“No, stay.” Shyla knelt on the other side of the bucket, facing Mojag. “Did Ximen teach you how to gather your will?”

“Yes, but it didn’t work,” Mojag said. “Or I didn’t do it right. It’s hard to gather something that’s not…something.”

Shyla lowered her shield. Despite Mojag’s brave words, he was scared. Gurice, too, but she kept her posture relaxed so she wouldn’t upset him. Despite their bickering, they loved each other deeply.

“How about pulling it? Can you pull it from inside…” She tapped her chest. “…and aim it at the sand in the bucket?”

“You mean to stare at it with intention?”

“That’s one way to describe it.”

“Okay.” Mojag’s eyebrows crashed together as he squinted at the sand.

The ribbon of magic glowed inside him. Once again it resembled a druk lantern only opened a crack. The edges around that gap were sharp and ragged. Shyla reached toward the glow as if seeking his thoughts. She grasped the ends of the lantern and pulled them apart.

Memories gushed from the opening as it widened. A vagrant woman lies broken and mutilated, blood pooling under her body. Her head lolls to the side and she meets Mojag’s gaze right before the light in her eyes dies. A man—no, a guard—straddles her, raising his knife for another unneeded strike. An anguished cry slices the air as another man tackles the guard to the ground. They fight until two more guards arrive and drag the man to his feet. Then they beat him to death right in front of his son who is hiding in a dark corner.

“Mom! Dad!” Mojag cried as the scene repeated. Pain and grief surged through his body, rubbing him raw.

“What’s going on?” Gurice demanded. She grabbed her brother, hugging him close.

Shyla reversed her efforts, closing the lantern.

Mojag’s hand shot out and clutched her wrist. “No. Don’t. Keep going. Let it out. Let it all out.”

She exchanged a look with Gurice, seeking his sister’s permission.

“Please,” Mojag said.

Gurice nodded and Shyla pulled the lantern wide open. Mojag jerked as more memories poured from the rift. Horrible images of all the terrible things he’d witnessed since his parents’ murder. Then came the guilt over what he’d done in his short life, including when he sold Shyla to the deacons.

The poor boy thrashed and wailed and cried. Tears streamed down his face and he clamped onto his sister as if she alone could keep him from being washed away. Sobs racked his body. Then the images faded. The painful memories dulled to a throb. Mojag sucked in a deep breath, relaxed, and fell asleep.

Gurice held him tight. “Did it work?”