Remmie grunted a grudging acceptance, then ran a hand down his lightly stubbled face. “Will you speak to Elder Chaffie today? See if the Olken are any closer to a decision?”

“Yes. But doubtless she’ll give me the same answer. Until your sister can explain what she meant by us helping them, they can’t be expected to say one way or the other.”

“Which is why you should make Barl tell you what she’s doing,” said Remmie, retrieving his porridge bowl. “Venette…” He swallowed another mouthful of the unpalatable mush. “We did the right thing, didn’t we, leaving Benbarsk? Coming here?”

A question she’d asked herself every day since they began their terrible struggle over the mountains. And every death in those jagged peaks, every broken bone, every bloodied scrape and bruise, had served only to gouge her deeper with doubt.

But she couldn’t tell Remmie that, either.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Here, with the Olken, we have a chance to rebuild our lives. To rebuild Dorana, after a fashion. Benbarsk would have become our tomb. For certain, Remmie, we did the right thing.”

“Even with the drought that’s gripping this land?”

“Droughts end. Rain returns.” If they’d been alone she’d have touched him. Perhaps stroked his hair. But because others were watching, she had to content herself with a smile. “And don’t forget your exasperating sister, my dear. We must have faith that what she’s working on will help.”

He didn’t smile back. Birdsong from the surrounding trees lifted the woodland gloom. No bears here. No Iringan spears, no swordsmen of Vharne. Things weren’t perfect, that was true… but they could be much worse.

“She’s still convinced Danfey is a danger, you know,” he said at last. “She says she still dreams him.”

Venette looked away. Morgan. She did her best not to think of Haeth’s son. When she thought of him, she thought of Orwin… and then she wept herself sick.

Orwin. Brice. Bellamie. Even Sallis and Shari. And all those other mages, most of whom I never knew.

How many wounds could a heart bear, before it tore apart completely?

“Morgan is the past, Remmie,” she said, standing. “He is caged, and will stay caged. We are safe here, I’m sure of it. And I’m sure that in their own time, the Olken will decide we can stay.”

Staring at her, his eyes troubled, Remmie tapped his whittled wooden spoon against his porridge bowl. For a moment she thought he was going to argue, but then he sighed.

“I’m teaching, later. Will you come?”

“Of course,” she said warmly. “And perhaps you could ask Maris to help? She’s good with children. Perhaps you’ve seen her with her nephew? And I know she’d like something useful to do.”

Remmie gave her a look. “Yes. I suppose I could.”