“Good people of Lur,” said Barl Lindin, ignoring him, “think what this will mean. No more drought. No more famine. Your children won’t go to bed hungry, and you won’t weep because there is nothing to feed them. The Doranen know how that feels. We’d spare you such pain. Join with us in this great magework and there will be food enough for every belly, for ever and ever. That is the power of Lur’s magic when matched with Doranen magework. So, in a way, you won’t have lost your earth songs. You’ll be singing them differently, that’s all. And don’t you see? You’ll be safe.”

Despairing, Jervale watched his fellow Olken fall under her spell. And when he couldn’t bear to watch any more, he left the hall.

Not a soul called him back.

Outside, he wandered the torchlit village, breathing in the cool night and trying to calm his disordered mind.

I can mend this. I have to. There’s Bannet and the others, they’ve a part to play yet. I just have to—

He heard footfalls behind him, and turned. It was Del of Westwailing, wandering dreamlost out of the woods. She looked tousled and replete, with a lingering memory of pleasure in her eyes. Torchlight sparked along a golden hair on her sleeve.

Seeing it, he was abruptly pummelled with knowing… just as he’d been pummelled when Bene fell with their Tilly. He could feel the bright humming inside this careless fisherfolk lass. A new life just starting. A frail seed of hope.

In the Final Days shall come the Innocent Mage…

“Jervale!” Del said, noticing him. Surprised and suddenly wary. “Sink me, what are you about, lurking in the shadows?”

In the Final Days? An Innocent Mage? Where had that come from? And what did it mean? “You know there’s a meeting in the hall, Del? Where’ve you been?”

Her fingers strayed to her lips, tracing a swift and secret smile. “I was in the woods. I fell asleep.”

No, girl, you tumbled with Barl Lindin’s brother.

But instinct urged him not to say that aloud. “Come along, lass,” he said, and took hold of her arm. “There’s important doings in the hall. Best you get in there.”

After they withdrew so the Olken could talk among themselves, Remmie glanced at Venette, a warning, and walked with Barl back to their camp. She was quietly triumphant, on fire with purpose, seemingly oblivious to what her likely victory meant.

But he was all too aware of its meaning. He didn’t know whether to rage at his sister, or weep.

“Let me see your notes,” he said, when they reached her tent. “I want to check your magework.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Please.”