I wake up with a cat on my chest.

  It’s gray with one blue eye and one yellow. It shifts its front paws, blinking at me.

  “Good morning,” I mumble.

  That’s right – I’m at Arriel’s fancy estate. What time is it? Daylight’s coming in through the windows. It was daytime when I went to sleep. It’s gotta be mid-morning, but I’m still running on Rheda's time, clear across the world. I stretch. I’m awfully stiff.

  An odd, magical feeling channels, like intense compression. Teleportation. With a small puff, the cat winks away.

  I stare. I’m not fucked up, am I? In fact, I’m the opposite. I fumble for my flask and find it beside my pillow. I take a long swig. I’m jittery. I slept too long.

  I push out of bed, looking out the window. Below is a landscaped yard, immaculately green and trimmed. A forest stretches beyond it. I take another drink. It’s all useless private land, only good for bragging that there's no poors squatting on it. I squint. In the rear of the yard, stuck between two trees, is a gargantuan shark. I stare at it. I must be fucked up. There’s a door on the side and smoke toiling from a small chimney out the top. A couple chairs are set under an awning angled off the side. What the fuck is this place?

  I piss and squeeze into some clean breeches. They’re a bit tight, in the Carthesian style. A pristine white robe is set out for me, too. I sling it on, then open the door. I glance around, then start wandering.

  The wealth is staggering. I browse paintings and decorative plates that could buy a small house. At the end of the hall, I find a set of double doors. I open them, peeking inside. It’s a master bedroom – probably Arriel’s. She’s not there. I wander more. I find a library, a different washroom than yesterday, and an empty sitting room with couches and chairs.

  The cat appears again.

  It winks in with a slight whoosh of magic. It’s sitting on the floor in front of me. It stares. It compresses again and pops out of sight.

  I throw up a middle finger, slinging a fistful of magic from a ley line. Pink smoke puffs, toiling in the shape of a heart. The cat plops from the ether. It lands with a squeak.

  It turns and glares at me, then trots off. At the end of the hall, it sits, waiting.

  It wants me to follow. I shuffle over and find the stairs we came up yesterday, curling down into the main foyer. I hear voices below. The cat winks to the ground floor, looking up at me. Then, it leads me through a door and into a dining room.

  Inside is a long table full of food. The smell grips my stomach. I haven’t eaten since… how long has it been?

  Arriel and Weekes are halfway through breakfast. Weekes’ ear is slowly regrowing its fur, not looking so obvious now. Arriel has her hair pinned back and is wearing a tailored, long-sleeved, off-white tunic, the sleeves pulled back. She glances up as I enter.

  Two new people are there, too.

  One of them, I’ve seen before. She’s from the family painting on the stairs – Arriel’s little sister by law. She’s got dark hair in a long, fluffed braid and is wearing a frilly teal dress. The cat is perched on her lap. Sitting next to her is a tall, lithe man, a few years older, pale-blue-skinned and with white hair swept back like it’s windy. A djinnian.

  I enter, sitting next to Arriel and crossing a leg. “I hope this morning’s finding you all well,” I say.

  Arriel gives something like a polite smile. “Good morning,” she says. She reaches over, tugging my robe closed.

  I pull it back open. “Well, pardon you.”

  “This is my home,” she says sternly.

  I take a drink from my flask, pointing to the djinnian. He’s wearing a tight vest, not leaving much to the imagination. “I don’t see you telling him to put his tits away.” I turn to him. “It is him, right? I shouldn't have assumed, I’m sorry.”

  His voice is soft and airy. A slight smile quirks his lips. “You’re correct.”

  “This is Maesys,” Weekes says. He pours me a cup of coffee. I splash in some whiskey and fatty milk. I take a sip. It’s divine. “And, this is –”

  “This is my sister, Lespira,” Arriel says. “Maesys is her partner.”

  I stand, offering a hand across with my best smile. Lespira takes it hesitantly. I put a kiss on it. “What a great honor, meeting two fine ladies here. I’m flattered you’re entrusting Lady Arriel here into my care. I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, recently touring Rheda for the last several months. My deepest thanks for sharing your home.”

  Lespira blinks, looking at Arriel. I do the same to Maesys, who looks like he was expecting I’d do otherwise.

  Arriel nudges me to sit down. Weekes puts a plate of food in front of me. It’s a pile of crepes, yogurt, and a cooked, spiced apple mixture. Further down the table are cuts of seared goat. I tuck in.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Lespira says. “Arriel says you’re a bard. I know some from my classical arts class at the College – did you learn there?”

  I nearly choke. The magic college in Carthesia is famous the world around. I could whore myself out for years before even brushing against tuition. “I’m self-taught,” I say.

  Her dark brows go up. “But you can… teleport? That’s high-level magic.”

  She must've heard about the mishap. Or saw it splattered on the wards outside. “An arcanist over in Hayawara taught me.” I figured it out myself, and my first attempt ended with a similar, smaller splatter.

