Coralythe stood atop the hill at the edge of the dam, a fearsome statue of rebellion. Her purple-and-black clothes were paused in a windswept blast from the release of the Nightwell. The sunrise darkened her countenance as it sent light from behind her.

She was the target, Bastiaan an arrow. He flew across the terrain toward her as though shot from a bow. Purpose fueled his muscles, numbed the dull pain still throbbing in his abdomen. Then the slick earth beneath his feet sloped downward, deeper into the water, and he skidded to a halt, almost losing his footing altogether.

He fell backward and caught himself with his arm, water splashing his neck. He cried out. Stilled. And gingerly pushed himself back to his feet.

That was close. This was no mere water; it was Nightwell water.

He’d be at war within himself—Talent versus Bane. And though he fully believed his Talent would win, he did not welcome an unnecessary battle. He didn’t want to end up with blood that could poison or the ability to curse someone. He couldn’t afford to be tempted.

Because he was weak. And Banes harvested a person’s weakness.

He stood at the kleinschloss edge, a sea of Nightwell between Coralythe and him on the raised hill by the destroyed dam. He glanced around as though a canoe or raft would present itself for his use. Even the flotsam was too large to move or too small to be of any use. There was no other option.

He’d have to swim.

The very thought sent a tightening around his chest, squeezing his lungs. His limbs trembled as he threw off his jacket and boots. Next came his belt and pack. He hung them all over the wing of an angel statue, shedding what weight he could until he was in nothing more than trousers and an undershirt. The chill of winter raised his skin in dots like seedlings ready to break through spring earth.

He entered the water. It rose to meet him as though sensing his vulnerability. He kept his feet on the earth beneath until he was on his toes. He tried to remember what King Vämbat had told him about swimming.

Keep the lungs full to provide buoyancy. Keep the limbs moving. Legs were more effective than arms. If he got tired, float on his back—that part always scared him. Every time he tried to do it, he sank. And if his head went under . . .

“Stop thinking,” he growled and pushed himself forward into what felt like an abyss beneath his feet.

He kicked furiously, but his legs did very little to propel him forward or even upward. He forced himself to relax, though shivers wracked his body.