Moved, perhaps, by whimsy, she sets the candle down and turns back to the gap. She rests her head against the stone. “I am lost,” she confesses, to herself, laughing again. “So many roads to walk down, and all of them lead nowhere.”

The air shifts around her. Her eyes shut. She waits.

“I’ve missed you,” the crack breathes against her lips.

This time she does not scream.

She stands entirely still. Her lips curl just a fraction. This might just be her mind, fracturing at last from the strain bowing her shoulders, but she doesn’t think so. Above the smell of damp earth and stone, she can smell a metallic tang, too, like the inside of the smithy. It cuts through the lingering stink of shit, replaces it entirely as she breathes deep.

If this is not just a desperate imagining, then perhaps it is a new road.

“And who are you?” she asks, now trembling with eagerness. With a flash of desire. Down here, in the crowded dark, she feels like herself, truly herself, so close to how she’d felt when she’d dangled that fruit in front of Phosyne but oh, so much sweeter than that.

It’s time to escape, but not to give up.

“A friend.” The voice is growing firmer, louder. It’s still just a whisper, but it sounds young. Boyish, perhaps. Pleased. She fights the urge to light the candle again, press it into the gap to get a look at the speaker’s face.

“A friend? And how do you know that?”

“Because I’d like to help you,” the voice—the boy—replies. “If you’re lost, I can help. I know where you are.”

A thought occurs to her. Her brow furrows as she flattens herself against the gap, standing straighter. “Are you a sapper? Sent by Etrebia to find a way into our water? Did you foul it yourself?”

He laughs, delighted. “Look down,” he says.

She does. She sees only the faint glow of the water, running into the crack. Into the . . .

Oh. The well shaft is between her and the encamped army. From here, the water flows out toward the cliff edge. There is no way the enemy could reach here, would reach here without spilling up into Aymar itself first.

Fear twists in her at last. He cannot be Etrebian, and he cannot be here, because there’s nowhere for somebody to come from.

“You see,” he murmurs, still pleased. “Oh, you are clever. I like you. What is your name?”

Treila is a common name, and she’s never lied about it. She’s too possessive of her own identity, even transformed as it’s become. But fear makes her hesitate. She’s too cautious to answer straight out, no matter how harmless the question seems. She turns the question around, barbs out. “Tell me yours, first.”