Fione traces the book’s page thoughtfully. “I’ll need more time to truly turn it over. And the Black Archives’ resources will help clarify things. But for now, the best I can do is guess. I’ve heard of the term ‘Tree of Souls’ from only one place.” She looks up at me, mousy curls bobbing. “The Old God’s supporters, their rosaries—they call that the Tree of Souls.”

My mind flashes back to Y’shennria, to her wood-carved, naked tree rosary she kept with her at all times, stroking it in times of distress or difficulty. She’s an Old God worshipper—that’s why she’s been admitted into the relative safety of Windonhigh at all. She adored that rosary—leaned on it like a true friend and confidant.

“What does it actually mean, though?” Mal presses.

“It means,” Lucien says, “if we were to interfere with the Bone Tree, we could be interfering with the flow of all magic. Forever.”

I go still. “Do—did the High Witches know about this?”

“Presumably,” he says. “Which is no doubt the major reason they decided not to help us interfere with the Bone Tree. If we did, we’d be interfering with half of the Tree of Souls.”

“And if we were to destroy both trees,” Fione says, looking over at me pointedly, “theoretically, we would be wiping all magic from Arathess. Forever.”

“Wait,” I start. “So Gavik was wrong? The Glass Tree wasn’t made from a piece of the Bone Tree?”

“Correct.” Fione nods. “He was so scared by the Bone Tree, by Varia getting it, that he had his polymaths investigate as much as they could. And they came up with that hypothesis—that the Glass Tree was made from a splinter of the Bone Tree.”

“But it’s not.” I frown.

I see Fione’s hand shake, before she hides it quickly in her sleeve. “If this older text is to be believed, no.”

“So this Tree of Souls is important. And the Old Vetrisians split it? So how does it still give witches their magic?”

“It’s been physically split.” Lucien stares into his mug with glassy eyes. “But its magical imprint is still intact. The Tree of Souls still exists, but not on a physical level. That’s why it only ever comes to witches in dreams. Dreams are how it moves—how it communicates, and how it gives witches their magic.” He sucks in a sharp breath. “But the wound of being split like that—it must be hurting. Terribly, and for so long. For a thousand years now.”

pain like eternity, the hunger sneers at him.

“So, wait.” Malachite holds up one long-fingered hand. “You’re saying a thousand years ago, Old Vetris decided the only way to stop the valkerax was to split this super-important magic witch tree? And the witches just let them?”