Memories of Ash

Chapter 1

The Ties That Bind

CRACK.

I glance up, holding tight to the thread of my spell as the mountains throw a thunderous echo back to us. My skin tingles with the brush of magic, as if unseen creatures skitter up my arms, over my back. Across the valley, forest birds take to the air, calling out as they wheel over the lake. I catch the pale white flutter of snow pigeons, the midnight silhouette of ravens, and high up the snow-dusted peaks, the great dark wingspans of a pair of griffon vultures.

Seated cross-legged beside me on the banks of the lake, Brigit Stormwind murmurs, That was the first ward.

I nod. It has been some time since a traveler came our way, but the sound of our farthest ward triggering is not easily forgotten. Without knowing who approaches our valley, finishing my casting would be reckless. I could easily leave a trace behind that a mage might notice … But I promised myself that this time I would finish.

Before me the water lies smooth, no ripple disturbing its crystalline surface. Upon that polished expanse gleams the spell-cast image of my mother. Dressed in a pale pink kimono embroidered in shades of rose, she kneels before a tea tray, hands on her lap and face raised toward me. I have her eyes, though my skin has the desert tint of my father’s people. Her lips, neither too full nor too thin, grace her face in harmony with the gentle roundness of her cheeks, while my own features remain hollowed by the fire that once consumed me from the inside out. By her very stillness I know she has detected some trace of my spell, the ties of blood and kinship that I have used to seek her out through the shields that surround her.

Let it go, Hitomi, Stormwind says gently.

I release the tenuous thread of my casting with unexpected relief. I have attempted this spell half a dozen times now, but not once have I taken it to completion. I could have done it today had I not paused to observe her. The bitterness on my tongue has the singular taste of cowardice to it.

My mother’s image breaks apart, replaced by the faint reflection of trees overhead. I watch the water’s movement over the multi-hued stones covering the lake bottom. In the early morning light, they’re every color of the earth: the burnished yellow of evening sunlight, a dreamlike lavender, grays dark as storm clouds and light as hope, reds both as bright as blood and as dark as death. The colors of life lie beneath the water, calling to me as if I might reach out and recover the memories I lost in ash nearly a year ago.

These things take time, Stormwind says into the quiet.

I started the spell with enough time to speak with her. I should have gone through with it.

You did not know anyone was coming. She glances down to the water, her eyes more gray than blue in the tree-thrown shadows. And when you seek truth, you must be ready for it.

You don’t think I am.

You must be ready to understand, and accept, whatever you find.

I make no answer. I don’t know what to say, how I would accept it if my mother truly intended to abandon me all those years ago.

Stormwind rises, readjusting her cloak against an autumn chill I don’t feel. On the far shore the deep green of the pines and cedars are interrupted here and there by the fiery orange and red mantles still worn by the other trees. When I first came here, Stormwind admitted she had studied together with my father, which should mean many more years of health and strength for her. But she lost a part of her youth to a breather. Her silver-white hair, the deep creases around her eyes and mouth, the way the cold touches her, all these bespeak an age she should not yet feel.

Let’s see what we can of our visitor, she says. With a sweep of her hand, the surface of the lake stills. The water before us now reflects the forested path near the great deodar cedar that stands as our farthest ward.

Closer, she murmurs, beckoning the image. The path reels out as if we were looking over our shoulders while riding at speed toward the valley. The cedar recedes, then disappears behind a curve.

There, she says as a dark shadow obstructs the image. She raises her fingers and the image slows. But the shadow at its center persists, murky and unclear. For a long moment, Stormwind remains still. The shadow moves along the trail, growing larger in our view, but no clearer. Then she releases the image, her hand falling to her side. The waters of the lake ripple, lapping at the banks once more.

They’ve used a shield, Stormwind says. Without breaking the shield, we can’t know who comes, or how large their party.

We know there’s a mage involved.

That we do, she agrees. Which means we know we need to hide you. Come. She starts along the path toward the cottage.

I follow after her. Are you sure it’s safe to meet them? I mean, why would they shield themselves?

