Despite his hopes, Bastiaan was ready. A knock of stone to temple sent Runt to the ground. Unconscious. He bent over the boy, fighting back a broken cry. He’d never struck Runt before in any way . . . not physically, at least. But he’d recently come to learn that his broken promises and obsession with Well knowledge had done its own damage—had driven Runt to receive a Bane that was being used against them both.

He tore strips from his undershirt and wrapped Runt’s bloodied hands with the cloth. Then he gathered Runt in his arms. For a moment he cradled the boy . . . like a father would a son. Unconscious, Runt looked even more like the child he was. The responsibilities, life, and dreams Bastiaan had taken upon himself fell away and reminded him of the life Runt should have had—the life Bastiaan should have given him.

If Runt woke and still tried to kill Bastiaan, it would put them both in danger. He couldn’t take him through the Trials like that. The Trials might kill them both.

He’d have to leave Runt behind. Again. He prayed the boy would understand.

He used Sterk’s reins to tie Runt to a tree but left them loose enough that Runt could get free with a bit of work . . . in case Bastiaan didn’t survive the Trials. Then he scratched a message on the face of a rock with one of the half-burned sticks from the fire.

Keeping my promise.

He mounted Sterk and directed the horse to the overlook. Concern for the queen niggled in the back of his mind, but he didn’t let it take root. She’d taken this risk upon herself.

Down in the valley in front of the Trials he saw a small blob of shapes. Sven had made it. He was about to try to destroy the Trials, having no idea King Mattias and his army were on the other side of the mountain preparing to flood the canals.

Bastiaan headed for the Well. This time nothing—not Mattias, not Sven, not the Trials, and certainly not himself—would stop him from getting Runt water from the Well of Talents.

Chapter 39
Myrthe

The Trials.

I could see them from the tree line. The path to the Well of Talents led into a narrow valley between two treacherous cliffs. The rocks resembled sliced Night Forest cake—black, smooth, not a handhold to be seen. Impossible to scale.

A curtain of white mist blocked the entrance. At first I mistook it for snowfall, though the sky was clear, but something about it looked too unnatural. That was how I knew it was the first Trial.

But more intimidating to me than the Trials was the group of people between them and me. Sven and his woodsfolk. They’d beaten me here. The map truly had been secure in his mind as much as in his pocket.