‘Bel … I thank you for what you’re trying to do,’ said Clariel. ‘But I … I was a Free Magic sorcerer, and I will be again. If I find another creature, I am sure I will try to bind it. I want that power again. Charter help me, I even want to walk in Death! I don’t think I can stop it, not by myself. Best to end it here. I always said Belisaere would kill me, one way or another.’

‘You won’t become a Free Magic sorcerer again,’ argued Bel. ‘When Mistress Ader and I healed you, we bound that part of you, wrapped it in Charter spells drawing on the Great Charter itself. You would not be able to bind a creature, even if you found one. It would simply kill you, like any other ordinary mortal.’

‘Spells fade,’ said Clariel. ‘Bindings fail.’

Bel smiled, a melancholy smile.

‘Not in your lifetime,’ he said. ‘Nor in mine. Come, the guards will be out of the spell soon.’

‘Where can I go?’ asked Clariel softly. She could feel tears forming in her eyes, tears for the life offered her, tears for the life she could never have, her life in the Forest. ‘A boat, you said. But where can I go?’

‘I’ve spelled it to take you north,’ said Bel. ‘Far to the north. It will follow the coast, then go up the river Greenwash to where they’re building the bridge. There is a pass allowing you to cross the bridge, plenty of money to buy a horse or mule, anything you need. The steppe lies beyond, but further still, across the Great Rift there are stories of a forest … wilder and more immense than anything in the Kingdom … It will be risky, of course, but …’

‘Thank you,’ said Clariel.

Not her Forest, but a forest somewhere. That was something to live for. She sat up and swung her legs over the bed. There was something under her feet, something cold and metallic. She picked it up and stared down at the bronze mask. The straps were blackened as if they’d been burned, and the bronze was pitted and scarred.

‘I thought … perhaps you might want to keep it,’ said Bel very awkwardly.

Clariel touched her face again, feeling the scars on her forehead and the corner of her mouth that wouldn’t move, the many small ridges of scar tissue on her cheeks. She nodded, and lifted the mask to her face, slipping the straps over her hair, noticing for the first time it had been clipped almost to her scalp.

‘It doesn’t matter to me,’ said Bel. ‘Your face, I mean. If you could stay … I would still want to … Well, you know how I feel.’

‘I know,’ said Clariel. She stood up and went over to him, lightly touching his own cheek, smooth under her hand. ‘Marry Denima, Bel. You’d be good for each other.’