Two reasons, she says, her voice sliding into the detached tone she uses when teaching. To protect against attack and to keep from being traced.

We found them easily enough.

Because we looked at the path, not them. Had we known who they were and attempted to trace them, we would have had a hard time finding them without a focus for our trace.

Like a hair, or a well-worn bit of cloth.

But I don’t like the idea of an unknown mage coming to Stormwind’s valley. She rarely has visitors. When she does, they are locals seeking cures. Never mages. Are you sure you want to wait here for them?

Stormwind smiles, shaking her head as if my question is sweet, endearing, and very naive. I’m not running. First, a mage would easily trace us using any one of a number of items from the cottage. Second, if they are coming for me, I would not lead them to you. And third, I am a high mage in my own right. I have done no wrong and can easily defend myself. The only thing I need to hide is you.

You’re sending me away. It isn’t a question, but a flat-voiced statement.

No. There isn’t enough time for that.

I glance up at the high ridge that divides our valley from the next. The only passable path to our cottage cuts through it. On horseback, moving at a brisk walk, a traveler might easily cover the distance from the deodar cedar to the ridge in an hour and a half. It would take us half that time to get to the path ourselves on foot. But our tracks would be fresh and, anyhow, Stormwind isn’t running … and I’m not leaving without her.

Take the books up to the loft and pack them back into the trunk, Stormwind says as we reach the cottage. The single open room serves as kitchen, workroom, sitting room and bedroom, while the small loft above provides a cozy space for my own pallet.

I make a round of the room, gathering the books I’ve been studying under Stormwind’s tutelage along with the charms I’m working on. Stormwind checks the charms we keep about the house, her fingers passing over them, gauging if they are hers or mine: the stone beside the hearth, used to keep the bread from burning; the glowstones in a pile over the mantle, for when we need light without the heat or flicker of flames; the seeker charm by the door, to help find wandering goats.

I climb the ladder to stow what I’ve collected in one of the trunks against the back wall of the loft. Stormwind joins me as I finish tucking the books in, adding the bag of charms I made to the trunk.

She shuts the lid and places her hand on top. We’ll ward it and bind it.

She really is worried. I kneel beside her wordlessly. She presses my palm against the trunk’s lid and quickly traces a series of sigils on the wood with her other hand. They glimmer and send out tendrils of magic that trace the shape of my palm, flare around her fingertips, and then fade. With the trunk bound so, only Stormwind or I will be able to open it.

She rises and takes a quick inventory of the little room. There’s a small collection of bags and boxes lining the wall beside the trunks. To my right lies my pallet with its nest of blankets. A small wooden statuette of a crow stands on a brick-sized stone beside my bed, its head bent, beak pressing a key to its breast. She focuses on it for a moment, then looks away.

That’s all, right? I say, keeping my tone casual. I have no cause to hide the crow. Only she knows that it was carved by a breather, not a human. Right now, the sight of Val’s parting gift is oddly comforting.

She nods, moving back toward the ladder. Everything else should be fine. She pauses with her feet on the first rung. Hitomi? You remember that you’re to act as my servant?

I remember. We’ve discussed this a few times, and I’ve played the part of serving girl during the few visits from locals we’ve had. It provides a simple explanation for all the rest of my belongings. I am Hikaru, girl of all work, loyal unto death.

Stormwind huffs in amusement. Don’t overdo it. Since we don’t know what this is about, I want you to stay outside as much as possible today.

I hesitate. I could offer to collect deadwood from the forest — we need to stockpile more for the winter — but I want to stay close to the cottage just in case.

I’ll keep working on the roof, I say. It’s perfect, really. We’ve spent the last two afternoons on the roof together, Stormwind teaching me what I need to know. I can easily work on my own. Best of all, I can keep an eye on our visitors. And I’ll be near enough to help Stormwind if she should need me.

It will keep me close but out of sight, I press when she doesn’t answer.

Very well.

