Most helpful of all, the ancient incant used between races so that strangers might speak. That one she had from a College scholar. She was dead now too. Snake bite in the mountains. The Black Woods’ villagers already had the benefit of the incant, and in time every Olken in Lur would receive it. There could be no misunderstandings between the Doranen and their hosts.

Using borrowed ink and quill, she made a note of her thoughts about the power she felt in this land. About the Olken and what she could feel in them. Then, suddenly restless, she tossed the diary aside. Slid off the cot, tugged back the felt matting between herself and the ground, and stretched out with her palm pressed lightly to the dry dirt. Straight away she felt that humming of unfamiliar power. Sighed as it whispered through her flesh and bones. It was warm. It was gentle. Not like brash Doranen magic. But still, there was a depth to it. A strength. A promise.

But a promise of what?

What if I could find a way to meld Doranen and Olken magics? Would that give me enough power to keep Morgan at bay?

She didn’t know. But it was an idea she had to explore, because Morgan was coming. She knew it with a suffocating certainty. A smothering dread. And she knew that without help, she had no hope of defeating him.

When at last she stirred out of thought, her mind whirling with an idea so fantastic she wondered if she’d gone mad, tree-filtered daylight crept through the tent’s drawn flap and she could hear the rise and fall of adult voices in their makeshift camp. The higher, welcome voices of the children who’d survived. Stiff and hungry, she picked herself up and went in search of an unused privy hole.

Walking back through the close-pressing trees afterwards, she came face to face with Maris Garrick. Felt herself tense, with dislike and resentment.

Of course she had to survive. Why her, and not Irielle of Granley? Or Dreen Brislyn? Or any other mage?

But that was a horrible thing to think.

“Wait,” she said, as sneering Maris turned away. “Have you handed over any books or pamphlets or old scrolls of incants still in your safe-keeping?”

Maris was dreadfully thin now, her hair dull, her face drawn. But though she’d suffered, she’d lost none of her haughtiness. “Ehrig and I didn’t bring any,” she said, looking down her nose. “Our parents had them.”

And their parents were dead.

Barl winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—Maris, wait.”

Breathing harshly, Maris stopped. “What?”

“I know we can’t be friends, not after—” She felt a surge of belated shame. “Only… Maris, there are so few of us now. Can’t we put aside our differences and work together, for the good of—”

“No,” said Maris, coldly. “Don’t speak to me again.”