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…A guard crushed to death. Another swears he saw Sabar and the half-breed…

They haven’t been caught – of this, Ruby is convinced. And she is ever-so-slightly mollified to know that her unfortunate capture in that forest did not lead to that of Dawsyn and the others.

At some point in this cycle of misery, a grating sound reaches her. Her eyes fly open, and she thinks,This is it.And then,Thank the mother.

Her cell gate slides into its recess, and two guards wait on the other side. They bear down on her, take her upper arms in their grip, and hoist.

She is lifted to stand, her legs barely able to comply.

She blinks rapidly, trying to bring to focus the shifting vision before her. There is someone else standing beyond the gate. Someone who waits expectantly.

“Hello again, Captain,” says Queen Cressida.

CHAPTERFIFTY-NINE

It takes two days for Baltisse and Esra to return from their scouting trip. When they unfold back into Yennes’s cove, as Dawsyn has come to call it, Esra’s back is laden with a dozen sheathed swords and a bag of blades, varied in both size and degree of disrepair.

“Come, Dawsyn Sabar,” says Baltisse, taking the bag from Esra. “I will show you how we mages prepare our weapons.”

Dawsyn follows her into the long grass, swaying languidly toward the sea, and sits cross-legged opposite her, frowning with suspicion.

“Take this,” Baltisse says, putting a particularly rusted dagger in Dawsyn’s hand. “Do you remember the incantation for fire?”

Dawsyn thinks. “Igniss,” she says. “I remember.”

“There are many others. If you can continue to make those two competing powers play nicely, you can use your magic as you wish. Tell me what you were feeling when you merged your power to save Ryon.”

Dawsyn tries to remember, but it was a medley of thought, all at once. “Panic,” she says.

“That won’t do.” Baltisse shakes her head. “I know that you are capable, Dawsyn, but you must try harder to isolate it. What did you feel when you thought Ryon might die?”

Dawsyn sighs but closes her eyes. She brings back the image of Ryon taking out a guard while the other brought his sword down toward his neck. She pictures her ax flying through the air, too slowly, and she felt… she felt…

“Determined,” Dawsyn says, her hand gripped tightly around the knife handle. “I felt… pure refusal. I saw that he would die and I… couldn’t allow it.”

Baltisse narrows her eyes. “Those two powers are opposite, and yet alike. One thrives on pain and anger, and the other on joy. But you are stronger than either, Dawsyn. Mages must be, to hold them inside our bodies. Use your mage magic and stay determined. Do not allow it to stamp out the iskra.”

“But you told me never to force it? That it had its own mind.”

Baltisse looks away. “This is the only time you will hear me say this, but I was wrong. You are different, Dawsyn. If there is one thing I know of your mind, it’s that you will force your way through whatever barrier dares to thwart you.”

A thread of connection holds them silent for a moment. The sea rolls to shore, the grass whispers against their legs, but the two mages only look at each other, their thoughts aligned.

Forgive yourself,Dawsyn thinks, knowing Baltisse will hear it.You’re not the harbinger you think you are.

Baltisse’s eyes don’t move in their ethereal way. That burning colour does not morph at all. For once, they are calm. And silently, astonishingly, they become filmy. Wet with centuries of blame. Dawsyn did not ever imagine she might see the almighty mage, the all-powerful sorceress cry. Her jaw remains still, her lips pressed together in resolution, but tears threaten to spill, and she looks dangerous and miserable all at once. “I am the maker of the pool,” she says simply. “It cannot be forgiven.”

Dawsyn knows a fraction of that pain – being the custodian of unforgivable sins. She sighs. “You would have been a fitting addition to our den of girls,” she tells her. “We do tend to carry burdens not our own.”

Baltisse raises her eyebrows. “I fear your grandmother would have thrown me into the Chasm.”

“Undoubtedly,” Dawsyn says through a smile. She takes the mage’s hand in hers, and squeezes.

They spend the afternoon in the grass, reciting incantations to clean the knives by magic. “Cistique” to clean. “Ishveet” to repair. “Lussia” to tie. “Bruvex” to break. Dawsyn uses each without her magic threatening to buckle her. That golden glow does the work, and pays no heed to the iskra lurking quietly within.

“And now you will learn to fold,” Baltisse says finally, dumping the last of the sharpened knives into the bag.

Dawsyn looks up. “Can it be learnt in a day?”