Her easy agreement worries me further. As a mage, she could easily call for a far-off servant to return. Without charms to anchor it, magic may not reliably deliver messages across mountain ranges, but a summons sent across a valley would hardly go astray. Only if she fears she won’t have the time or the leeway to do so would she need me nearby.

The last ward triggers as I tack down a new shingle, the hammer missing the nail as my skin prickles, an electric tingling raising the hairs at the back of my neck. This ward is silent, subtle, bound just to Stormwind and me, small enough that a visitor shouldn’t notice it. I rub a hand over my neck, my eyes traveling up the path to the high pass.

Soon our unknown visitors will enter the valley, their progress masked by the forest. It will take a little while yet for them to reach the cottage. I pound down the waiting nail and then check the next few shingles for cracks. They’re mostly in good condition, whole and still firmly attached. This past winter brought deep snows, but with just a few summer storms to cause damage, the roof has held up well since Val repaired it.

Perched on a roof, dreading the arrival of a mage, is probably not the best time to reminisce about a breather, but I have so few comforting memories. When Val brought me here, he was the only friend I had, the only memory aside from the fire that took my previous life. I didn’t fear him as most would, didn’t fear his ability to control those who meet his gaze, to take the life of those around him with a single inhalation. I assumed that, no matter his words, he would not use these talents against me.

As I peel off a broken shingle and check the wood underneath, I recall Val’s hands at work, his voice warning me not to trust him, the faintest of butterfly touches on my wrist as he explained how, truly, I should fear him. Now, with distance and time between us, I wonder whether I was more foolish to be hurt by his words or to keep pushing my company upon him. He knows himself better than I ever will. If he believed himself a danger to me, shouldn’t I have trusted that? Or was he merely trying to escape the thorns we had stumbled into, mage and breather becoming allies in a world where no such thing could exist?

Even now, nearly a year since his departure, I find that I trust him, trust the kindness with which he treated me, trust the wisdom and care he showed in nursing me back to health and delivering me here, to this valley, to study with Stormwind. As she said all that time ago: A breather does not help a Promise become a mage. And yet he had. It was dangerous ground.

I sigh, running my fingers over the weathered wood before me. There are no answers here, and Val is long gone, hidden away in the Amara Mountains with the breather prince he serves. According to my geography lessons, he is months away by horseback. I doubt I shall ever meet him again.

I look up at the faint thud of hooves against the packed dirt of the path. A man wearing a flowing desert robe the warm brown of rich earth rides at a quick trot down the path from the pass, followed be a second, riderless horse on a long lead.

I squint against the sunlight, studying the rider. He’s tall and slim, his tan complexion strikingly similar to my own, though his features are sharp, hawklike. His robe falls open in front in the tradition of many desert folk. Beneath it, he wears a long-sleeved tunic and loose cream-colored trousers tucked into riding boots. A faint line of geometric embroidery circles the collar and outlines the two buttons on the front, markedly different from the attire of the local men and women I have seen this last year.

Strapped over his tunic, he wears a belt with a curved sword and a dagger as well as a small crossbow. Here in the mountains, there is no need for either blade. The crossbow might be useful against a larger predator, but even those are few and far between. He is not just any mage, then, but one trained as a warrior.

I continue to check the shingles, keeping one eye on him. Stormwind steps into sight, calling a greeting as she walks to meet him. He dismounts with alacrity, the faint reverberations of his voice — deep and not unfriendly — barely audible. They clasp hands, and then Stormwind gestures to the cottage. As she turns, I see the smile that tugs at her lips.

Friends, then. But who is he? And why would he bring a second horse?

I watch them converse as they lead the horses around back. Stormwind seems as unruffled as always. The mage’s gait is long and easy, but when a bird takes flight from the long grasses growing near the trees, his head whips toward it. I can’t tell if he is especially on guard, or if warrior mages never really let their guard down.

They close the horses in the goat pen, empty for the moment while our goats are out grazing. Stormwind untacks the chestnut while the mage tends to his own horse. They pile the tack outside the fence and head for the cottage door.

