“Yes.”

  “And mages make their own rules?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t see that ending well,” Destros said, rising to his feet.

  Nonee snorted. “It didn’t.”

  They had no fabric clean enough to use as a gag. She killed Gearing, Ryan reminded himself. On purpose? Did it matter? He suspected it shouldn’t, but it did. Lyelee was still his cousin. And she was still a scholar.

  Finally, Nonee used the last of the bandages. “No more bleeding,” she ordered.

  “I’m good with that,” Servan called from the edge of the trees.

  Before he could think too hard about what he was doing, Ryan dumped Lyelee’s satchel.

  The splinter of wood had come from the shattered tower room. The piece of glass, from the ballroom. A feather. A rat tail. There was a tooth from the skull that had been thrown onto the road by the other weapon. A stone, one edge freshly broken.

  “From the landslide when the trap took Harris,” Nonee said.

  No one asked how she knew.

  A small piece of fungus wrapped in waxed cloth and sealed into a box.

  “At least she was being careful,” Keetin said.

  In a sample bag, blood-soaked cloth.

  In still another, other things soaked into cloth.

  Whose blood? Ryan wondered. What other things? He couldn’t read her notes, but the child’s writing in the ancient notebook was decipherable.

  “She made the dragon.”

  “No.” Keetin shook his head. “Fire, sure. Give me flint and steel and I can make fire. But there’s no possible way she made that dragon.”

  “There’s instructions. She made the dragon by burying a dragon’s tooth.” He looked up, crumpling the page. “Nonee?”

  “There’s two ways dragons grow.”

  Keetin rolled his eyes. “When a mommy and a daddy dragon love each other very much . . .”

  Nonee cut him off. “And when a mage plants a dragon’s tooth.”

  Ryan’s throat clicked when he swallowed. “Lyelee’s a mage.”

  “She’s a scholar,” Keetin protested.

  “Yes.” Nonee picked up the piece of stone and crushed it. “No person is ever one thing only.”

  “You’re saying she’s a scholar and a mage.” It didn’t seem possible. Scholars taught that mage-craft was an abomination of the natural order. But neither did it seem as impossible as it should, Ryan acknowledged. Not given the fire. And the dragon.

  “What did this to her?” Keetin demanded. When Ryan put a hand on his shoulder, he shook him off. “She was fine when we left home! She was fine in Gateway! What in the Broken Lands made her this way?”

  “Nothing. She was always and always would be a mage.”

  “No!” Keetin shouted his denial. “No one practices mage-craft in Marsanport.”

  “Maybe that’s why she wasn’t very good at it,” Destros offered. “Not enough practice.”

  “Not what I meant, Guardian! And you know it.”

  Destros sighed and folded his arms. “When you learn a new skill, if you have any ability at all, you’re hopeless until the moment you suddenly get it. The Broken Lands allowed her to be a mage.”

  Nonee ducked her head. “Yes.”

  “The mages are dead! They’re . . .” Keetin folded forward, coughing so violently, he had to drop to his knees. Because he could do nothing about it, Ryan continued to ignore the blood.

  Nonee waited until he stopped coughing. Until he could breathe again. Until he sat back on his heels, eyes watering. “The mages who built the road,” she said, “and who allowed Gateway to flourish, and who built sanctuaries in what became the Broken Lands, they were never the only six.”

  “They were only the six who came here and consolidated their power,” the captain said quietly, rubbing her thigh above the clay.

  “Then there are other mages in the world.” Ryan turned the thought over and didn’t much like it. He remembered Harris hanging, still alive, on spikes that should have killed him.

  “Arianna said mages were rare. Minds break trying to alter reality.” Nonee spread her hands. “Rare is more than none.”

  She’d never been out in the world, Ryan realized. None of them had. Except for Captain Yansav. “Are there mages in Shurlia?”

