Chapter Two

  “I’ve done a terrible thing.” His voice was a mere whisper, caught on the wind, quickly drifting away. “A terrible, terrible thing.” Slightly hoarse from the lack of water found in the burnt woods he traveled. “But it was the only thing to do.” Cold, wet fingers clutched the edges of his cloak, pulling it tight. “The only thing I could do.” Charred remnants of leaves crackled beneath his boots.

  His memories, two moons old, were vivid still. The violent thunder of stone breaking away, descending in a great heap to the ocean. The water exploding beneath. Every particle of his body feeling on fire, alight with magic. The screaming that echoed his memories could have been from anyone, from him, but not from Erethendi. His sweet, determined Erethendi. She had been lying motionless on a cold stone slab. His recollection of her blurred with the golden glow of the candles surrounding her, reflecting off the glassware and tubing, stained red. Her blood, or someone else’s.

  Mavoux stopped, gasping. He could feel the source of his magic roiling like a turbulent sea within him. Focus, he chastised himself. Keep your mind. After he passed Fidal, he almost felt safe, with no further sign of pursuit. Now he had too much time to reflect, the solitude gnawing away at the remains of his resolve.

  “She was gone before I did what I had to do,” he told himself, and felt his inner turmoil slowly ebb away.

  He ran his cold hands over his face, and into his hair now cut disdainfully short. His long, ebony hair had been a source of pride for him. Now it fell into his eyes and tickled the tips of his ears. The clothing he wore was ragged and smelled of dirt from his sleeping rough and many days spent fighting the woods, keeping near the roads but off them lest he would draw attention. Though how anyone could recognize him in this state, he couldn’t fathom.

  As the sun settled into its highest point in the sky, the charred remains of the trees began casting thick, dark shadows. All was eerily still. There were no critters in the undergrowth or bird calls. His own breathing sounded suspiciously loud. He glanced around him before continuing, more haste to his step.

  The air began to taste acrid. Is the fire still burning? He tried to breathe deeply to calm his raising panic. He could feel the heat from the fire formists when they gave chase, shortly after he’d been discovered as the culprit who destroyed an entire wing of the Arcanum. They would have burned him alive before hearing why he’d done it, before giving him a chance to explain. In the distance, black clouds churned.

  He clenched his jaw and turned abruptly toward the road. Meridem was a short distance along the southern road and he felt it was time he stopped living like a vagabond and try to blend in among some people before he went mad.

  _____

  Mavoux entered The Tilted Table at the same time a man was exiting. The man intentionally shouldered Mavoux as he passed, giggling with his friend.

  “Watch it, puddlejumper,” he grumbled and the two of them broke out into another laugh as they clumsily descended the stairs. Mavoux watched as they staggered further down the road into the dwindling sun, jostling against each other. With a stab of loneliness, he found his way to an empty table in what appeared to be the quieter side of the tavern. Absently, he traced along the embroidery on the sleeve of his shaffa. It was a light blue fabric with a dizzying number of spirals in various shades of blue from collar to the hem that ended mid-calf. It had four split sections that allowed his legs to move freely and he smartly paired the garish shaffa with dark grey pants and sash. His under-robe was white which he thought complimented the outfit very well and toned it down to a more respectable level, all things considered, but it was still too flamboyant for his tastes. By Rehlune’s Foot, it’s nice to be clean again.

  His eyes fell on the wanted posters across the room. The fact that he’d even had to inhabit a place like this that had such a wall made him morose. At the edge of the messily hung posters he found one that looked significantly less faded than the others. In large print it read: ‘WANTED: MAVOUX MODEUS’ and contained a rough sketch of him in his resplendent star-embellished black shaffa. His long hair appeared to wave behind him like a righteous banner. In smaller print it said, ‘Of Magic. Preferred Alive.’ Fortunately, he couldn’t see himself in the sketch, and relaxed now that he looked even less like himself. He remembered to slouch as the serving boy approached. Beginner students always had terrible posture.

  Mavoux was two mugs of ale deep when he saw another man enter the tavern. He wore a dark green cloak of rich fabric that gave Mavoux a pang of envy as his eyes followed the man to a table across from him. The first thing Mavoux noticed was the boyish grin plastered across his face. Then he took in his bright green eyes gleaming in the lantern light. As he removed his hood Mavoux gasped with dismay. His dark brown hair was cut precisely like his own.

  What was even more disconcerting was the shimmering gold orb that floated down to the tabletop. Mavoux’s skin prickled as he realized what he was seeing. The bright aura swam across his vision and he had to blink away the tears that was distorting the light further. A nyxa.