I perch sideways on the roof, digging out a bit of black rot and trying not to look as clumsy as I feel. This way, I can track them from the corner of my eye.

They continue to chat as they walk, and while I cannot make out the words, I can hear the rhythm and tone of their voices: familiar, pleasant, as if they are catching up with an old but dear acquaintance. The sound of it eases some of my fears.

As they’re about to pass from sight, the mage glances my way, eyes hard and measuring. I remain still, neither moving to break his gaze nor allowing my expression to shift until he steps into the cottage.

Once the door latches behind them, I ease back on my heels, letting out my breath slowly. Of course he would assess me. He’s a warrior mage, used to evaluating situations before he walks into them. And as a half-trained Promise — albeit better skilled than I was a year ago — I am still unsworn to the High Council and would easily meet his definition of a rogue.

Perhaps I should have suggested Stormwind send me off to collect deadwood after all.

No.

I glare at the empty spot before me, then slap a new shingle in place and hammer it down with unaccustomed force. I’m not going to let fear drive me. And, like Stormwind, I’m not going to run.

Chapter 2

An Unexpected Summons

There’s something powerful about being high up on a roof, a great shimmering expanse of lake off to the side, forested mountains rising to frame the wide blue swath of sky. With each swing of the hammer, each nail driven home to hold a shingle in place, I feel my blood thrum through my veins. Despite the lake breeze that cools me, my tunic sticks to my back, the taste of salt on my lips. Even as my arms tire, each swing of the hammer weighing heavier, I don’t want to stop. It’s a temporary magic, if you can call it magic at all.

The cottage remains quiet as the sun continues to creep toward noon. I descend from the roof once to refill my flask from the bucket Stormwind left. I can detect the faint murmur of voices, but with the door closed, I cannot catch the words themselves, nor can I hear any better crouched beneath the shuttered windows. It isn’t until just past noon, my rooftop magic grown threadbare and the muscles of my arms aching, that Stormwind comes outside.

Hikaru! She steps around the corner carrying a bowl of stew.

I clamber down, hammer in hand. Stormwind tips her head toward the cottage, her brow furrowed and her pale eyes steely. How goes the roof?

Not too bad. I ladle water from the bucket to rinse my hands. Is the mage listening, or is she simply warning me to exercise caution? What about your visitor?

He is High Mage Harith Stonefall.

I raise my brows in question.

He’s one of the High Council’s best rogue hunters.

"You’re a rogue?" I can’t keep the disbelief from my voice. It seems about as likely as her spontaneously breaking into song and dancing across the surface of the lake.

The Council sent him because they expected I would be hard to find. They did not wish to waste their time looking.

I stand still, water dripping from my fingertips. To my knowledge, Stormwind has had nothing to do with the Council since I arrived here. What does the High Council want from you?

Stonefall brought a summons. I must go back with him at once. The words are as abrupt and sharp as the crack of lake ice in the night. I experience a plummeting moment of nausea. Then I take the bowl from her and sit down cross-legged with it. A summons could mean anything. It’s what she hasn’t said, the things her expression won’t let slip, that worry me.

What do they want? I repeat softly.

She stares down at the dirt by our feet. I’ve been charged.

With?

She raises her gaze to me. The hollowness of her eyes has a familiarity that reaches back into the ashes of my past. It is a look that has no place in this quiet valley. Treason.

The word hits me low in the gut. Treason. The same charges levied against the Degaths a lifetime ago in Karolene. Tell me, I demand, all pretenses of eating forgotten.

She counts the accusations on her fingers. Conspiracy to overthrow the High Council, conspiracy to assassinate First Mage Talon, perjury under oath, failure to renew my oaths of allegiance, and developing alliances with creatures inimical to the High Council.

Creatures— I stumble, wondering if someone somehow learned of Val. Then her other words catch up with me. "Assassinate?"

She looks suddenly old, weary. Yes. The charges were brought forward by Arch Mage Blackflame. It seems he has won a great deal of support on the High Council.

