“Here’s the orb with the weather magics,” she said, holding up the crystal sphere, “and all the notes on how to use it.” Pages and pages of them, littering the floor. “I know I’ve only explained it once, but once will have to be enough. And remember, taking the magics will be painful. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about that now.”

Seemingly bewildered, Venette was shaking her head. “Barl, my dear, take a breath. Slow down. Surely—”

“I can’t slow down!” she said, shaking. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s coming! Now quickly, quickly, help me fill the satchel.”

So Venette helped her shove the notes and the diary and the orb back in the leather satchel. And as she laced it tightly closed—

“Barl, my beloved… wear flowers in your hair…”

Her bones shuddered, her heart quailed, and she sank moaning to the floor.

Remmie… Remmie…

“Barl, please,” Venette begged her. “Please, you have to stop this, you have to—”

Somehow, from somewhere, she found the strength to stand. “I can’t. There’s no time. Venette, I have to go.”

“But the warding’s magework, Barl!” Venette protested. “The weather magic’s incants! The syllables and the sigils, this is a complicated working. Where are your notes? You can’t remember—”

“Yes, I can.” She tapped her temple, then her breast. “The magic’s inside me, Venette. It always was. Didn’t you know?” She held out her hands. Took hold of Venette’s wrists, and pulled her onto her feet. Kept holding, because these were the last hands she’d ever hold, this the last face she’d ever see.

And they belong to Venette Martain. Well, I suppose it could be worse. They could belong to Maris Garrick.

Venette’s hair was in disarray. Trying to smile, Barl smoothed it. “Stay here, my lady. You’ve done all you can. What’s left to do is up to me.”

“Oh, Barl…” Venette whispered, weeping. “Oh, my dear. You’ll not be forgotten, I swear it. Every mage born shall know what you’ve done. What you’ve sacrificed. What you’re owed. Yes, and every Olken too. We will not forget.”

Bemused, Barl shook her head. Had they hated each other once? She and Venette? It seemed a long time ago. Hate and love. Love and hate. What did that odd little Olken man say? What was his name? Jervale?

“Love can turn to hate quick as a wink. You know that.”

Well, if she didn’t know it before… she certainly did now.

“Goodbye, Venette,” she said, smiling. “And good luck.”

And before things became impossible, she turned and hurried from the hall, past Maris Garrick and Elder Chaffie and the other mages whose faces were too blurred for her to see, past Gribley’s surprised villagers… who’d become monsters if she failed.