  A golden nyxa. He felt his mouth go dry. Of Astarothos blood. Female nyxa of Astarothos blood had gold auras until they used their one Wish. A Wish was divined from a preposterous amount of astral magic. Aside from charming small creatures and the healing properties of their blood, it was the only true magic they had. A Wish, Mavoux considered, could be the one thing that could neatly resolve all his problems.

  His ears pricked. He heard chairs scraping against the wood floor and remembered they weren’t alone. The man was a fool for bringing her here, where anyone could see her. Those hulking, drunk men didn’t know her value outside of her blood. They could very easily ruin everything. Mavoux was up from his seat and before he could consider his actions, he found himself sprawled across the newcomer’s table, his hand squishing the nyxa down.

  “Are you out of your mind bringing this here?” Mavoux asked through gritted teeth, keeping his voice low.

  “Hey!” The other man yelled. “What’s wrong with you? Let her go!” He peeled Mavoux’s hand back with his unnegotiable superior strength.

  “Keep quiet!” Mavoux hissed. But it was too late. All four of the ruffians from the table over were already on their feet, all eyes honed in on the nyxa. Mavoux paled. “We have to go,” he whispered, snatching the nyxa and running out of the door. The other man was stunned for only a moment and he easily caught up to Mavoux behind the tavern. Mavoux was tackled to the ground by the newcomer and as he tried to squirm away, he caught a glimpse of the four other men looking around before their collective gazes spotted them.

  “Milkers!” Mavoux cried.

  The man was off him in an instant, sword drawn. All four of the ruffians rushed him at the same time. Mavoux watched, spellbound, as the man single-handedly dispatched each of them, too fast, and with no apparent use of magic that he could find. With the flat side of his sword, he knocked the first two down with a single bat. The second one had tried to jump the blade and fell awkwardly on his ankle, bellowing out in pain. The newcomer leapt behind the third and knocked him on the back of his head with the pommel. The fourth one hesitated. Too long. The newcomer had appeared from nowhere and jumped on his back, wrapping his arm tightly around the thug’s neck and squeezing. His dirty fingers clawed at the arm but he didn’t relent until the man passed out. The first two were still struggling to their feet when the newcomer jumped in the air and kicked one square in the face, breaking the nose with a crunch. When he landed, he swung his other leg at the last one. His head hit a stone as he fell. Mavoux winced.

  All the boyish innocence disappeared as the man now faced him, the tip of his sword a hairsbreadth away from his throat. His previously jovial green eyes were as sharp as the blade he held. Mavoux could see the muscle in his cheek flinch as he set his jaw. The sword had a white gleam on the silver surface, catching in the last rays of sunlight. Wethian Steel.

  “Release her.” The demand made Mavoux’s mouth go dry. He opened both of his hands and held them up. The nyxa zipped over to the man, hiding behind his neck. That’s curious, Mavoux thought. He’d never seen a nyxa and human in a symbiotic relationship before.

  “I was just trying to help,” Mavoux stammered. “You can’t bring her kind into a tavern like that.” The sword lowered. Suddenly, the cold glare was gone.

  “Isn’t that a bit of an antiquated mindset?” The man asked, turning to grab some rope that was lying beside empty barrels stacked behind the tavern. He began to bind all the ruffians’ hands together until they were trussed together like large sausages. Mavoux blinked back, incredulous.

  “Those men would have snapped her in half in an instant and milked her dry,” Mavoux retorted. The man’s mouth went slack as he realized.

  “Milkers,” he whispered, horrified.

  “Especially one of royal blood,” Mavoux said. The man looked dazedly at the nyxa. Even more curious. “You didn’t know?” The man shrugged his shoulders and smiled apologetically.

  “I knew she had a prominent family, but we’ve only been travelling together a few days. She sleeps most of the time so there hasn’t been a chance to really – “

  Mavoux tuned him out. This man was immensely skilled in swordplay, though utterly clueless in worldly matters. Or is it a ploy? He could be acting ignorant. But why? Either this man knew nothing of the power at his fingertips or he had an extravagant plan to make use of it. Regardless, Mavoux needed to intertwine himself with these two. If he couldn’t take the nyxa, he would at the very least, be less conspicuous than he currently was, wandering alone.

  “Listen. We may have started on the wrong foot,” Mavoux started. He thought he was interrupting him but when his eyes focused the man was rummaging through one of the unconscious thugs’ pockets until he found a coin pouch. “What are you doing?”

