Triand’s flask was already half empty and she was still feeling sick. They were zigzagging across the paths of the mountain north of the lake in case anyone had picked up the teleportation signature. It couldn’t be long to Lirestoke now.

  Triand hadn’t said much since they had left. Iwy, who had gotten used to the endless chatter about academic theories that described magic variably as an independent powerful force, a living entity, and an adorable pet, took this as a bad sign. “You must be worried about Ilsra,” she tried.

  “Aunt Ilsra can hold her own. She’s a bit old-fashioned but she can defend herself if she has to.”

  The path trailed off into stony wilderness. Iwy followed quietly behind the mage. With every step, her muscles screamed for a break. Iwy had decided they weren’t getting one. It was her own fault after all. Once again, she had been no help at all. Every now and again she lit up her hand, which made matters worse, but she needed practice. She hardly managed a campfire. She had been able to do better, in her dream.

  It was the second dream she’d had that ended in a flood of masks. The forest must be getting to her.

  If she didn’t want either of them to become a reality, she had to get better.

  Triand had said her relative weakness was due only to having spent herself all at once. Just needed to recharge, was all. Iwy couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so tired, but it was an angry tiredness, the sort that was determined to push through, get done whatever needed to get done and then take a ten-hour-nap.

  Iwy came out of her malcontent trance when Triand nudged her. “You’re not saying much either. Anything botherin’ ya?”

  “Just this dream I had. It’s nothing. Can’t even remember it.”

  “Ah, well, magic dreams, there’s always something about them ...”

  “Some hidden truth?”

  “No, usually it’s some Hellishly obvious truth you don’t wanna see. What do you think?”

  Trees, Iwy thought. Pine tree. Fir. What’s that over there, ash? No, no. Something with an S. Maybe she could remember the names of those flowers over there.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Yup.” She was pretty sure those were bluebells. And was that stitchwort over there? More out of desperation than actual interest Iwy asked: “Who is this Heith person?”

  “Oh, Old Heith ... she really is old. Been here since forever. Probably since before the forest. You know ... first among equals when it comes to witches. Around here, anyway. Whatever you have, she has a spell for it.” Triand’s eyes shone as if remembering a relative she actually liked.

  During Triand’s youth, she explained, Heith lived in a cave at the top of the mountain. The smoke from her ever-burning kettle would clothe the mountain top in an ominous fog from which strange otherworldly voices called to visitors. Pale bodies of light lurked around the footpath, and anyone who followed them was never seen again.

  These days, the air was clear. Any visitor would find a boulder stained with an intricate design of swirls had been pushed in front of the cave, with a note stuck to it that proclaimed the ominous words: ‘Moved to the city, be back in 50 years, probably. Love, Witch of the Mountain, Inc.’

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  Ilsra had made her sound rather powerful, Iwy remembered. “Maybe this Heith can help with, you know ... the Eye.”

  “Doubt it. She’s a creator, not a destroyer. And even if ... it seems pretty curse-resistant.”

  “Is that all witches use?”

  “Nah. But you’ll find it also has no bones to break or muscles to twist or spirit to crush.”

  “Witch magic seems very bodily.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Iwy half-shrugged, then stopped. “Wait, did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  The apprentice squinted into the thistles. They remained still and unoffending. “So, you’ve ever been to Lirestoke?” Iwy pounced behind the bramble and found nothing but a squirrel that gave her the look of any rodent that had encountered better predators. It skittered away and where its paws had been, Iwy picked a piece of half-buried metal from the ground. It looked like half of a silver shoe buckle.

  “Sure, as a kid,” Triand said, chalking her apprentice’s paranoid antics up to lack of proper sleep. She could go for twelve hours shuteye herself. “It’s not so bad. They’ve probably expanded since my last visit. Maybe they even have a proper library.” Triand sighed. “We haven’t been to a library in ages. I miss libraries.”

  Iwy didn’t. “We got attacked every time we went so far.”

  “I wish there was ... a library you could access from anywhere, you know?” Triand rambled on. “Like, saying ‘Hey, I need a library that specialises in, dunno, respiratory conjuring’ and a magical portal could open and take you to a library anywhere in the world that deals with that. Or the portal could just ... throw a relevant book at you. Or something. You know? Where are you going? What are you doing behind that tree?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to invent another spell.”

  Triand frowned. “No time.”

  Everyone in the Inner Circle agreed that the Sorcerist had a very pronounced death wish. But they still hadn’t expected him to interrupt Acarald in the middle of an explanation.

  “So, like, if we know where they are, why don’t we, like, go there?”

  After he continued to stay alive, the Scourge cut into the loaded silence. “I hate to agree with him – truly, I hate it – but there are six of us and two of them. More if we bring the rest of the Circle. The odds are on our side.”

  Acarald chuckled. The Inner Circle drew back.

  The Archmage had been in an astoundingly good mood lately, ever since the messenger from Prey had arrived. If you looked closely, you could see the complicated machinery of his mind slowly whirring towards an ultimate plan. Some called it overthinking; Acarald called it considering every minute possibility. He’d been absent more often. No one dared to ask where he went on his outings, but each left him in even better spirits.

  But if you were a mage of immense power yourself, you couldn’t help but wonder if brute force couldn’t be part of this plan as well. After all, it had worked before.

  “Numbers aren’t everything,” he said finally. “Have you noticed that Triand has defeated all our people so far? And have we not sent the most promising?”

  “Maybe our judgement in this respect bears evaluating,” the Scourge said without breaking eye contact.

  “The point is, she has done all this while using so little magic we couldn’t track her. And now the girl she has with her seems to be erupting. I don’t think they would be holding back if we barged in. Do you? And in the Witchhead mountains of all places, where people don’t take kindly to us. No, no ... I already have something in mind.”

  “Let me go after her. I’ll bring her back mostly unharmed,” the Scourge added with a sardonic smile.

  “Have I not led you this far? Do you still not trust my judgement?”

  “Of course, Archmage,” the Scourge said through gritted teeth.

  He could feel power emanating from her. Always so ready to fight. That was why he had chosen her for the Inner Circle. Unfortunately, it sometimes made her disregard the bigger picture.

  “I think what she is trying to say is that ... we’re so close ...” the Master of Runes tried to be helpful.

  “Exactly. We cannot afford errors now,” Acarald said placably. “I know exactly what is going to happen next. We need to let her ... tire herself out first.” He turned to walk out of the meeting hall. “Now, I must take a short trip abroad. I trust the five of you to oversee the preparations for the ritual. We are very close.”