hadn’t noticed, love, she can disguise herself bloody well.”

“Salem, what has she gone to fetch?” Ryon presses, his voice darkening.

Salem shrugs. “I dunno, do I? Eggs, pork, a new pair o’ boots? How in the blasted–”

“You didn’taskher?” Ryon growls.

“I don’t ask tha’ woman much of anythin’, only that she don’t turn me into a toad, thank yeh very much.”

Ryon curses, turning back the way he came.

“I’m sure she’ll return jus’ as fast as she left, mother help us,” Salem calls to his back, but Ryon only radiates frustration, leaving their camp with nothing more than a string of curses muttered to the breeze.

It is four days before Baltisse returns, and when she does, it’s to find their band in various states of panic and disarray.

Dawsyn continues the tedious work of keeping herself occupied and diverted, as well as calm. She feels the iskra sleeping in its corner and sees that it remains unaroused.

It has been days since they made camp, here in the mage’s wood, and the lack of activity is growing tiresome for many of them.

Tasheem, a vigorous creature by nature, paces the camp with increasing levels of annoyance through the afternoon.

“Fuck it!” Tasheem barks suddenly, breaking everyone out of their lethargic reveries. They watch her with varying degrees of shock as she marches to the mage’s cabin and kicks in the door, quite unnecessarily.

The group looks at one another in confusion, all except Ryon and Rivdan, who roll their eyes and grimace expectantly.

A clamour comes from within the cabin, and then Tasheem appears once again in its doorway, her arms wrapped around a dozen bottles of what appears to be wine. “I’m not sitting here idle another night unless I’m completely pickled.”

“Tash,” Rivdan starts. “I am not sure it is such a good–”

“Abrilliantidea from the winged lady, I say!” Esra pipes up.