  “I doubt any of these men paid for their drinks,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed at Mavoux. “Did you pay for yours?”

  They returned to pay Mavoux’s and the four men’s tabs and the barkeep couldn’t contain his surprise. He applauded the man for being an upstanding citizen and thanked him tremendously, then began a long-winded story about how he wished the clientele at his tavern reflected the kind that went to Hearthstone, but the brutes weren’t welcome there and his was the only other bar in town. It was difficult to keep the rough sort out, him being in his middling years. The man had listened with rapt attention, eventually giving him advice in hiring someone for security. Then he told him about the four bound men behind the tavern and the barkeep sent a serving boy to fetch the guards. The plum-faced man insisted they stay and relax after what they’d been through and he gave them each a mug of ale.

  “Thank you for earlier,” the green-eyed man said once they were alone. He looked at him with earnest, his gaze unwavering. The nyxa poked her head out of his cloak and nodded.

  “Ah. It was nothing,” Mavoux responded, feeling awkward. He swirled the contents of the mug around, avoiding eye contact. He could feel the guilt start to constrict his chest.

  “I’m Callen. This is Wen,” he said, indicating to the nyxa.

  “Moren,” Mavoux lied. “You’re an interesting pair. How did you two come across each other?”

  “I found her next to a river a few days ago. Everyone she was travelling with had been killed.” Callen shuddered. “I should have asked what milkers were, and been more careful. Sorry, Wen.”  Wen disappeared back into his cloak and Callen took a sip of his ale. “This is the first time she’s been awake when we arrived somewhere.” He sighed. “Why do they do it? The milkers?”

  “Nyxa blood has extraordinary healing properties. You could be dealt a lethal wound and heal as though nothing had happened with a single drop,” Mavoux explained. “Is that why you didn’t kill them? You didn’t know?”

  Callen was startled. “Why would I kill them?” His tone was incredulous. “Their intent was malicious but they didn’t commit any crime.”

  “There are many types like those men around that would kill you at the first opportunity upon seeing her. You will need to be careful.” His finger traced along the lip of the mug. “Where are you headed?”

  “We’re making our way north of The Andorhals. I’m headed to Viridian Reach, and Wen to Boreal Fernglade, though we aren’t sure where that is exactly. We’re hoping to figure that out once we’re through the mountains,” Callen said, then perked up. “Do you happen to know where it’s located?”

  Mavoux’s body tensed with alertness. This was it.

  “Yes, I do!” he exclaimed. Callen’s excitement was palpable as he rummaged through his pack and pulled out a map. He moved their mugs and spread out the parchment over the uneven planks of the table. It was a beautifully crafted map of Sunuos. The calligraphy indicating all the major and minor settlements were artfully done. Land owning sigils were colored. The tracings to indicate mountains and forests were very neat. Even the border was intricate, it swirled with vines and various plants draped the corners. Small creatures were woven into the lattice of the long ends. Greenbriar was the largest icon on the map, with an outline of the great house and surrounding gardens and apiaries. The crest showed a bee hovering over a purple aster on an emerald field. Mavoux’s eyes snapped up to Callen’s cloak, to the right breast, where a bee and aster was expertly stitched. One of the golden sons of Greenbriar sat before him. Mavoux felt dizzy with giddiness. He could hardly believe his luck.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Could you show me?” Callen asked, smoothing the map out.

  Mavoux pointed his finger in a vague area over The Andorhals. “It’s a bit complex to explain the exact directions.” Mavoux was fighting the urge to smile. “But, wouldn’t you know, I’m also heading that way.” His eyes quickly scanned the map to find a settlement near Viridian Reach. “To Eredin. Why don’t we all go together?”

  Mavoux could read the hesitation and doubt easily on Callen’s face. Was I too forward?

  “Well,” Callen started but Mavoux held up his hands to stop him.

  “I know we just met. But honestly, I’m worried about traveling alone and after seeing you handle those thugs it would make me feel safe having a companion. Anthares and Cusp are in the midst of a brutal territory dispute.” His finger landed in the space between the two land holdings, just north of Escheli’s Pass, the only road through the Andorhals. “It’s dangerous for travelers. I’m not sure I could navigate that myself.” Mavoux wasn’t sure it was navigable even with a thousand men but he was also hoping he would have made off with the nyxa before they could even see the mountains. “I’ll pay my own way, of course,” he added. When Callen opened his mouth to protest, Mavoux interrupted again. “I’ll even pay you for your protection if you want.”

