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After a few seconds, Dawsyn takes it, letting the mage help her from the ground, brushing the dirt and debris from her clothes with shaky hands.

Baltisse tsks. “Your desperation will not help you in your quest to rid the world of evil.”

Dawsyn groans, suddenly worn. “I need to get them off the Ledge,” she says, her breath still heavy. “And I have no way of crossing the Chasm. No other who will help me cross it. Now that…” she stumbles.

“Now that Ryon is not with you?” Baltisse finishes for her. “You think this magic will help in your crusade?”

“I havenothingelse,” Dawsyn says then. “Not wings, not leverage. Not even a fuckingax.”

“You had no wings or magic when you ran down the slopes, or when you killed the Glacians who came for you.”

Dawsyn shakes her head. “I had weapons. I had…”

“Ryon,” Baltisse offers, saving her the need to voice the name.

“Yes.”

“And now you have only me,” Baltisse says, smiling wickedly. “A most powerful sorceress. And yet, you complain.”

Dawsyn rolls her eyes. “And you argue your arrogance?”

The mage only smiles serenely.

“You do not wish to accompany me to Glacia, surely?” Dawsyn questions.

Baltisse tilts her head. “You are surprised?”

“More than ever,” she responds dryly. “Why would you possibly care to?”

Baltisse smiles. “For what reason do you think I cut that rope from your neck, sweet? I told you once that you would decide what you were born for, and it seems you have made your choice.”

Dawsyn watches her for a moment, awaiting a hint of reluctance, or a sinister glint of motive perhaps. When nothing reveals itself in her expression, Dawsyn hedges. “You wish to help me save the people of the Ledge?”

Baltisse does not waver. “I do. I did not come to your rescue out of mere affection.”

Dawsyn eyes her suspiciously. “The journey will be long. Unforgiving.”

The mage’s eyes turn amber and tumultuous. “With me,” she says, “it needn’t be.”

CHAPTERELEVEN

In the Terrsaw palace, a guard descends the stark stone staircase to the dungeons, his feet aching. It seems an age has passed since he last rested, yet it will be longer still until he can.

“Drew?” a voice calls to him from below.

It is Brockner. The fellow guard sticks his head into the stairwell, hair stuck at wild angles, rubbing his eyes.

“The one and only. Were you sleeping, soldier?”

“Do not tell the captain,” Brockner says. “I’m already in grave danger of finding her blade at my neck.”

“What did you do that would warrant it?”

“Woke her with my snoring, or so she says.” He grins.

Drew reaches the floor and returns the smile. “The hazards of entangling yourself in the captain’s sheets, I’m afraid.”

“I won’t pretend to complain.”