The chill inside her grew. She still had her magic. Perhaps the Elementals knew she no longer needed their assistance. A moment before, she hadn’t been sure, but Storm knew now that she could win this battle. The Drowned Ones had arrows and a Fire-witch. But she had her hatred.

Storm made herself think of Dain, let the knife of loss cut deep. Wind rose, bending the trees, scattering the top layer of shingle. The water of the cove began to churn. Sleet, like tiny darts, rained out the sky.

“Kill her!” screamed the Fire-witch. “She is too powerful – she will bring the ice! Shoot her!”

“No!” roared Nim. “You gave your word, Witch! If you attack Storm, I’ll have you shot. We want her alive!”

Her enemy had just determined his own destruction! As Storm gathered her magic for the killing blow, she began to choke. Scoundrel had twisted around to cling to her chest. His arms were snaky vines around her neck, squeezing the breath from her. She tugged at a hairy arm, but the monkey was too strong – impossibly strong! Storm looked into the cling-monkey’s eyes and saw, reflected in their brown irises, something ancient and unknowable yet instantly familiar. She flinched, but could not escape the gaze.

Scoundrel’s mouth moved, and the Tortoise spoke: You hold the Balance in your hand. The eternal war between fear and understanding, hatred and love, destruction and creation. Lose the Balance and hope dies.

We Three took you as our child because you have the gift and curse of the story-teller: imagination. Because your parents loved and taught you well. But the choice is yours; it was always yours. Think of your mother’s gifts, and choose!

The slow, gravelly voice faded from her head. Once more, Scoundrel was a tiny cling-monkey, shivering and crying plaintively. She cradled him to her chest.

Storm looked at Nim and thought of Dain. The answer was as warm and real as the monkey in her arms: Dain’s talent had been for loving. For giving. For celebrating Life.

Storm hugged Scoundrel to her, needing his warmth. The wind died. The cove calmed. And when she spoke, her words no longer emerged on puffs of frost. “Cloud goes free. But I want to speak to him.”

“Of course.” Nim was breathing too fast, his face pale. But his eyes shone with relief and … gratitude? She must have imagined it.

Now that she had made her choice, the reality of what she had done made her feel nauseous. How could she bear to go with the pirates? To live as their slave? Only for a little while, soothed her mind-voice. You will soon escape. Or something.

Something, she thought, glancing at the Fire-witch. The woman returned her gaze with pure enmity. This one would not rest until Storm was dead. Did Nim really imagine he could control the Salamander?