Blackflame? But you’ve had nothing to do with him this past year. What does he know about you?

My past.

I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate. I’ve known since I arrived that Stormwind has some history with Blackflame, but I never learned what. She offered me shelter, and it seemed unnecessary to pry into a past she put behind her. Whatever it is, it has come back for her now.

They’re all false, I say into the smothering quiet. The accusations.

They are either false or greatly exaggerated.

She glances to the side, her gaze following the wall of the cottage. Nothing we’ve said should stand out to Stonefall as strange, other than perhaps Stormwind treating me more like a friend than a servant. And there are still things I need to know, especially if I don’t manage to speak with her alone again.

Blackflame’s not on the Council, is he? I ask, even though Stormwind would have told me of any changes.

No, he’s still one of the eleven assigned to serve the Kingdoms.

Karolene?

Yes.

I nod. The High Council is composed of eleven arch mages, all elected to govern the use of magic in the Eleven Kingdoms. In addition to them there are eleven more arch mages, each appointed by the Council to serve a Kingdom, assuring the regulation of magic there and seeing to the welfare of the people. Without a seat on the Council, Blackflame’s power should still be somewhat limited.

Do you have any allies on the Council?

Stormwind squats beside me, pitching her voice low. Yes. Talon, for one. She serves as first mage on the Council now. As a high mage, Stonefall has no vote on Council proceedings, but he’ll support me as well.

As far as I can tell, without a vote on the Council, Stonefall is irrelevant. Talon’s position as first mage means she presides over Council proceedings and casts a vote only when the other ten arch mages reach a deadlock. Which might be very helpful in Stormwind’s case.

Will Talon help you, even though one of the charges involves her? If Talon believes there’s even a grain of truth in the charge of assassination, there’s no reason for her to side with Stormwind. It’s a brilliant ploy by Blackflame, cutting off Stormwind’s most powerful support with so direct an allegation.

Yes. She sent Stonefall with a private message for me. I’ll meet with her on my arrival to plan my defense.

That’s something, then. How long will the trial run?

A week or two, I expect.

Will you be free to come and go till then?

No. I’ll be held in custody. Stormwind smiles grimly. Stonefall won’t say as much, but he cannot allow me to choose any option but to go with him.

But … I pause, remembering the greeting I had witnessed, the very fact that he has let her out of his sight. You’re friends?

Yes.

And he’s still taking you to be tried on false charges?

He’s a man of honor. He will not break his allegiance when no wrong has yet been done. She sighs. But you’re right. If Blackflame’s reach is strong enough, he may prevail regardless of whether his allegations hold any truth.

There’s the crux of it. The one thing I wish I knew. How does he know you?

Stormwind stiffens. It’s the slightest of changes, her expression going from serious to set, her chin tilting up a degree or two, but I see it. We … have a history. She glances toward the cottage. Come in and help me pack when you’re done.

I’m done. I stand up so fast I nearly slop the stew out of its bowl.

Stormwind glances at the bowl and nods. Then come.

I follow her through the back door, the room dark to my eyes. I set the bowl of stew on the counter and wait for my sight to adjust.

Stonefall leans against the table. He is a tall man, taller even than I assumed when I saw him seated on his horse. The fall of his robes around him bespeaks a desert elegance, austere yet beautiful. He must be in his late thirties, his beard and mustache carefully trimmed and showing no sign of silver or white. Dark hair curls at his temples.

Master Stonefall, Stormwind says, her voice neutral. Allow me to introduce my servant, Hikaru.

I incline my head.

"Peace be upon you." Stonefall’s voice is deep, resonating.

"And upon you, peace." I meet his hawk-eyed gaze as a rabbit might, wide-eyed and still. He had not greeted me in the trade language of Karolene, which Stormwind used to introduce us, but in his own language. And I answered him in the same, a language I have not spoken a word of this past year: the language my father once spoke.

Stormwind clears her throat. Let’s get started. Come help me with the herbs, Hikaru.

I join her at the herb cabinet with its store of powders and prepared salves, medicinals for everything from severe burns to upset stomachs to insect bites.

