In a forest clearing, a hundred leagues to the south, two Rukh, a cave troll, and a hundred bogglins were conquered. The process was as swift as lightning.

The battle was on.

Ash cursed.

Trees died.

He took on his true form and leapt into the air, flying south. Almost as an afterthought, he ordered Orley’s horde to follow him. Lot had won this round; he could not retake the well and face the will at the same time. And the well was not vital.

Ally with Lot?

The will was the true enemy.

Or so he might say to Lot.

The Inner Sea—Aneas Muriens

On the shore of the Inner Sea, Aneas’s rangers were ready. The two Gallish round ships waited like floating fortresses in the two coves, covering possible landing beaches; the rangers waited in concealment, under webs of defensive spells, their own and those cast by Master Smythe.

The sun rose and dispersed the mist on the great lake, and eyes searched the sun-dazzled water for the flash or oars or paddles.

Aneas fell asleep, and woke, ashamed. But no crisis had occurred, and he changed his position, adjusted the screen of orange leaves he’d woven to cover himself, and listened.

Master Smythe walked out of the cover of the forest and onto the gravel beach as if Aneas was not concealed in any way.

“Aneas,” he said. “He is gone.”

“Ash?” Aneas said.

“We should not say his name,” Master Smythe said. “Entanglement has many effects. He is now utterly of this world, and so in this world his name will now draw his attention.” He looked out over the water. “He has other problems than losing his well right now, so he is running off to fight the Odine, who are awakening on schedule. He cannot spare me his attention.”

Smythe was smiling.

“And that’s good?” Aneas asked.

Smythe nodded. “Orley is headed south to the great battle,” he said. “I thought you would want to know.”

Aneas stood up. “You want me to follow him?”

Smythe shrugged. “Don’t you want to follow him?” he asked.

Aneas narrowed his eyes. Other rangers were rising from their concealment: Ricar Lantorn, already recovered; Looks-at-Clouds, Nita Qwan, Irene, Gas-a-ho. “Can’t you see the future?” Aneas asked.

“No,” Master Smythe said. “But I know a good deal about the past.”

“But Irene says you planned all this,” Aneas said.

“Irene gives me far too much credit,” Master Smythe said. “But what I have done is done. My role is largely finished. I planned some of it. But other hands shaped the wax, and some of them even I cannot see.”

“Is that just mumbo jumbo?” Irene asked.

Nita Qwan began the process of lighting a small stone pipe from his pouch.

“Ask Amicia, if you can find her,” Master Smythe said. “There are now forces in contention that are to me as I am to you.”

“And so you drop your tools?” Irene asked.