  Callen pursed his lips, considering. “Aren’t you a wizard? Why would you need me?” He asked.

  A wizard. “No,” Mavoux laughed, “I’m a novice water formist. I’ve just started my training and all I’m able to do is draw water from the ground. It’s not very useful when trying to protect yourself.” Mavoux gave a weak smile. “And people tend to look down on us since our initial skills aren’t as interesting as the other elements. I was even almost attacked tonight on my way in.” He saw the shift in Callen’s expression, empathy softening his features.

  “Shouldn’t you be at the school, then?” Callen asked.

  Both men’s eyes rested on the map where the Astrum Arcanum was depicted as a tiny castle on an island at the very top of the map, between Esthar and Sunuos, two of the three large land masses that made up Eldos. Mavoux felt a surge of emotions flood his chest.

  “There was an incident this past spring and they’ve uh,” Mavoux coughed, “closed for repairs.”

  Callen nodded. “I can’t find any reason why we shouldn’t. My uncle – “

  “Excellent!” Mavoux jumped to his feet. “Shall we leave first thing in the morning?”

  Startled, Callen also stood.

  “Do you have a horse?” He asked.

  “No,” Mavoux said, casting his gaze towards the proprietor. “But I can get one.”

  _____

  The horse Mavoux ended up with was a petulant, old chestnut mare. Her name was Miss Tiddleswot, which Mavoux immediately refused to ever call her. She couldn’t be persuaded to do more than a light trot for a short amount of time and seemed all too pleased every time they stopped for Callen to offer help to a passerby. Which was frequent. Three days into their journey together, and Mavoux was beginning to think he’d made a terrible mistake.

  It was a pleasantly warm morning. The road was well packed, all the vegetation surrounding held a dewy glow, the sky was cloudless and blue. Then there was Callen, squatting in the dirt helping an older couple with their wagon wheel as they stood back and watched with rapt appreciation. This was the fourth stop already this morning and Mavoux was getting impatient. The road was heavily trafficked being the first warm day after a series of bad weather, and the number of predicaments they’ve encountered made Mavoux wonder how these people ever managed to go about their lives without Callen. He’d already calmed a tumultuous ox that refused to pull a cart, helped mend a woman’s basket that spilled all its contents on the road, and patch a little girl’s skinned knee. They’d all given him some produce as compensation, aside from the little girl that gave him a rock he’d promise to cherish.

  As they continued on, the traffic dwindled completely and he felt his anxiety lessen. They were finally making progress. A light breeze jostled the nearby willows and the thick stalks of pampas grass into a pleasant “ssh” noise. He closed his eyes, bobbing in rhythm with the horses’ steps, savoring the quiet and the warmth of the sun on his face. He was tired of trying to hide his face from every passerby lest someone recognize him.

  “Oo-ah.” “Muuah.” “Mah.” “OooOa.” “Oma.” “Awoo.”

  A horde of grass dancers erupted from the grass patch and enveloped them. He heard a soft jingle of bells as Wen jolted out of Callen’s cloak and danced around the cooing creatures. Callen and Mavoux both swatted at them. They kept sticking to his arms and face. Miss Tiddleswot bucked as they landed on her, almost tossing Mavoux from the saddle. He heard Callen cursing and was surprised that he wasn’t gathering them all in a basket and tucking them in with a soft blanket.

  “These things are so annoying,” Callen complained. Mavoux watched as Wen appeared to be collecting some of them in Callen’s hood.

  “Oooo-A!” One exclaimed as it floated neared his face and he flicked it back towards the grass.

  “Wen, stop that,” Callen said, shaking out his hood. Wen chimed. “No, you can’t keep one.”

  Mavoux looked ahead and saw even more of them shooting out of the grass and into the road. They were erupting like the geysers in Shoshone Valley. He could hear the echoes of their coos reverberating against the trees, the crescendo rising as they ricocheted off of one another.

  “Maybe we should continue through the woods until they clear out?” Mavoux asked. Callen nodded and they both lead their horses towards the trees. There was significantly less of them in the woods, presumably since there was less space for them to float around without colliding into anything.

  The undergrowth was manageable for the horses, and Mavoux relaxed substantially as they moved through. There would be no people here. The sunlight dappled through the branches as it passed its vertex in the sky. The grass dancers’ song was less evasive. It became quieter as they progressed, only the crunch of debris beneath the horses’ hooves and the wind tousled branches made any noise. They walked single file in silence until they came upon a wide, sun-drenched clearing. It glowed warm and yellow against the dun and green of the woods. The grass was short-cropped, plush, and even. Little red flowers were sprinkled intermittently through the field. Small, bright blue mushrooms clustered along the shadowed outskirts. Plumes of fluff drifted slowly through from the large wispwood tree at the peripheral.

