“You take the light,” Achamian said quickly.

“Me?”

“You have the Gift of the Few. You can grasp it with your soul, even without any real sorcerous training … If you think on it, you should actually be able to feel the possibility.”

For the bulk of his life, Achamian had shared his calling’s contempt of witches. There was no reason for this hatred, he knew, outside the capricious customs of the Three Seas. Kellhus had taught him as much, one of many truths he had used to better deceive. Men condemned others to better celebrate themselves. And what could be easier to condemn than women?

But as he watched her eyes probe inward, he was struck by the practicality of her wonder, the way her expression made this novelty look more like a recollection. It was almost as if women possessed a kind of sanity that men could only find on the far side of tribulation. Witches, he found himself thinking, were not only a good thing, they could very well be a necessity. Especially the witch-to-be before him.

“Yes,” she said. “I can feel it. It’s like … It’s …” She trailed in smiling indecision.

“It’s a small Cant,” he said, grateful that Sarl, for whatever reason, had granted them this moment together. With a finger, he redirected the light so that it rested several feet above her head. “Something called the Surillic Point …”

“Surillic Point,” she repeated, her voice hot with breath.

“So,” he continued, “picture yourself in your soul’s eye.” He paused a heartbeat. “Now picture the light, not as you see it, but as you see its Mark.”

She nodded, staring at him with forked concentration. The light stretched the outline of her face across her breast and shoulder.

“Now picture you and the Point walking together. Hold fast that image. It’ll be trying at first, but with practice it’ll become thoughtless, like any other reflex.”

Her gaze fell blank to his wool-covered chest. Without prompting, she took two steps, her eyes climbing in upward astonishment to watch the glaring light track her move for move. She looked back about to laugh, only to stub her toe against some dust-furred detritus. She grinned as she snatched back her balance. Her shadow bloomed and compressed beneath her.

“Hurry,” he said. “Catch the others.”

She made no secret of her disgust as she strode past the sergeant, walking like a slave with an amphora poised atop her head. Then she began trotting down the path the others had sloughed through the dust.

And she glowed, the old Wizard thought, not only against the stalking black, but against so many memories of harm.

Achamian followed her as far as Sarl. The man stood slightly humped beneath the weight of his pack, the straps of which had bunched folds of mail across the front of his hauberk. Standing so close to him reminded Achamian of the dead Pick, the heart, and the knowledge that they were not alone in these black-bowel deeps. Mimara’s light was fast receding, and he saw Sarl’s eyes flit toward the encroaching darkness. Without a word, they both began following the woman.