She stood and went to him. Pressed her palm against his thin, scarred face. “I need to work through this alone. If you really want to help, go. Bring me some porridge and a mug of water every now and then. And trust me. Please? Trust me.”

Deeply distressed, he left her. Guilt mingled with relief. She could hardly think straight in the face of his fear. Could hardly think straight in the face of her own.

I’m mad. I must be. I failed to ward Dorana. What makes me think I can ward Lur?

Only Lur wasn’t Dorana… and that was why this was possible. Not only was this place not blighted with mage-mist and instability, it was soaked in its own magic, potent in its own way despite its gentle malleability. Potent because of the Olken’s affinity with their land.

And that’s the key. Lur’s malleable affinity. If I can meld its soft singing with Dorana’s strident, martial cry I can create a barrier that not even Morgan will breach.

Only… the cost of it. The terrible cost. If she was right in what she suspected, in a way she’d be destroying the Olken.

But it’s the only way to save them. And I have to believe they’ll think it’s worth it. I have to believe they’ll give up what little they have to gain so much more.

Provided, of course, she could see her way through the maze of magework her idea demanded. Provided the smattering of catalysts that had survived the flight from Dorana were enough. Provided—provided—

Remmie tells me I’m arrogant. I tell myself I’m great. I’ll need to be both if I’m to save two innocent races.

Frightened, she pressed her hands to her face. If she thought about this too closely she’d never do it. She’d lose faith.

Stop snivelling, Barl. You can do this. You have to. And that’s that.

Left unsettled by his encounter with Barl Lindin, Jervale walked the woods on his lonesome for a time, enjoying the solitude after the bustle of crowded Gribley, welcoming the chance to breathe dampish air and listen to birdsong and the hidden business of woodland creatures. It made a sweet change from his dry, sadly silent hamlet of Toblin… but it made him miss Bene too, and his little Tilly. They’d love it here in the Black Woods’ sun-dappled stillness and peace. Thinking of them, he was roiled giddy with homesickness and wept a little, wanting them. Wept for himself, too, because the burden thrust on him was heavier than ever he’d imagined. It made the coming death of Tam and Rinna’s baby seem light… and he’d never thought that could be.

To cheer himself, he picked a handful of yellow woodland daisies and a scarlet bibiloo, to press dry and take home to his girls.