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“Ah,” Roznier mutters. “A promise no mage should ever make. But fear not. If Samskia says this Glacian is yours I shall not take him from you, child. Be at ease.” Roznier eyes Ryon balefully, then curls the fingers of her left hand inward. At the movement, the root that binds his arms and legs fall away.

“The half-breed,” Roznier says as Ryon comes to his feet. “I hadn’t known you’d returned. Very unwise of you.”

But Ryon is reaching for Dawsyn. He takes her arm and pulls her back into his chest. “I’d agree,” he says. “But I did not come by choice.”

Roznier dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “Very well, Dawsyn. You have what the blood moon intended for you this night. You can be away if you wish, though I do question the fates’ designs if they have brought a Glacian and a mage together.”

Dawsyn turns rigid, the lines of her body tensing against his. “I’ll be taking these as well,” she says firmly, gesturing down to where Tasheem and Rivdan still await their deaths. Both now unconscious.

Roznier tsks. “You cannot spare them all, Dawsyn. However much you might sympathise with them. The moon calls for blood tonight and we will heed it!”

“Not these,” Dawsyn says again, and she moves to stand in front of them.

Ryon bares his teeth at Roznier. He summons his wings.

“You disappoint me,” Roznier says now. “I would not expect a descendant of Melares to defy her own kind in favour of the bats of Glacia.”

Ryon’s fists clench, but he knows better than to start brawls among mages.

“You disappoint me too,” Dawsyn counters. “You hide behind your wards, ensnaring roaming Glacians you can sacrifice, rather than take back the mountain they took from you. You hide in corners and refuse to fix what you ruined.”

Roznier smiles icily, but it does nothing to conceal the touched nerves. “You know very little of this mountain, child.”

“I know little elsebutthis mountain,” Dawsyn says. “And I know what it is to be confined to one small piece of it, andyou–” Dawsyn looks to the clan collectively, “–you are as trapped as I once was. Seeking your small vengeance. Afraid to do more than that.”

At the bite of her words, the mages surrounding them become eerily still. For reasons Ryon cannot explain the air becomes thick. Metallic. He tastes rust on his tongue. Ryon knows well the smell of violence that precedes a battle. It smells like this, like blood.

He wishes there were swords on his back. He comes closer to Dawsyn, eyes tracking those mages closest.

Roznier laughs without parting her lips, but the sound is not mollifying. It elicits fear. Ryon is suddenly sure the women could smite them where they stand. “And what more would you do, Dawsyn?” she asks slowly, her voice slick and deadly. “Tell us.”

Tasheem groans suddenly, then coughs, spluttering blood to the snow. Ryon bends to lift her upright. He looks at Dawsyn desperately.

“Your friends are close to death,” Roznier says redundantly, for blood spills down Tasheem’s front and Rivdan has still not opened his eyes.

“Dawsyn,”Ryon utters. “Help them.”

“She cannot,” Roznier answers instead. Ryon’s eyes dart to the mage’s, then Dawsyn’s. Dawsyn is looking down at Tasheem determinedly, her lips pressed tightly together.

“She spent all she had on you, half-breed,” Roznier remarks, eyes alight. “And now she must make a deal with me to heal them for her. So, make your ask, Dawsyn. Go ahead and tell us whatever it is you can do, that we apparently cannot. Make it worth my while, child. I have no desire to let three Glacians walk free from our midst this night.”

Dawsyn’s eyes find Ryon’s and in them is a storm. They waver once, then quickly solidify. She turns back to Roznier, her chin lifted, blade lowered.

And Ryon feels inexplicable dread flood through him.

“Heal them and cut them loose,” she says. “And I will destroy the Pool of Iskra myself.”

CHAPTERFORTY-SIX

The leader of the clan sneers at Dawsyn, any warmth there may have been now gone.

The other mages watch on. Some with morbid curiosity, as though she were a strange insect among them, speaking her strange language. But others have wide eyes that swivel back and forth between the two black-haired women, and their lips part at the mention of the pool.

“Oh?” Roznier says, her eyebrow quirking. “And you think yourself able?” A laugh bubbles past her lips. “I can see why Baltisse took a liking to you, Dawsyn Sabar. You have fire.”

“You said no mage could withstand the iskra for long.” Dawsyn ensures her voice reaches them all. The air before her fogs with each word. “And yet here I am. Alive.”

Roznier hesitates. She looks Dawsyn over warily. “What do you mean?”