  For a moment, he thought the captain wasn’t going to answer. She never spoke of Shurlia. He didn’t blame her; her family had been slaughtered, the queen she’d served killed and a new queen put in her place. Finally, she sighed and said, “There are apaya. Seers. Advisors. Not the same thing.”

  How different? he wondered. And would his great-uncle live long enough for him to find out? He knew a little of Gateway and less of the Broken Lands and nothing of the world outside Marsanport. “Now what?” he asked, thinking Lyelee secured looked more like herself than she had over the last few days. “Can the healers in Gateway . . . heal her?”

  Squatting at Lyelee’s side, Nonee shook her head. “Mage-craft can’t be healed. It is.”

  Could anything be completely evil? Leading five thousand broken people away from Gateway had to have influenced Captain Marsan’s beliefs. “Your people have apaya, Captain. And Lyelee saved us from the grass creature with mage-craft.”

  “She killed Gearing with mage-craft,” the captain said softly.

  And hadn’t cared. That was the sticking point. Mage-craft wasn’t a skill, or only a skill, it was a way of thinking of the world and the other people in it. It wasn’t only about what Lyelee had done, but how she’d reacted to the doing of it.

  He wondered what had been in Gearing’s satchel.

  * * *

  It was almost dark when they crossed the line.

  “Make camp,” Ryan said, staggering past the boulder. Sweating heavily, unable to put weight on his left leg without pain shooting up into his hip, his stomach protesting the dried fish he’d eaten while they walked, he couldn’t take another step.

  Keetin dropped to his knees, fighting to breathe, air whistling wetly in and out of his lungs.

  Servan helped Destros lay Lyelee on the ground. Her eyes were closed but Ryan suspected she was awake.

  Captain Yansav was asleep—because he preferred that to her being unconscious.

  Only Nonee looked unaffected by the day.

  They weren’t necessarily safer on this side of the line than they would be on the other. They’d been attacked here, in this very spot, on the way in. But the lizard-dogs, for all they lived on both sides of the line, were animals. Made by mage-craft, deliberately or accidentally, during the wild years after the war, yes, but they killed with tooth and claw and ran when they recognized a more dangerous predator. They were vicious, but they were a threat Ryan could understand.

  The marks of Lyelee’s fingers were still in the fuel.

  LYELEE.NOW

  Lyelee regained consciousness slowly, light and dark flickering over her lids. Sunlight through leaves, she realized. She was no longer in the meadow. The fire rose in her mind and she watched it for a while. Knowledge reclaimed, it was beautiful. What were its limits? The grass creature had been consumed in a heartbeat. A body was primarily water and yet Gearing had been reduced to ash as though he’d been made of kindling.

  Did it burn through every fuel at the same rate?

  Scholar Mirriben, a Scholar of Language, was so large he had to have furniture specially constructed.

  Would he burn at the same rate as the grass creature? As Gearing?

  She had a lifetime of research ahead of her.

  Slowly, she became aware of uneven movement, of arms around her, of scale against her cheek, of the smell of sweat, and the faint, lingering scent of beard oil.

  Destros.

  Why was he carrying her?

  It hurt when she swallowed. There was fabric in her mouth that tasted faintly of honey.

  Had she been injured?

  No. The weapon. It had attacked her from behind.

  She’d been looking at Ryan when the pressure around her throat had brought darkness. He’d looked . . . relieved.

  “Ignorance,” said the bone, “leads to fear.”

  She’d like to say she was surprised by his reaction, but she wasn’t. He’d always walked the safe paths, afraid of confrontation: hiding from his brothers, trying to appease the Court when they let him know he wasn’t the Heir they expected, never looking beyond the narrow parameters that defined comfort.

  “Fear,” said the bone, “leads to violence.”

  He’d been afraid of what she’d learned, of the history denied that she’d reclaimed. He’d ignored the way she’d used that knowledge to save them and ordered the weapon to attack. Ordered the weapon to lay hands on a scholar. Then he’d had her tied and gagged to keep her from challenging his fear. What would his desperate clutching at ignorance do to the people of Marsanport? Her mother was right. He couldn’t become Lord Protector.

