“Their deaths were unintentional. A mistake when I dosed the drinking well. I only wanted to make them sleep. I only wanted what was my right.” The blade wavered, parting my skin a fraction.

“Your right?”

“The restricted texts. I did everything they asked of me. I excelled at every task. I should have been named a master a long time ago!” He shook his head. “But what does it matter? They’re dead and gone, I’m an Alanga and you can either join me or die. I could teach you some things. How to fix the bond with your ossalen, for one.”

Mephi darted in, seizing Ragan’s leg in his teeth – much the way he’d once seized Philine. He was larger now, and by Ragan’s shout, the teeth had a bigger impact than they’d had with Philine. The sword fell from my collarbone and all of Ragan’s rage focused on Mephi. He lifted his sword.

I stamped a foot, sending a quake in Ragan’s direction. At the same time, I brought my staff to bear and charged forward.

Ragan stumbled, the blow he meant for Mephi going wide. But he regained his footing before I reached him, shaking Mephi from his leg and meeting my staff with his sword.

I’d had no formal training, and now, as I fought against someone with the same Alanga-enhanced strength and speed, I realized my lack of it. Ragan placed his feet precisely, moving with ease and practice. I’d relied more on brute force and magic than I had admitted to myself. My blows, which had always taken out my opponents in one or two swipes, now felt clumsy, overreaching. I took aim at Ragan’s head but he ducked the attack, jabbing at my midsection in the same fluid movement.

Only Mephi saved me. He snapped at Ragan’s heels, unbalancing him.

I wouldn’t have been able to survive against Ragan without Mephi. We each harried him, taking turns, covering for one another. Ragan’s ossalen lurked behind him, never daring to do more than to cower. I understood now that he’d only brought him to the battlefield so he could expose Lin as an Alanga. I pushed quakes in Ragan’s direction, lashed at him with water. And Ragan gathered the water around him, making it into darts that stung my skin. He had more control than I did. My feet slipped on the mud and the slick grass.

But we were holding. All I needed was Ragan to slip up once, and I’d have him.

He leapt back, dodging the swing of my staff. He thrust a hand into the pouch at his belt and stuffed something into his mouth.

Of course. He was a cloudtree monk.