Where were the soldiers when the time came. Where were the countrymen, the Scriptors, and devotees?

  We needed their honor, yet found nothing,

  Nothing but the cold hearts of greedy men

  Who’d sooner sell their words than lift their swords.

  ~~The sacking of Arcalvira, Embassy to All.

  “Clever,” Lenora said softly as she leaned over to wash her face, her reflection dark where soot still lined her cheeks. A splash of water left droplets along the nape of her neck. “But can you cast your spell again?” Exhaustion had seeped into her voice as she’d fished a green ribbon out in her bag.

  “With time, yes.” Callam closed his eyes for a moment, the smell of river birch helping to calm his racing heart. He breathed it in. He needed to tell her how much he dreaded losing her, yet how was he to put into words his fear of being alone again? It was not something so easily spoken of. People came and went, and in his limited experience, left all the more quickly at any expressed vulnerability.

  “I—” he finally began… only to stumble at the effortless way her long, damp hair framed her shoulders. Nimble fingers braided the ribbon through chestnut locks.

  His mouth shut. Looking away, he settled his sights on the shape of the burnt-out willow. There was a beauty he could get lost in. Blackened and bare, the charred boughs lined a pond so lively its shallows lapped at his feet—a contrast so striking it could only be best appreciated in the wake of a brush with death. “Think the Roots carry recipes for Rote’s tonic?” he asked, then winced.

  Not my best redirection.

  If Lenora noticed, she pretended she hadn’t. Pulling her knees to her chest, she shook her head. “Won’t help much.”

  “How’s that?” He winced again. The answer was obvious. All good things carried a cost, and the difference between a balm and poison was measured in drams.

  No response came, so he glanced at her. Her gaze had turned inward at the question, and it was clear by the way she played with her braid that she was lost in thought. Eventually, she said, “Bodies get wise to it. Tonics are like tinsel, in that way.”

  When she offered up nothing more, he stayed quiet. Listening, he’d found, led others to speak.

  “There’s a rush you get,” she said at last, her knuckles white against her tunic.“It's hard… hard to explain. It's like you’ve caught a wishingstar and the world favors you—and you alone. It's like the wind’s got your back, and when you leap, or jump, you never quite land. And then… then you fall. Fall hard enough that all that’s left of you is a craving for more.” Lenora paused, the color returning to her hands as if she’d let go of a long-held secret. “We made the starters for it, Mom and I. Collected the amber and the sheraweed. Burnt down the tin. It's how we bought her freedom and paid off Father’s debt. We never stopped to think about what it did to others. Never cared….” Bitterness tinged her voice as she trailed off.

  It pained Callam to hear it. What he knew of tinseltasters wasn’t pretty, but… preparing those drugs couldn’t be her fault. Ruddites did as told.

  He wanted to tell her so.

  “Many speak poorly of Freedmen morals,” he said instead. “But there is strength in survival. My sister… she did everything she could to make my life better. Things others shun. Things that would have ruined her chance at marriage. I thought she was happy doing it, but I was a kid then. What did I know of false smiles?”

  The mud was cool and thick between his toes as he sat forward until his arms were draped between his legs. “I could let it hurt me, the knowledge she once regretted having a brother. Or, I could value Siela’s sacrifice, and realize no one is truly happy living for someone else. What does it matter if there was a cleaner route? My sister did the best she could—no one can tell me otherwise. There’s a reason the stanzas say, ‘all treaded paths look worse for wear.’ ”

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

  For once his words had sounded right, so he let them linger.

  “Thank you,” Lenora said as they watched the sun dip below the treeline. Golden light filtered through the branches, and in the summer glow the copse of willows looked like it had caught fire again. Standing up, she brushed a few brambles free from her tunic. “We’ve less than thirty minutes of light, by my guess. Think you can cast?”

  Callam nodded and pushed himself onto his feet. Sun-warmed weather pressed against wrinkled skin as he slipped on his sandals. “This won’t complete your quest, but I can’t think of anything better.”

  By the time they reached the long grasses of the cloud-covered plains, all of him felt like he’d spent the day scaling slated roofs . Spell backlash truly settles deep. Another quarter league still separated them from the Tower’s staircase—in the dying light, the spire of coiling stone cast a shadow so long it looked as if a god had spilled an entire wells worth of ink.

  We're cutting it close.

  “Ready?” Lenora asked, posture tense. They both knew the risks they were taking. An unspoken nod confirmed they were of the same mind—it was too late to head back, and Rote, Moose, and their newest team member were waiting for them. Besides, to climb was to defy the odds. Hopefully their instructor would step in if things took a turn for the worst. Hopefully.

  “Ready.” The world shifted as Callam cast.

  “What do you see?”

  He furrowed his brow; blots of color dotted the gray landscape before him. Without the trunk to brace himself against, the intoxication of his magic threatened to become all consuming. Inhale. He fought the urge to draw in the surrounding ink. And again. The impulse lessened. A scan of the grasslands with his mind's eyes found what he was looking for.

  Easy part, done.

  “Follow me.” He pushed forward, the wind-blown stalks tickling his skin. Brown and green blots highlighted the network of roots hiding underground. There were a dozen of them, by his count: Prairieplights, all full grown. If he could guess the range of their territories, he’d be able to walk a line between each creature unnoticed.

  Their domains can’t be too large, else they’d attack each other.

  A reasonable conclusion—yet one that assumed the beasts didn’t cohabitate. There was only one way to find out.

  “Prepare to run,” he said, voice tight as a bowstring, and stepped into the shadows.

  One second passed. Then two.

  When the ground did not break or writhe, his shoulders relaxed. Sure, his solution wasn’t quite as impressive as understanding why the creatures attacked, but it would do.

  ~~~

  “Should have known. All grand mages win on technicalities.” Rote’s white smile contrasted the black strap of his lute. A giant staircase stood behind him, spirling into the darkening sky. “Rare, for a first spell to provide power and surveillance in one.”

  Callam barely heard the man. Nor did he pay much attention to the granite gateway leading to the second floor, or to the stars peeking out overhead. His focus remained locked on the boy standing to the Scriptor’s left.

  It can’t be.

  His teeth pressed together. This had to be Rote’s idea of a joke. To think they’d be unlucky enough to be partnered up with Sebastian Writ.

  “Sebastian here,” the Scriptor continued, “shall serve as your proctor. He’s second in his class of healers—first, now that Hill’s been delayed—and has assured me he has the talent to support four Seekers through the third floor.”

  The noble’s expression made clear he’d said no such thing. Nor wanted to be here. Frustration simmered in his green eyes, yet he kept his tone dry. “I must count myself talentless, for I see eight stars, yet tally only four.”

  Callam swallowed a retort, their recent game of Seeker’s Talent still fresh in his mind. That night he’d promised to make amends. Yet Sebastian spoke with the same condescension he had when he’d wielded his father’s sword.

  How do I forget being sentenced to death? Opening his mouth, Callam—

  “All the letters in your surname,” Lenora cut in, voice dangerously sweet. “And you're somehow missing wit."

  Rote’s laugh could have woken the Prairieplights. “In the south, there are grimtales of Manarji boys born with no words,” he said. “It seems those stories are right. What language gods steal from those men, they give to northern women in their stead.”

  For once, Sebastian stayed quiet.

  Moose did not, the sound of his sneezing reached them before he did. “Spit and Steel,” he swore as his frame parted the grasses. “I hate this lack of seasons. Always hot. Always more wretched pollen.” Seeing the group, he nodded. “Rote. Sebastian.” To Callam and Lenora, he asked, “What, you fight a dozen ‘plights on your own? How we supposed to climb now?”