What shall I take?

She’s still teaching me, even here in front of a mage, because however many times I may have set off on a journey before, I remember nothing of it now. Herbs for illness, I hazard, aware of Stonefall’s silent attention to our words.

There’ll be an infirmary there.

My lips twitch. Salves for wounds and burns, then, in case anything goes wrong on the journey.

Which ones?

I rattle off a list. She agrees and leaves me to gather them together while she sorts through the charms she intends to take. I select the smallest of the empty jars from the back of the cabinet and quickly portion out the most vital ointments, not bothering with labels. Stormwind can easily differentiate them by scent. After hours of being required to sniff and sort both salves and herbs, I’ve developed a moderate proficiency in the skill myself.

Done? Stormwind asks as I close the cabinet door. She sets down her collection of charms beside the jars: a firestarter, a seeker to help locate objects, a couple of glowstones. Nothing for protection.

I nod, trying not to show my worry before Stonefall. I wish he would leave, go for a walk or check on his horses or something. I hate the steadiness of his gaze, the way he watches me utterly unfazed, even when I glance toward him. He shouldn’t be so interested in me. He should have no reason to study Stormwind’s help so carefully. And with his continuous attention, I can’t even murmur a question unobserved.

Stormwind flicks a glance at Stonefall, a quick birdlike assessment. I’d like to make a set of ward stones to take with me. Would you fetch a handful of stones from the lake?

I try not to let my relief show; at least she’s planning to take something useful with her. Of course, mistress.

About this big, she says, holding up her fingers to show me: no bigger than a walnut without its shell. Not that I needed to see. This is for Stonefall, so he doesn’t suspect I know more of magic than a servant ought to.

Yes, mistress.

I hurry down to the edge of the water and select a dozen brightly colored small stones. I make a pouch of the bottom of my tunic to carry the stones back to the cottage and walk quickly up the path. But at the sound of voices through the open door, I slow, unsure if I should interrupt. It takes me a moment to realize they are discussing me.

—a child of the desert, Stonefall says, his tone cold.

Neither would I, Stormwind replies evenly. She was brought to me still weak from an illness that broke her health and took her memory. You surprised her, earlier, greeting her in a language she didn’t realize she knew.

She remembered Tradespeak before her own tongue? Stonefall says, calling the language of Karolene by its most widely used name. His voice has regained its rich timbre, bringing with it a sense of warmth. Was he actually upset at the idea of Stormwind keeping me as a servant?

She is clearly not only of the desert. Perhaps Tradespeak is her mother tongue.

Perhaps. How long has she been with you?

Almost a year now. And no, she has not recovered much of her memory as yet, though I guide her through meditations and do what I can to help her.

You could bring her with you. The healer-mages at Mekteb-i Sihir might be able to help her, Stonefall suggests. I recognize the name — it’s the school for sorcery where the Council has taken up residence for the year.

No, Stormwind says, a little too abruptly. I will take no one with me. She is not ready for such a journey and — a tight pause — I would not want Blackflame to take note of her.

Because he would. Because of you.

Yes.

You’re sure she’ll be safe here? And your cottage with her?

I have no concerns for the house. As for her safety, this is the safest place I can grant her.

Perhaps she should return to the desert, seek out her family.

I stand rooted to the ground, staring at the shadowed doorway. My family? What family would I have in the desert, with my father dead?

I will mention it to her.

I look at the stones I carry. Stormwind is waiting for them and will soon begin to wonder where I am. I make myself take a step, then another, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.

Inside, Stonefall still sits at the table. Stormwind stands at the counter with her daypack. She has already packed the herbs and charms we had set out and a change of clothes. She takes the stones from me without a word, pouring them into a pouch and sliding them into the pack. Let’s go up to the loft. I’ll need some additional clothes.

