“I’m sorry,” she said, sweeping them with her piercing gaze. “I must ask this difficult thing, because Morgan is coming and you are dying from drought. I can save Lur. I can. But not without you.”

Lady Martain stepped forward. “People of Lur,” she said, breaking her silence for the first time since she’d told them her name. “This Morgan we speak of? He murdered my husband. And I tell you he would see every woman in Lur widowed. Every man bereft of his wife and every child made an orphan. I loved him like a son, once. But if I could, now I’d kill him. Do what we’re asking. It is your only hope.”

Looking around the hall, Jervale saw Lady Martain’s words strike every Olken like blows. And he knew she spoke the truth. He knew Morgan Danfey was Lur’s bitter death…

But so is Barl Lindin. They’re forever entwined.

“Jervale…”

And that was Chaffie. Sickened, he turned to her. “Yes?”

“What do you say? What do you see? Will Lur’s drought end on its own?”

More than anything, he wanted to lie. But if he lied, he’d twist his gift. If he lied, he’d not be able to face his Tilly.

“No, Elder Chaffie. I don’t see that.”

“And this mage they speak of. Have you seen him?”

His heart was breaking. He was weeping inside. “I have, Elder Chaffie. He’s as wicked as they say.”

Chaffie shuddered. “And what else do you see?”

“I—I—” He pressed a fist to his breast, feeling a pain there as cruel as a knife. “I see our ruin if we don’t help them. And I see our ruin if we do.”

“So we are ruined regardless?” Chaffie shook her head. “You are no help to me, Jervale.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, desperate. “What I mean is, we must help them. Only we can’t abandon our singing. If we do, we’ll rue the day.”

“And if you don’t, I can’t save you,” said Barl Lindin. “The incants and sigils of my magework are powerful and dangerous. Should your earth-singing disturb them, the consequences will be calamitous.”

“Not as calamitous as giving up our songs!” he said, but even as he protested he knew he was wasting his time. He was smothered in foreboding now. Could hardly draw a breath.

Oh, Bene. I’ve mucked this up. I’ve made everything worse.