  It was a spot that Erethandi would have adored. He could imagine her near the wispwood tree, lounging languidly in the grass, lazily reaching to catch the plumes as they wafted by. The light would soak into her umber skin, illuminating it into an ethereal gem. The little red flowers would catch in the tight coils of her hair as he submitted to her beckoning and drowned in the gold pools of her eyes. He moved forward, reaching towards the visage as their bodies entangled.

  A cumulation of shouts dragged him from his reverie. He could smell metal and earth on the air that wafted past. Suddenly, they were clear of the woods and came upon a small hill-face with fresh rubble clogging the entrance to what appeared to be a mine. Filthy men clawed at the boulders. Several women were dragging buckets of smaller stones away.

  Callen led them over to the stable past the mine immediately inside of the gate of Solvern. There wasn’t anyone there, unsurprisingly, with how many people were running around in a frenzy. One might expect plumes of smoke from buildings on fire, or screams from some devastating, mythological beast with how much fear radiated off these people. Callen drifted off to find someone that would tell him what happened at the mine. Mavoux followed awkwardly behind, careful to not make eye contact with anyone.

  The town was shoddily built. The theme could easily be described as: brown. Each building was hewn from the same timber, with small carved windows. The streets were just packed dirt instead of cobbled. It was the most backwater place Mavoux had seen in Sunuos. The central square they passed had a poorly kept well in the center that a group of people were trying to hurriedly collect from. Callen approached them and asked what was happening.

  “Mines collapsed,” one man said, gasping for breath, his face covered in dirt. “People trapped.”

  “Which way?” Callen asked and then ran in the direction the man was pointing. Mavoux followed at a more leisurely pace. When they arrived at the mine, Callen stripped to the waist and began lugging large boulders from the entrance with several other men. Mavoux marveled at the dirt-streaked shoulders and the taut strength of his back as the sinews of his muscles flexed. Wen hovered by his face, also drawn to the sight. Mavoux gasped and quickly cupped his hands around her lest any of the townsfolk catch a glimpse.

  One of the old women supervising the effort drifted towards him. One of her eyes bulged out further than the other, and her back was stooped. Her face was pulled into a permanent frown from the skin sagging around her mouth. He suspected it would be more prominent if her hair wasn’t pulled into an impossibly tight, white bun. She moved slowly, but her rheumy eyes seemed to still hold some intelligence.

  “Excuse me,” Mavoux said. “We’ll be saying in town for the night. Where is the inn, and who do we need to see here to attain a room?” Their progress today was glacial, but Mavoux could tell Callen wasn’t going to abandon these people to continue to the next town.

  “Ah,” she crowed. “That’d be Yuma. It’s the second building from the stable. Can’t miss it.” She waved her walking stick towards another older woman holding the hand of a wailing toddler, preventing it from running to the great pile of rocks.

  “Excellent,” Mavoux said wistfully, thinking of some warm water to wash up. “Mistress Yuma!” He called as she walked over to her. “I will be taking your finest room. Is there someone available to draw me a bath? Or to warm some water?” Before she could respond, Callen had trotted up.

  “Moren? You aren’t going to stay and help?” Callen asked, surprised.

  “What could I possibly do to help?” Mavoux asked, eyebrows arched.

  “You one of them wizards?” The first old woman asked. Mavoux jumped and looked down at her near his elbow, where she hadn’t been a moment before. “You could move them rocks?”

  Mavoux held up his hands defensively. “I am a novice water formist. I can’t move rocks,” he said.

  “What good is bubble blowing?” She waved her hand dismissively at him and spat on the ground.

  “I’ll have you know,” Mavoux started, smoothing the fabric of his shaffa. “That master water formists are among the top tier of arcane possibility. They can change the tides. Casphiel wasn’t even the strongest water formist to live and he was able to reverse the flow of the river Lathe to save the soul of the woman he loved.”

  The woman scoffed. “The man was a fool.”

  Mavoux’s mouth hung open, aghast at her disrespect. “It’s the epitome of true love, that display of power, that kind of sacrifice.”

  “Sounds like other people are the ones that did the sacrificing, boy. Just so he could stick it where he shouldn’t.” Callen winced at the woman’s crass words. “You wizardly folk do more harm than good. My Fyder has kept food on the table and stuck four children in my belly without hurting nobody, alive or dead.” She nodded, as if that was irrefutable. “All those souls confused on where to go, just lost because of a selfish whim.”

