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Rivdan locks eyes with Dawsyn for a moment, and then looks quickly away. “There is a story. Though I do not know how accurate.”

“All stories are born from seeds of truth,” Ryon says. “Is this not your belief?”

“It is,” Rivdan allows. “Though the story often travels a long way from its origin.”

“Tell it anyway,” Ryon bids. “It may help us.”

Rivdan exhales, once more trading that curious glance with Dawsyn. And then he speaks, the timbre of his voice easing into that of someone far older, worldly. It is why he was monikered the storyteller in the Colony – the way his voice drew in his listeners and subtly ensnared them.

“Glacia was not yet a true nation when they were first tested by the Mother’s greatest weapon. The Glacian numbers were small and vulnerable when an affliction threatened to annihilate them. Yerdos had risen from the Chasm.”

“Yerdos,” Dawsyn mumbles. “Thehawk?”

Rivdan frowns. “No. The creature of the Chasm,” he corrects.

“You mean thesaint,” says a new voice.

Ryon turns at the sound. Salem stands just beyond his shoulder, his face only partially illuminated by the glow of firelight. “Yerdos,” Salem reiterates. “The patron saint o’ the mountain. The first Terrsaw saint.”

As one, they stare at Salem, bewildered.

Salem’s expression, however, is stricken with growing alarm, as though some new understanding has formed within his mind.

Rivdan continues, though his frown remains. “I know nothing of Terrsaw saints. The Yerdos ofourstories was a spirit who rose from her prison in the Chasm, maddened and vengeful. Her touch wound its way first into the lungs of the Glacians, and then into their ears. They grew sick. Weak. But these symptoms were the very least of Yerdos’ torments. Her madness, they say, was catching. Soon, Glacians were surrendering to the call of Yerdos – she beckoned them into the Chasm’s depths. They walked to the edge and dived, fell on their swords, or cut their throats. The Glacians believed they would soon all be overcome by Yerdos’ voice. Her sickness.

“It was Vasteel who saved the remaining Glacians,” Rivdan tells them. “Or so he says. He called to Yerdos and tried to make a deal with her. ‘Let us live,’ he told her, ‘and we will help you seek revenge on that which banished you to this Chasm in the first place.’” Rivdan pauses, and as he looks to each of them, Ryon realises they have all leaned closer by increments. “But Yerdos refused. ‘It was the cold that banished me,’ she said. ‘I will not seek deals from the cold’s creatures.’”

“This was an admission not missed by Vasteel, and in it, he found Yerdos’ weakness. He filled his body with iskra, and when next he called Yerdos from the Chasm, it was to display the full force of his Glacian power. Vasteel’s blood turned icy, his breaths were the winds of the hostile season, and in him, Yerdos saw that she had met her match.

“The other Glacians feasted from the pool, and soon they were filled enough to fend off the affliction that ailed them. Their bloodstreams burned with the cold of iskra, and Yerdos’ affliction retreated. Unable to call them into the Chasm, she returned to its depths, forgoing her revenge on the cold.”

Rivdan’s voice dissipates as he reaches the story’s end, dispelling to nothing. The others stare with blank expressions, mouths slightly agape.

Two paths,Ryon thinks, his chest constricting.Both are filled.He looks to Dawsyn with renewed understanding. “Stories are born from seeds of truth.”

But Salem is shaking his head vehemently. “No,” he says, his tone belligerent. “Yerdos were aQueen. Blessed by the Holy Mother!”

The others share looks of astonishment at the conviction in his voice.

“She died by the devil’s infection, not by the hand’s o’ that ruddybat,” he continues, spitting to the ground. “Can never remember the old language word fer it. Deevilsh? Denvish?”

“Dyvolsh,” Tasheem, Rivdan and Ryon say together.Devil.

“That’s the one,” Salem nods. “The Dyvolsh infection.”

Death and Dyvolsh,Yennes had said to Ryon, just days ago.

“I’ve not heard of it,” Dawsyn says, shaking her head.

“It was, oh, a thousand years ago.More, probably. Folks thought they were sickened by the devil. Convinced ’em to do mad things. Wiped out a good half o’ the population – Queen Yerdos included. She became a saint after that. Legend has it, she were a woman of some strange magic. Connected to the land. Folks still pray to her fer good weather, rain, fertile soil an’ the like. I never believe in tha’ brand o’ nonsense though. Complete horse shit if yeh were to ask me my opin–”

“What was the Dyvolsh infection?” Dawsyn interrupts, her tone blunt.

“Same as what Riv described,” Salem answers. “Or so they say. Somethin’ that drove ’em all to their deaths.”

“The two stories don’t make sense,” Dawsyn shakes her head. “Yerdos cannot be a martyr and a vengeful spirit both.”

“You said she was a hawk?” Ryon adds, his mind whirring through the tangle of story. “What did you mean?”