“You’re doing wonderfully,” Orfeus said absently. Something was nagging at her. “Ocelot—Juana—how did you know my magic’s pretty? Before the Trial, I mean. Who said so?” Luga knew her songs, but it seemed strange he’d sing her praises.

Juana glanced sideways down the table, then back, so quickly Orfeus nearly missed it. “Oh, we’d all seen vids,” she said dismissively. She leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands, grinning. “Not as good as the real thing, though…”

“Yeah!” Hyena hollered loudly. She lifted a sloshing tankard, her grin not wholly kind. “Sing for us, Fox!”

“Ha!” Orfeus said, lifting her own cup in a salute. “But you’ve all given me such fine hospitality already, you’ve nothing left to trade with. Performances don’t come cheap!”

Hyena scowled and set her tankard down, liquid sloshing over. Beer, so Dormarch wasn’t the only one here who indulged in generally frowned-upon luxuries.

“We’ll get through to her,” Tai called to Hyena, grinning.

She laughed uproariously. “Shark, you can break through anything!”

“Hey, now,” Orfeus said in alarm, and Tai patted her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I don’t bring explosives to feasts,” he said, and refilled her cup. On his other side, Juana chatted with someone Orfeus didn’t know, maybe the Starfish by their build. Cheer and noise and camaraderie, with luxuries spread out before them, the reward for dangers faced. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, being one of the monsters.

Chapter Ten

I should not have revealed Blood’s capacity for crafting illusions to Orfeus. Not to anyone outside of the grove but most certainly not to her, not for a second. As the weeks stretched on, I comforted myself that at least on her own there was no chance she could learn the techniques of weaving light, whatever the provenance of her strange Blood. No one outside of us ever has.

- From the journal of Rivasoa

From above, they followed the course of the river, winding and looping through the landscape. The terrain was mostly open to the air and uncontrolled, the ecosystem here natural, balanced, thriving. Flocks of birds flew past them. The ground was all rocky, pitching hills, too uneven for much large-scale habitation or efficiently vast fields of crops. A few small-scale farmers had been able to make bids, claiming the land was theirs by ancestral right or that they could do the most good with it, could benefit the most people with each square inch of soil and sunlight. Their quarry was one of those people.