  Mavoux’s mouth closed and opened like a fish. He looked to Callen for help but he just shrugged. “It does seem inconsiderate.”

  “Selfish,” the woman hissed.

  Mavoux squeezed his eyes shut to the thunderous roar of stones grinding against each other, breaking away. Selfish. The rubble falling the great distance into the boiling water. Her limp body following, too fast.

  “Could you get some water in to them?” Callen interjected, breaking Mavoux’s reverie.

  “Why would I want to help them after this sort of insult?” Mavoux turned his glare to Callen.

  “The Soulstar River flows one way for a reason,” The woman spat. “Just because your hands glow don’t mean you ought to change what’s natural.”

  “A moment before you asked if I could lift those rocks,” Mavoux countered. “Why, when it’s as nature intended for the mine to collapse?” Her large eye seemed grow larger as her anger increased. Callen stepped closer, between them.

  “Moren, please?” Callen’s eyes were pleading.

  “Fine,” he said with as much venom as he could muster. He hastily shoved Wen into the breast of his shaffa and trudged over to the entrance of the mine where boulders, rocks, and debris coalesced into one pile in front of the short cliff face. A few of the men still attempting to clear the rubble moved back. Mavoux moved to the side and placed a hand on the wall. He closed his eyes, searching. He could feel the tendrils of magic shoot quickly from the tips of his fingers into the earth, traveling down. The volatility of his anger leeched from him as he focused, fueling his magic. One probing branch found a vein of a familiar, volatile metal. His hand shot off as if burned.

  “What is it?” Callen asked, watching him curiously. Wen poked her head out and Callen poked her back in before the old women approached.

  “This is a solite mine,” Mavoux said flatly. It made sense that such an unstable metal would be mined in this rural town. No one would travel here and suspect anything of the sort. But a disturbing thought occurred and a cold weight materialized in his chest. Solite was the most regulated ore in the whole of Eldos. Fidal, the capital city of the midlands, would not sit idly with even one mine incapacitated. The man at the well said the townsfolk had been trapped all day. It would only be a matter of time before the Fidalian Inquisition showed up.

  “Yes, and?” The old woman asked.

  Hurriedly, Mavoux now placed both hands on the stone. He traced the filaments of his magic as it tracked through the rock, towards the vibrations of men talking. They were far down into the shaft. He moved his perception to the boulders at the mouth of the mine. The collapse was large and went deep. It would take months of human effort to remove the blockage. With or without water, these men would die. Solite was violently reactive to moisture. The men’s breath would be enough to set it off after a time.

  His magic snaked across the surface, trying to find a nook he could encourage to allow an opening. But each curve or dimple in the stone that he could encourage without fatality had a solite vein. Mavoux was shocked that the whole town hadn’t blown with how concentrated it was. If he were to displace any of the larger boulders, the men would be dead instantly. There was no way he could carve a path for them to get out safely. He thought about shifting the stones to facilitate their deaths. Surely, they would prefer that to the agonizing alternative of suffocation or hunger or thirst. It’s not your decision.

  “These men aren’t going to survive,” Mavoux whispered. “If I bring water to them, it will react to the solite.” The women looked at each other gravely. Yuma picked up the toddler and clutched him tight. Tears tumbled silently down her sunken cheeks. “I can get water to them, to ease their suffering. But you must be the ones to decide. There isn’t much time.”

  “If they’re to die, let it be with hope in their hearts,” Yuma said shakily. “Give them water, please.”

  Mavoux nodded. The filaments extended down, deeper until they encountered a reservoir of water. He felt the pressure behind his eyes as worsen as he coaxed it upwards towards the cavern where the men gathered. They weren’t talking anymore but their humanly vibrations still echoed through the stone. He found a natural basin in the cavern and separated his magic from the water, allowing it to fill. He could feel the triumphant cries reverberating through him. He refilled the basin as they men drank their fill, and left it full when they were done. Then he backed away from the wall dazed and suddenly exhausted.

  Callen caught him as he stumbled backwards and lifted one of his arms over his shoulder. He said something about taking him to the inn. Mavoux struggled.

  “You can’t tell them I was here,” he pleaded, fighting to be heard, struggling to stay conscious.

  “Tell who?” Callen asked.

  Mavoux couldn’t answer. His breathing was ragged, the darkness at the edge of his vision closed in too quickly. He felt suddenly weightless, and then nothing.