  Her eyes were too heavy to open, so she watched the fire burn.

  * * *

  She’d been drowsing when Destros and another pair of hands set her on the ground. Drowsed a little longer until she felt hands removing the gag. She coughed, licked her lips, and glared at Ryan as he lifted her shoulders off the ground.

  A demand that he release her became an unintelligible rasp.

  “Drink first,” he said, holding a waterskin up to her mouth.

  The water was no longer cold and fresh. Apparently even the mage-crafting couldn’t stand against time. The people of Gateway might call them talents, but she knew what they were and how they could be used.

  “Hypocrisy,” said the bone, “is the refuge of the morally bankrupt.”

  Her throat ached when she swallowed.

  “Release me,” she demanded when she had her voice again. “You don’t disrespect a scholar this way.”

  “Scholars don’t set fire to their mentors.”

  She thought about maintaining the illusion that Gearing had set the fire. There was no point. They’d seen her in the meadow.

  “I saved you.”

  “Possibly.” He sighed and continued before she could suggest he had no idea of what the word meant. “If we untie you, will you swear you’ll do no more mage-craft?”

  They were all watching. Even Captain Yansav, who’d fed her dragon. She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be more of a fool than usual, Ryan.”

  “So you won’t swear?”

  “Not to you. The Heir of Marsan has no control over scholarship.”

  He sighed. Offered her the waterskin again, then sat back on his heels. “She stays tied.”

  “Because you’re too weak to face your ignorance.”

  “And gagged.”

  “Because you’ve always taken the easy way.”

  He shook his head and stood, closed off to knowledge. Even self-knowledge. Not a surprise.

  She shifted, cataloging her aches and pains. “I have to use the latrine.” Bodily function was not something he could argue with, and he was too soft to deny her relief, in spite of his misgivings. Marsanport would be overrun by enemies within a year of his becoming Lord Protector.

  “Then Nonee goes with you.”

  “No. Servan.” She narrowed her eyes and dared him to argue that.

  He didn’t. “Fine. Servan, untie only her legs until she’s at the latrine pit, then her arms.”

  “Sir?” Servan stepped closer.

  He squatted beside her again, in the position the weapon favored. Had it corrupted him somehow? Another reason he should never be Lord Protector. “Your word as scholar that you won’t bring the fire. Or I’ll blindfold you.”

  “Uh, my lord . . .”

  “In the time it takes her to remove the blindfold, Servan, you should be able to take her down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re taking this too far,” she heard Keetin mutter as Servan led her away.

  * * *

  At the latrine, she flexed her shoulders, met Servan’s eyes as she dropped her freed hands to her trousers, and jerked her head. “If you don’t mind.”

  Servan didn’t budge. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, Scholar. Bugger-all privacy in the barracks.”

  Fine. With an audience then. At least it was an audience who understood what she observed. Not to say the weapon wasn’t an amazing construction and she looked forward to learning just how that construction had been achieved, but the presence of another woman . . . She frowned as the thought trailed off, uncertain of where it had been going.

  Returning to camp, her arms tied again, they passed the place where she’d dissected the lizard-dog, soil marked where the blood and other fluids had soaked into the ground. She stumbled, dragged the toe of her boot through it, and allowed Servan to tug her back to the path.

  “The line,” said the bone, still tucked in against her fingers, “is arbitrary.”

  As she was bound, she jiggled her foot until a little bit of stained dirt fell from her boot.

  “Innovation,” said the bone, “is the child of knowledge.”

  RYAN.NOW

  Wrapped in blankets, Ryan snuggled deep into his childhood bed, trying to find a comfortable spot among the toys and books and severed legs he’d gathered around him. Hiding things he cared about had become second nature. If he didn’t, the moment his brothers realized something was important to him, they destroyed it. He just couldn’t get . . .

