The clan’s uniform suspicion did not budge when I sang what Halaavi had said to that slave years and years ago, but interest and curiosity seeped into them. In unison, the clan turned to Halaavi. “Vis name is Ariah. I advocate for vim. If ve proves a danger, both of us will take banishment.”

The old Droma stepped forward, right up to Halaavi. They locked eyes, and I felt a transference of feeling from one to the other. There was a sense of communion between them not unlike the shadow of magic I’d felt when Dirva or Vathorem read someone in front of me. “This death wish of yours is unbecoming, Halaavi.”

“We turn vim away, and the clan will have blood on its hands. We owe a debt to the land, Idok Arvada, and the land gave us vim. What the land gives, we take.”

Arvada frowned at me. “The land didn’t give us this; the thieves gave us this. This is not a matter of spirituality, Laavi, this is a matter of safety.”

“These two things are not so separate.”

“This is chaos.”

“In chaos, growth.”

“In chaos, death.”

Halaavi smiled. It was a cold, removed smile, one that hinted at a well of darkness within vim. I realized ve had not denied that accusation of a death wish. “The land shows us that one begets the other. What grows dies. Death breeds space for new growth. There is no life without chaos. The only thing in the world that is not chaotic is death.”

“You confuse chaos and change.”

“I confuse nothing. There is not one without the other.”

Old Arvada’s jaw clenched. Arvada stared at me, hard, and I felt a gentle prick of magic. The Droma do not have shapers, not quite the way we think of them, but there is something there that works in parallel. It pricked my attention, and I read vim back.