On a choked sob, he shook his head. “If you do this, it’ll kill you.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Oh, Barl,” he said, and spun round. His cheeks were wet. “Don’t insult me. I’m not some ignorant Olken.”

“They’re not ignorant, Remmie. Just different. And a bit like children. Simple.”

His face twisted. “And yet you’d give your life for them?”

She wanted to touch him, to hold him, but she feared they’d both shatter if she did. “Not for them. For us.”

“For no reason!” he cried. “When you’ve no sure proof that Morgan Danfey won’t stay warded in Elvado until the end of time!”

He still refused to believe her? “Remmie—”

“Go away, Barl. Leave me be.”

“No, Remmie, I—”

“Leave me be!”

His anguish echoed through the woodland. Startled birds leapt to the air, wings clattering.

Defeated, she left him.

Alone with his rage and pain, Remmie wandered the gloom of the Black Woods, raggedly circling the remote village of Gribley. Feeling the drag of his hurt hip. Hating it. The silence should have been soothing, but instead it mocked him with the silence of the dead he’d left behind. For months he’d pushed away all thought of what he’d lost. Irielle dead. Barton Haye. All his pupils, not just in Batava but his other schools as well. Of course, there was a chance they weren’t all perished. They could be living still, trapped in Iringa or Manemli or Vharne or Benbarsk, hunted like animals, struggling to survive.

So many dead and missing. Our race is practically extinct. And now Barl would die to save what’s left?

He should love her for it, but he didn’t. He was tired of sacrifice, tired of putting on a brave face for the mages who now looked to him for answers. For relief.

He was tired.

Eventually his aimless wandering returned him to the crowded village. The Olken stared at him, nudging and whispering as he passed by. Because the Doranen needed these odd, rustic little people he nodded pleasantly, and smiled, but inside he was raging.

And if she does this thing, my sister, will you care what it cost? Will it matter to you that a stranger died to give you so much, asking so little in return?

“Mage Lindin,” said Elder Chaffie, looking up from stirring a large pot of soup. Crowded around her in the village bakery’s lean-to, six more pots simmered over open, wood-fueled flames. So many bellies to fill, thanks to his people. The old woman looked weary enough to weep. “I’ve seen Lady Martain. She says there’s news to share.”

“There is,” he said, nodding. “But I’ll let Barl speak of it tonight. I was wondering… do the Olken drink ale?”

Elder Chaffie’s eyes were sharp and knowing. “They do,” she said, after a moment. “Got a thirst, have you?”