“Aye, that’s right, I’m promised to Bede. But I can still look at a pretty face, can’t I? Ain’t no rule against lookin’.” Aggrieved, Del dug her fork into her bowl of stew. “So, Jervale, what d’you reckon Mage Lindin’s wonderings mean?”

There was little he could say that wouldn’t reveal the things he knew… and Del of Westwailing wasn’t one of the Olken he’d dreamed.

“I reckon we’ll find out when we find out. Don’t borrow trouble, that’s what I say.”

“Oh, sink you,” said Del, and fell into more cosy brangling with Bannet.

Content for now just to listen, Jervale busied himself with his stew.

It comes down to Barl Lindin. As soon as she breaks her silence, that’s when I’ll know what to do.

Thirteen days after learning the truth of the Olken from Jervale, Barl sat in her stifling tent, cold to the marrow, and went over and over and over her magework. Perhaps she’d made a mistake. Perhaps she was wrong, and her mad plan wouldn’t work after all.

Except she wasn’t wrong, and she knew it.

I can keep Morgan at bay forever. I can preserve what’s left of Dorana, and save the Olken people from a slow, tormenting death by drought and famine. I can turn their little land into a paradise. And all I have to do is… die.

Unless the convoluted syllables and sigils of her incants could be combined in a kinder, gentler, less murderous way. Could they? Had she missed a different method of melding Doranen and Olken power so they would break the drought, heal the ailing land and seal the Doranen and Olken safely behind Lur’s towering mountains?

Hours later, sweating, shivering, she threw aside diary and pen and pulled her knees to her chest. No. Try as she might, she couldn’t escape the stark truth. The final incant she’d need to coalesce the disparate Doranen and Olken magics, to create an impenetrable barrier around Lur, marrying safety and weather into a perfect, seamless whole, would simply… unmake her.

After a time, her shivering stopped. Then, feeling strangely calm, she went in search of Remmie and Venette. Found them sitting in the camp’s square with Maris Garrick. The faint dawn daylight was surprising. Yet again she’d worked through the night.

Remmie took one look at her face and dropped his mug of tea, splashing, to the ground. “Barl? What is it, what have you—”

Ignoring him, she nodded to Maris. “I’m sorry, Mage Garrick. Would you excuse us? I have something privy to discuss. Remmie? Venette? Walk with me.”