I follow her, aware of Stonefall turning his head to watch us climb. There, Stormwind deftly retrieves a pair of mirrors from the first trunk. The frames are forged of the same metal, framing glass ovals formed from the same source and enchanted by the mage whose hand made them. The mirrors allow their users to communicate with each other, no matter the distance between them. Stormwind taught me to use them early this spring. We spent a week or two with them before she packed them away.

I’ll contact you, she promises me, handing me one. She slips the other into her pack. Keep it near.

I glance toward the open trapdoor, but Stormwind seems unworried. No doubt Stonefall would expect her to leave some form of communication with me.

What of the wards? I ask. There are layered enchantments over the valley, spells that she created to keep herself safe from prying eyes before I ever came here.

A flicker of Stormwind’s familiar dry humor lights her eyes. I set them. I don’t think I’ll have a problem reaching you through them.

I hide the mirror behind my pallet. She planned amazingly well. Had she foreseen such a summons even then? Or was it merely the pragmatic approach of a woman who had seen the world and left it?

There is no way to ask her now, with Stonefall listening intently from the room below. Stormwind selects two of her finer dresses and adds them to her pack, then digs deeper and draws out a ceremonial open-fronted silk robe. It is indigo embroidered heavily in silver with a scattering of pearls, far more elegant than the daily-wear robes stored at the top of the trunk. She shakes it out, pulls it on, and looks at me. The silver thread accents her bone-white hair, the deep bluish-purple silk offsetting her pale skin, flowing down to lap at the floorboards between us.

You look … like a mage, I say. The robe transforms her from the reclusive woman with whom I have spent these past months to one who commands both power and respect in the world.

I should hope so, she says dryly.

I hear Stonefall chuckle below us, and keep the rest of my thoughts to myself.

Within half an hour, Stormwind has nearly completed her preparations. In the main room, I gather provisions for their journey: three small loaves of bread, a block of goat cheese wrapped in cloth, dried fruits and nuts, and a packet of dried meat we had put by for winter.

I’ll ready the horses, Stonefall says. With a slight nod toward us, he rises and departs. I carry the food to the vacated table and add it to Stormwind’s pack as she watches. When I look up, there is regret and sorrow and something else in her eyes that I do not quite recognize.

Hikaru, she says slowly.

The lie of the name hangs in the air between us. I am only now beginning to appreciate how many secrets this valley shelters.

You are welcome to stay here, but, she pauses, as if the words are hard to form, to pull together. Stonefall believes you will have a welcome from the desert people. The desert tribes keep track of their own. They will know who you are and take you in. Especially, with a significant glance to the door, if you can recall a part of your father’s name.

I meet her gaze steadily. I’m waiting here for you.

Stormwind turns to collect her cloak from its peg by the door. Think on it, then. If you decide to leave, remember to take the mirror with you.

I’m not leaving. Does she think I would abandon her? That what she has done for me carries no weight at all?

Whatever you choose, she says gently, stay or leave, keep the mirror by you.

This isn’t the time to argue. Of course, I say. I lift her pack and hold it out to her. Is there anything you’ve forgotten?

Not that I can think of.

She’s wrong. A charm to keep you safe.

She looks at me strangely, as if I speak of an impossible thing.

I have the stones you collected. I’ll fashion them into wards when we stop to rest.

But in my fractured memories, I know Blackflame. I know that if he fails to convict Stormwind, a circle of ward stones will hardly protect her. You still need something more. Something to hide you. Like shadows. My voice cracks over the last word, the memories it holds.

She glances toward the door. Stonefall will be ready momentarily.

Promise me you’ll make something before you reach Fidanya.

For a long moment she hesitates. I wonder what she sees, what part of me and my broken past she has focused on. Then she nods. I promise. Farewell, Hikaru.

Farewell, I say, the word rough in my throat.

She makes no move to leave, but stands before me, pale hair pulled back in a severe bun, lined face creased with worry, arms slack at her sides. I wonder when she last bid goodbye to someone like this. I wonder if she ever saw that person again.

It’ll be all right, I tell her, and because it sounds like a lie — an empty phrase that holds no truth because it holds no knowledge of the future — I wrap my arms around