“You did your best to fettle him, but he’s stronger than you thought. Isn’t he?”

“What d’you—” Her voice cracked. “I’ve no idea what—”

He raised a finger at her, as though she was his Tilly. “Tell another lie and I promise, there’ll be mischief.”

“Another lie? I haven’t lied. Everything I said in that hall is true.”

“Sometimes a lie gets told by leaving things out.”

Baffled, she folded her arms. “Who are you?”

“I told you. Jervale. And I know things, Mage Lindin.”

Surrounded by the hushed woods, she stared at him, uncertain. He remembered her in his dreams, dressed in fine clothes, and laughing. A younger Barl. A happier Barl. This Barl Lindin’s spirit was maimed.

He closed his eyes and heard the flapping of large, leathery wings.

“Mage Lindin,” he said, looking at her again, battered sick with dream memories. “What d’you reckon’ll happen when he finds you? What d’you reckon’ll he’ll do to the woman who left him, and the folk who gave her shelter?”

Her eyes glittered in the shafting sunlight. “You can’t know this. How do you know this? And who have you told?”

“No-one,” he said, stepping closer. “Yet. As for how I know, that don’t matter. Just tell me, Mage Lindin. How can you keep us safe from a man who can do what he’s done? You can’t, can you? You did tell a lie.”

She flung up one hand in protest, or self-protection. Fearing fire, he leapt back and they stared at each other, breathing harshly.

“I wasn’t—I’m not going to hurt you, Jervale!” She sounded shocked. “Do you really think I’d—” And then, when he let his eyes speak for him, she pressed shaking fingers to her lips. “Oh.” There was a fallen pitty-pine nearby. She sidled to it and sat on its trunk, heedless of creepy-crawlies and fungus. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “How do you know?”

He shrugged, in no mood to talk of his dreams. “I just do. What’s his name, Mage Lindin?”

For a long time she didn’t answer, simply breathed in the sweet, living silence of the Black Woods.

“Morgan,” she said at last, her voice full of grief and longing. “Morgan Danfey.”

“And you love him.”

She looked away. “That’s not your concern.”

Except it was. “He loves you too. And he hates you. Love can turn to hate quick as a wink. You know that.”

“I don’t—” She bit her lip. “You knowing things. It’s Olken magic, isn’t it? Clearly, Jervale, you’re a powerful mage.”

Surprised, he shook his head. “I ain’t a mage.”

“Of course you are,” she said, impatient, then stood. “Show it to me. Your magic. I need to feel it, I need to know if—”