Bansaerin tugged me into his side and lowered his lips to my ear so that I might hear him over the musicians who were gathered close behind us. “Did you truly face down a mournling?”

  I bit my lip and nodded, swaying a little to the music against his arm, my nerves muted by the heat from the wine. “I did.”

  He nodded down at me, impressed. “Should I be worried you’re trying to show me up, then? Take over the Nightblades for yourself?” His sideways grin tugged me closer to him, as though it pulled me closer the nearer I was.

  The notion was so ridiculous I laughed and was rewarded for my mirth with a rare, wry smile. “I couldn’t very well do that, now that I’ve been named spirit-speaker.”

  My concerns must have flickered across my face at that, however much I wished to hide them, because Bansaerin crooked his finger beneath my chin and raised my gaze back to meet his. “We are all honored the spirits chose you. And while I would like to take the credit due your uncle,” by which he meant Uncle’s training me with the blade to fend off mournlings, even before I began training missions with the Nightblades, “I’ll not risk displeasing the spirits by doing so.” He had grown serious while reassuring me, but then his grin returned. “You must tell me whether they are gladder to have you or if Aveela is more relieved by the company.”

  He strode off to rejoin the Nightblades’ lieutenants and resumed dancing. It was several minutes before my pulse returned to its normal rhythm, even with Mirdal needling me for details. That moment when he’d drawn my gaze up to his, when his voice had dropped an octave in concern, was one I’d keep for myself.

  As the celebration drew to a close, the chief beckoned me over to his side. Aveela hovered behind his shoulder, and the three of us left the fireside and gathered in Aveela’s home. The interior was around the same size as Aunt and Uncle’s—a fireplace, hearth, and kitchen occupied one wall. Aveela’s bedroom was at the back of the hut. Off to the corner of the main room was a large wooden desk covered with parchment and leather bindings, the makings of the books that covered each wall of the main room, so many that the room smelled of drying parchment and ink. I inhaled deeply. This was to be my new home.

  “It was you who found the Seed, Draeza” the chief began, “you who spoke to Alapatour. Tell me, what would you see done with it?”

  I began chewing my lip again but stopped myself. No wonder it was always chapped. For a moment, I imagined the look in Bansaerin’s eye once the chief presented him with the Seed and asked him to care for it.

  But another imagined gaze quickly followed that one. My uncle, shaking his head the first time he discovered I was going to the meetings of the Nightblades. He was always telling me to be wise, and he was also one of the wisest people I knew.

  “I should like for my uncle to be put in charge of the Seed,” I explained to the chief and Aveela. “Maybe have some sort of honor guard appointed. I think we should keep it a secret from the Hume, even if that means we cannot place it in the center of the gardens as we might wish to. But if they find it, they will take it from us.” Or worse didn’t need to be said.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Aveela’s gaze was unchanging as she studied me, but the chief smiled. “A fine man, your uncle. Very well, I shall do as you’ve asked. I will appoint your uncle as the Guardian of the Seed and select several honor guard to assist him. We shall make a plan as well should the Hume come poking around, though it may be harder to hide from Alfonze. Be welcome, Draeza Lif-sai’Lune.” The chief bowed and exited Aveela’s home, leaving me alone with the spirit-speaker.

  “You may have guessed already, but I have been waiting for this for quite some time,” she confessed, mischief shining in her eyes. “I was beginning to grow impatient, which those of us who work with spirits should try never to do.” She smiled to herself as though she’d just told a joke that she and she alone found humorous. I supposed that was true.

  I looked down at my feet and then forced myself to meet her gaze. “Have you known for a long time that I would be the one to join you?” I could not help but wonder if, had the option remained, Iredella would have been the one the spirits chose.

  “Oh yes.” Aveela grinned. “I told your mother as much before her passing.”

  My chest tightened at the mention of Mother. Not even Uncle referred to her often, and the way Aveela spoke of her—it was as though she’d fallen ill and passed peacefully, not been cut down by soldiers in the street.

  “You’ll move your belongings in with mine first thing tomorrow,” Aveela pronounced, as much to herself as to me. “We have much work to do. Yes, yes,” she muttered as she turned away from me, “by the spirits, a great deal of work.” Her voice faded into the darkness, and I turned toward my aunt and uncle’s hut for my last night there before I relocated to be Aveela’s aide and apprentice.

  Not all mentors kept their apprentices on in their homes for extended periods of time, I reminded myself, letting the cold night air soothe away the excitement and unknowns that had assembled all around me during and after the celebration. The apothecary, who preferred to keep her own company regardless, was glad of Mirdal’s preference to remain with his parents, and his parents were equally glad of his help with the little ones.

  Bansaerin and his chief lieutenants among the Nightblades kept their own quarters near the stables, ready and on guard against a midnight attack from either Hume or mournlings, neither of which we’d ever faced, at least not yet.

  Uncle would be glad of my plan for the Seed, or I hoped he would. He’d elicit Aunt Rugan’s help. I whispered a prayer to the ancients that Uncle would find my plan wise and not dangerous.

  ***

  Historian’s Note:

  The Hume rebellions against their Lifkin oppressors, which—through events unknown—brought about the collective collapse of the islas from their floating dominion over land and sky created an unforeseen effect. The Fall, as it is most commonly known, changed the atmospheric and climate makeup of the world of Illios and, simultaneously, multiplied a new type of being, spirits, and saw the unleashing of a dire threat, the mournlings.

  While scholars of spirit-magic disagree on the particulars, the general consensus is that both mournlings and spirits existed before the Fall. Even more are in agreement that the Fall itself precipitated a rapid increase in the number of spirits roaming about.

  Within Lifkin clans, it is the job of the spirit-speaker to record the histories, memories, and stories of the spirits who find their way to the speaker. Often, completing the telling of their story allows the spirit to find peace and return to the earth, lending their energy to the world around them and rejoining the essence of the world. Among spirit-speakers, the common understanding of this phenomenon’s historical origin is that the cataclysm of the Fall was so sudden and so violent, those living had no chance of finding peace for their passing and so spirits proliferated en masse, all at once.

  Extensive training as a spirit-speaker grants the Apprentice the ability to see and speak to willing spirits.