“Everything’s so fleeting, isn’t it?” Dineas says. “People come in and out of our lives so quickly. It’s not just memories that vanish.”

There’s not much I can say. Instead, I take his hand, and for a while we walk in silence. He’s a warm, solid presence next to me, and I can only hope that I lend him the same comfort.

Finally, Dineas looks up to the sky, and I’m surprised to see how far the sun has moved. “I don’t want to keep you from your work,” he says. “I just wanted to see you. Do you think I need a treatment today?”

The space around me seems to grow cooler at his words. I’d known this was coming, though I’d tried not to think about it. I don’t know what will happen when Dineas comes back to himself and realizes what he’s done.

“I can come back another day if that’s better,” he says.

“No,” I say. There’s no point in avoiding it. “No, it’s better to do it now.”

I motion him back toward the hospital. As much as I try to pretend nothing’s wrong, I can’t keep the tension from my stride. He picks up on it, and we’re both silent as I usher him into the back room.

I hesitate briefly before I hand him the potion. “Settle down,” I say. “It might be rougher this time around, after such a long journey.”

Chapter Thirty-four

When the memories come back this time, they carry me straight to hell. Each new recollection is a fresh piece of agony. I don’t want the knowledge coming back into me, the realization that relentlessly transforms the lawless rebels I’d so earnestly cut down into friends, kinsmen.

I frantically search my memories of the battle for familiar faces. I’d fought Gatha. Was she among the bodies? I don’t remember seeing her, but I do recognize others. And the prisoner I captured…Dear gods, that’s Tus they’re torturing in the dungeons. Tus, who turned his blade hilt-first so he wouldn’t kill me on that mountainside.

I clench my head in my hands. If my fingers were sharper, they would dig holes in my temple.

“Oh gods.” It’s a prayer for mercy in whatever form. Even Zenagua’s underworld would be better than what I feel now.

I hear a shuffling of skirts, soft footsteps coming toward me. I feel the breeze as Zivah crouches down beside me. I don’t want her here.

“I’m sorry,” Zivah says softly.

Sorry? Sorry is a word for a stubbed toe, a keepsake gone missing. Not the betrayal of your soul.

“Gods, forgive me,” I whisper.

“It wasn’t your fault.”