Disappointed, but not surprised, Barl made her way to the camp’s communal area, where several mages and a handful of youngsters were eating an early breakfast. Small bowls of honey-sweetened porridge. Tart berries and apples. A meagre offering of eggs. Compared to the paucity of the mountains, it was plenty… but remembering Dorana’s bounty made the meal harder to accept.

Venette sat on a roughly sawed log, sipping sour Olken tea from a wooden mug. She seemed content, which was remarkable for a mage who’d spent her life drinking vintage icewine out of jewel-crusted gold cups.

“Barl,” she said, faintly smiling. “Join me.”

She was the highest-ranked surviving mage and the only councillor they had left, and she took both responsibilities seriously. Working almost without respite from dawn to dusk and later, cooking and cleaning, helping their three pothers, easing the hearts of orphaned children, the grief of mothers who’d lost their children and wives who’d lost husbands, she never complained or shirked no matter her exhaustion.

Barl shoved another rough log closer.

I hated her once. How times have changed.

She should tell Venette about the dream. If she didn’t, Remmie would. And she should confide in her the thoughts she’d had about protecting them from Morgan. But they were only half-formed… and the magework she’d need didn’t even exist. Not yet, at least.

And it might never exist if I fail to create it.

Venette lifted an eyebrow. “Barl?”

“I saw Maris,” she said, to divert her. “She says they have no books for our library.”

“Yes, she told me the same thing,” said Venette. “And it’s hardly a library. A motley collection of mostly useless information is what it is. Or will be, when I’ve done nagging everybody.”

But it was all they had left of Dorana, so it was precious. “You know about Councillor Horbeck?”

Sighing, Venette rested the emptied mug on her thigh. “I do. But on the other hand, my dear, four of us are pregnant. Relief, it seems, is a potent aphrodisiac.”

“Pregnant?” She stared. “I suppose that’s good. Isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Venette murmured. “Let’s hope so.”

“It must be, surely. When so many of us—”

And then she stopped, because here came Chaffie, the wizened elder of the Black Woods’ village they’d stumbled into three-quarters dead, nearly two months ago.

“Good morrow to you, mages,” the Olken greeted them. “The last of our people have arrived in Gribley to hear your story. We’re in the hall, gathered and waiting. Can you come?”

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-six

It was the oddest thing, Jervale thought, to find himself staring at the face of a stranger he knew so well from his dreams.

Mage Barl Lindin.