“En? Queyor’s Magic Lantern? But that’s easy. Source to light and here remain,” he said, pulling on source energy. A blue orb of mage light sprang to life in his hand.

“Yes, but then how to get it off your hand? To make it stay in one place?”

“Source’s light by source attached,” said Weysh, focusing on the tabletop. He moved his hand and the light stayed behind, hovering above the table.

“I just don’t understand,” said Yenni, and Weysh once again caught the rusty tang of frustration. “I’ve memorized the spells inside and out, exactly as Professor Mainard says them, and still my spells fail.”

“Well, there’s your problem. It’s not just about memorizing the spells, you have to believe, en? Have faith in the laws and principles. And then you anchor source energy with spells.”

“This is very different from runelore,” she said.

“Yes, runelore is . . . something else.” He tried not to think about the rumors around runelore, but Yenni squinted at him.

“What? What is that?” she said pointing at his face. “Why do people act so strange when I mention runelore?”

“Well,” Weysh began.

“Well, what?”

“There are some who believe Moonrise Islanders use the blood of animals or . . . or infants to make runepaint,” he said, and cringed as he waited for her response. But at her crestfallen look of horror he spluttered. “Of course, I know that can’t be true—”

“People really think that about us?” she whispered.

“It’s just an ignorant rumor,” he said soothingly. “I never once believed it.”

She stared off in the distance, her eyebrows drawn together in distress. “In ancient times, Masters would use some of their own blood in runepaint, but we no longer do that,” she said.

“Of course not,” Weysh said softly. “Show me a rune,” he said, desperate to clear the air of that terrible, rotten-sweet scent of despair. “Do you have your paint?”

“Yes, I do,” said Yenni.

“What does go into runepaint then?” asked Weysh as she pulled her jar and brush out of her back-satchel.

“A special type of flower, crushed and dried, sap from a certain tree, a crushed mineral that we mine, a certain powdered root, and dragon eyes.”

“I see . . . wait, what?”

She grinned at him. “Just kidding.”

He blinked and grinned back. She’d never smiled at him like that before. It made him want to drag her across the table and kiss her breathless. “Aren’t you funny,” he said instead.

“Put out your hand,” she said. He did, and she dipped her brush in her paint, then began to paint his palm. Weysh suppressed a shiver at the tickle of the brush across his skin. She sang as she worked, low and wordless. Her voice was beautiful—trilling and smooth, and thick with magic. Something about her song reminded him of the comforting heat of an open fire.