I’m still dizzy from it when we stop for a water break. Lucien’s chatting with Malachite, the biggest smile plastered on his face as Malachite demands to know why he’s so giddy. Lysulli chimes in that it’s obvious; he’s in love, and Malachite in all his stone-headedness wouldn’t know what that means. It quickly becomes a sniping contest between the two of them, Lucien watching and chuckling at it all.

Fione sees me fiddling with the ring. She swallows her water, wiping her chin delicately before she speaks. “It’s his way of trying to persuade you to stay.”

I laugh under my breath, staring into the blue of the rose. “Am I being that obvious?”

“No. But he’s always had good instincts. For terrible things most of all.”

“It won’t be terrible,” I insist. “Just…different. New. I won’t pretend it’ll be easy, but. He’ll learn.”

Fione stares at a scarred canyon wall, at the black moss growing there. “No one wants to learn alone, Zera.”

“He won’t be alone.” I press down the clawing in my gut. “He’ll have all of you—Yorl, Malachite, you, Varia.”

At the last name, Fione closes her eyes, as if it’s caused her pain. Or maybe she’s imagining having Varia back. Longing.

“It’s not—” Her voice, trying so hard to be regal and composed, cracks. “It’s not a fair trade.”

Me, for Varia. My laugh comes again, softer. There’s a silence filled by the shuffling battalions opening their helmets to drink, opening their armguards to wipe off sweat, adjusting the metal of their swords and spears. Lucien’s laugh. Malachite’s grumbling. The hiss of the matronic letting off steam, Yorl’s faint busy purr as he scribbles observations about the canyon on a pad.

I brave the silence first. “I know it’s hard to believe. I know you don’t believe in the gods. You believe in polymathematics, in reality. But I’ve lived it and died it. No one’s ever really gone, Fione. We’re all connected. I know it. Maybe by the gods, or not by them at all. All I know is I’ve seen it, Muro’s seen it—the Tree of Souls connects us all, through our memories, and our love, and our feelings. That’s what a soul is: a root. It’s memories and love and feelings. And that can’t be destroyed. I promised you then and I promise you now—no one is ever really gone.”

She opens her mouth to say something, closes it. Opens it again, closes it. She stares out at the darkness, finally, the deep stretching thing with no end, and I watch her luminous periwinkle eyes fill with tears. Eyes I hope she gives her children. Eyes I hope see a new, peaceful world born.

And then, silently, she nods.