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“And I need to know a person’s name before they see my body.”

The mage grins. “Prudish of you. I’ve shown mine, knowing a lot less.”

“I do not doubt it.”

The grin slips away and those eyes… they turn molten. “Drop it, sweet.”

“Your name first, or you can feel free to try your witch wiles elsewhere. I did not ask for you.”

The mage considers her for a moment. She does not appear much older than Dawsyn, but something tells her that the mage is ancient. The sickness in her stomach returns.

Finally, the mage sneers, “My name is Baltisse.”

“So nice to meet you, Baltisse,” Dawsyn says sweetly, and then lets the towel drop to the floor.

Baltisse’s eyes drag down the length of her. “Well, I can see why Ryon is bothered by you. There is something oddly alluring about your body – what little there is of it. Strong though, aren’t you? Difficult to kill. You’ve got a face many people would trade their souls for. I don’t suppose you’d give it to me?”

Dawsyn frowns. “My face?”

“Yes.”

“How would I give you my face?”

She grins. “You wouldn’t, sweet. I’d do that part. I’d give you another face, of course, though I doubt you’d stand to look at your reflection after.”

A slow leaking of fear spreads through her. “I’ll decline.”

“Shame. What tore through your shoulders?” she asks then, her deep voice sliding over Dawsyn’s face as she comes closer, her fingers hovering over the wounds.

“A Glacian.”

The mage falters. Oddly, the color in her eyes seems to pale. “You lie,” she says.

The mage draws in a rasping breath, as though to suck all the oxygen from the room. Her eyes shut, the lids flickering wildly and she exhales in a gust. The sound is rattling, frightening. It makes Dawsyn think of slumbering beasts, their breath shaking the ground.

Finally, her eyes open, piercing Dawsyn’s. “You tell the truth. But then…”

“I am from the Ledge,” Dawsyn finishes. “Yes.”

Baltisse’s eyes grow luminous, their golden color lightening. “A child of the Ledge? Are you born of mage blood?”

Dawsyn laughs without humor. “If I were, would I need you?”

“What is your family’s name?”

“Sabar.”

The second the word leaves her lips, she feels the atmosphere change, just as she did in the palace. The mage’s rapturous grin vanishes and the glow of her irises dulls. Her fingers go to her lips, worrying at the skin there.

“Interesting,” she mutters.

“What is?”

“You,” says Baltisse simply. “I can smell another mage a mile away, but you? I cannot decide what you are.”

Dawsyn grimaces. The mage’s eyes slip over her naked form again and again and she shivers. She gains the urge to run from the room, to lock herself away from this woman and whatever she is, whatever she knows.

“Close your eyes, Dawsyn Sabar. The glare can be painful.”