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“The earth… she gives and takes in equal measure,” Dawsyn continues, speaking words of a friend she would die to see again. “Every season comes to a close.”

Yerdos cries then, but it is not a terrible shriek this time. The sound is horribly human, a thousand times more painful. It is broken, and cracked, and utterly pitiful. Her lips part around the whimper and her shoulders sag. She bends under every ounce of sorrow she holds.

And as though she stood before Dawsyn herself, Baltisse’s voice rings through her mind once more. It cuts through the boil of lava and the hiss of smoke. It takes her back to a forest where an edelweiss flower settles into Baltisse’s touch.“Sometimes you need to reteach a thing its loveliness.”

Dawsyn wonders if a creature such as Yerdos can be taught. “No one seeks to harm you anymore,” she whispers, though her body trembles with fear. “Not even Moroz.”

Yerdos shakes her head, and her long wisps of red hair catch alight, whipping smoke through the air, but it is a half-hearted movement. She holds her hands to her chest as though she seeks to rip out her own heart.

“You do not need to stay here,” Dawsyn tells her.

But Yerdos shakes her head again. She breathes heavily, her shoulders rising and falling. There is a long silence, and then she says, “As long as Moroz remains, I burn.”

Dawsyn knows there is nothing more than can be said to Yerdos the Saint, so embroiled in her own animus.

“You are not Moroz,” Yerdos says now, her eyes searching Dawsyn’s body.

“No.” Dawsyn shakes her head. Her legs are moments from giving way.

“Yet you seek me,” she says, then waits, a question in her eyes.

Dawsyn tries to swallow. Fails. “No. We only sought an end to the Chasm,” Dawsyn says. “Another side.”

Yerdos’ eyebrows lift. “No end lies this way.”

Dawsyn’s chest deflates and her legs do give way then, sinking to the scalded wood of the bridge. Yerdos only watches her, a deep curiosity changing her face. “You seek an end.” She looks suggestively to the fiery pit below, then back to Dawsyn.

“No,” Dawsyn murmurs, the heat colliding with her, overwhelming her. There is little air to breathe. “No, not yet.”

“Then return to our mountain,” Yerdos says. “And reclaim it. You are mage-born.”

Dawsyn catches herself on her palms as she falls forward. “I am Ledge-born,” she corrects. Her eyes closing against the sting.

“What is your name?” Dawsyn hears. Someone bends over her; she can feel the heat of their breath.

“Dawsyn Sabar,” she utters, though she cannot feel her lips move.

“Return to the mountain, Dawsyn Sabar. Seek a different path.”

And then Dawsyn feels the impossible collapse of her being as she is reduced to a slither, to nothing at all.

She looks her last at the Chasm, and then she disappears.

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

An animal pulled a cart toward her, its driver waving erratically, gesturing for Yennes to move from its path. She jumped aside and collided with Baltisse, who grabbed her shoulders and guided her onto the cobblestones.

“Stay off the road, sweet,” Baltisse ordered. It was one of many orders she had uttered since their arrival in this bizarre settlement. Pitched roofs surrounded them, some thatched and some made of tile or timber. The narrow lanes were filled with dust as the wagons and carts trundled by, their drivers spitting and cursing, or else tipping their caps as they passed. There were children everywhere. Mothers with babies riding in slings. Stalls filled with food and goods set up on every corner.

Everywhere, people shouted. Sometimes they called to her. “Pickled cabbage!” or “Stewed goat!” followed by “Make haste, miss, they’ll be gone within the hour!”

It muddled her, had her spinning in all directions. Every noise made her jump, made her quail.

Baltisse took her arm, sighing in a long-suffering way, and led her around a puddle of what Yennes figured was human muck. “…like leading a fawn, jumping out of her skin.” Baltisse then pulled her to a halt as murky water dropped from above, splattering on the stones before them. Yennes looked up to see a paunchy woman hanging out of her window holding a bucket. “Watch it!” the woman shouted, as though Yennes was intersecting the water’s path.

“Mother above,” Yennes muttered, keeping her eyes skyward as they continued. “What is this place?”

“This is the Mecca,” Baltisse answered. “It is as close to the palace as you ought to come.”