  “Comfortable?” Donal grinned down at him. “Of course you are, you’re always comfortable. Flame forbid you should ever take a risk. Come sailing with us.”

  Donal’s face began to bloat. Ryan clutched at the blankets. “No.”

  “No?” Donal laughed. “You don’t get to say no, slug.” He pulled the seal of the Lord Protector out from among the pearls woven into his beard. “I wasn’t asking, so let’s try this again. Come sailing with us.”

  Unable to open his mouth, Ryan shook his head.

  “You had your chance.” The three long locs Donal kept high on the right side of his shaved head swung forward as he bent to set the seal on Ryan’s chest.

  It was heavy, so heavy. Ryan felt himself sinking, but his arms and legs refused to move.

  “You’re lying on dragon’s teeth,” Lyelee told him, rolling her eyes. “Use one. Use all of them. For once in your life, take control.”

  The teeth dug into his back.

  “You’re afraid,” she scoffed. “Knowledge is meant to be used. Taken apart. Examined.” She held the elderly cat she’d dissected at ten, its organs spread out in her arms. The cat silently begged Ryan to end its pain. “Last chance,” she said, hands on either side of the seal.

  Ryan overcame his terror enough to shake his head again.

  Lyelee smiled as she began to push, and he sank under the surface of the Great Lake. The pressure of the water held his mouth closed and plugged his nose. He couldn’t breathe.

  Couldn’t breathe!

  Couldn’t . . .

  He spat out dirt and gasped and spat again. Dirt fell all around him and the pain from the bite in his leg made it hard to find thought among the shards of red. Slowly, still spitting, still gasping, he realized he hung upside down, Nonee holding him by the ankles.

  He could hear shouting, and Keetin wheezing. Ignoring bright lines of pain, he squeezed the grit from his eyes in time to see Destros kneel by his head. The guardian’s hands shook as he lifted them and wrapped them around Ryan’s face.

  “That’s it,” he said. “You’re okay.” Then he sat back on his heels. “Let him down, Nonee. I’ve got him.”

  Nonee lowered him into Destros’s arms, where he spat and gasped again, blew plugs from his nose, then began to cough.

  “Get it out,” Destros murmured, rubbing his back.

  When he finally forced himself to stop and settled lightheaded back into the guardian’s hold, he blinked away tears to see Keetin kneeling in front of him, holding out a waterskin.

  “Rinse and spit.”

  That brought on more coughing.

  Keetin attempted and didn’t quite achieve a grin. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  It did. “Tastes like dirt.”

  “Well, yeah.” He held open his arms.

  Ryan fell from Destros’s hold to Keetin’s embrace and, as arms wrapped around him, remembered the struggle for comfort in his dream. This was comfort. Taking as deep a breath as he could manage, he rested his forehead against the warm, sweaty curve between neck and shoulder and used the familiar smells to replace the smell of the grave. Keetin was trembling. Ryan could hear him struggling to breathe, feel the way his lungs fought to lift the weight of his ribs. Pushing back, he laid his palm on the other man’s chest. “The healers in Gateway will fix this.”

  “This?” Keetin was pale enough and the moon was bright enough, Ryan saw his brows rise. “Me? We’re not concerned about me, right now. Those burning dirt things almost killed you!”

  “They caught up?” He struggled to his feet, Keetin rising with him, and if they lent each other strength, that was what strong men did. He twisted to face Nonee. “How did they cross the line?”

  She shook her head. “There was no shape. Only dirt. Fast-moving dirt.” Before Ryan could get his head around fast-moving dirt, she added, “Almost too fast.”

  “But it wasn’t too fast in the end,” Ryan told her. “You saved me. Probably all of us. Again. Thank you.”

  Lyelee snorted.

  They were all still looking at him. He turned to look at her. In spite of the gag, she was smiling.

  Injuries and exhaustion would turn the last day’s march into Gateway into two. They’d spend another night on the ground.

  There was ground in Gateway.