  In my head flashes the roiling pink magic Iros showed me. I barely taste my food all the sudden. Some say it’s the most powerful spell in existence, possible consequences and all. Should I tell anyone about it? Would they look at me the same? If the old stories are true, I could do anything with it, like wish for Arriel to fall in love with me. But I might just find myself dying on a pitchfork.

  “Lespira is one of the top wizards in her class at the College,” Arriel says. “She’ll be graduating soon.”

  That explains the cat on her lap. “That’s impressive – and might I be the first to congratulate you. Weekes here has got quite some magic, too,” I say. Lespira and Maesys look at Weekes.

  “It’s not… I didn’t really have to learn it –”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve seen those arrows you sling around. He’s got a patron daddy.” I point at Maesys with my fork. “Maybe you know him. What about yourself, by the way?”

  “Oh, I just hit things,” he says. “I like brewing, too.”

  I pause mid-chew. “Brewing what?”

  He’s got odd, blocky tattoos on his wrists. It’s only then that I realize they’ve got a faint whiff of magic to them. He reaches into one, sticking an arm in up to his elbow. He rummages, pulling out a bottle. It’s got no label on it. He slides it across to me. “Here. I think you’ll like this.”

  “Oh, please don’t…” Arriel mutters.

  I uncork the bottle and take a sniff. The sweetly bitter perfume of whiskey hits me. It’s salty. “Seaweed? Where’ve you been keeping this?”

  “Port Nakanai. I’ve traveled all over. That’s from a couple years ago.”

  “We’re gonna be wonderful friends,” I sing. I pour a couple fingers into empty glasses all around. Arriel doesn’t touch it.

  “Before you get too far,” she cuts in. “What are we doing next? We should stay here for now, but we need a plan.”

  I shrug, taking a sip. I hold it to the light. It clings lustily. “Sweet fucking hells. That’s gorgeous. Well, I suppose we should find out if Irminric’s still breathing. Last I saw him, he was sinking fast and not happy about it.”

  “I’ll grab my things,” she says, standing and leaving.

  The cat on Lespira’s lap does the odd compression thing again. I wait and throw up a middle finger, pumping another negation at it. It lands on the table with a crash, scattering plates and yogurt. It scampers off, tail fluffed. Maesys guffaws. I wave a finger, and an illusion drapes over the mess, making it look like nothing’s amiss.

  “That’s Shoe, by the way,” Lespira says. “Could… could you show me how to do that? The negation.”

  I straighten. A top-rated wizard at the College wants to learn from me? Who am I kidding? They’re always horny for new spells. “I surely can. What have you got for trading?”

  She turns and slaps a massive tome on the table. Silverware clatters. “I have plenty.”

  We’re all paging through her spellbook and halfway through the bottle of whiskey when Arriel returns. I’m good and buzzed. She’s got her bowl and water vial. She sits, taking a sip of her tea. She pulls her hand back, finding it smeared with yogurt. She scowls at me.

  Finally, she pours her water vial into her bowl, sitting with it for a second. She says her incantation. Then, her eyes go white.

  “He’s on a ship again. It looks like it’s at port. It’s… Port Bourac? It’s a smaller ship than last time.”

  “The Black Tide’s no longer coming in, you could say.”

  “There’s a dark elf with him. A woman. She’s wearing leather armor. She has a braid… and a shortsword. It looks like they’re having trouble with the port authority. He’s talking with them and getting angry. I think they’re confined to the ship for now. The sail has a… a spider on it.”

  “Catherine,” I say, leaning back in my chair. I pour another few fingers of whiskey. I sip it, leaning against a fist.

  Port Bourac is south of here, meaning they know I’m in Carthesia. They’ll be coming soon. They’re elbow deep in bureaucracy at the moment, though, meaning we’ve got an opportunity.

  I clench my jaw. Catherine’s been positioning for Warchief for years, sliding into Irminric’s bed. It’s no surprise she let Torm get himself killed first before trying to capture me. It’d get her no end of favor from Irminric. She wants it badly. But at the end of it all, she’s a fucking slaver. And she sees me as expendable.

  Maybe I can use that. After all, I know what she wants. And I know what else she wants.

  Arriel comes out of her spell, blinking. “Is she another Warlord?”

  “Yes,” I say. I toast with my glass. “I’m gonna fucking kill her, too.”

  “How can we help?” Weekes asks. It’s getting easier to hear that.

  “I’m thinking this one’s best for me alone. But I’d appreciate having you there. First, I’ve gotta get in contact with her.” I don’t have my sword or armor, but I don’t think I’ll need it.

  “I can do that,” Arriel says. “What should I tell her? The shorter, the better.”

  “Tell her I want to meet. I’ll be waiting for her at the Wrong Ship this evening. She’d better come alone.”

  “Do you have time to work on spells until then?” Lespira asks.

  “I sure do.”

  “Maybe I can teach you some things, too,” Maesys says. “Arriel says you’re pretty good in a fight.”

  I’m sure she said the opposite if he’s offering. “We’d best get to work then.”

  I stuff down the last few bites of my food as everyone stands and filters out. I follow. Something stops me. It’s Arriel. We’re alone.

  She leans in close, her face hard. “I swear to all the gods, she is eighteen years old.”

  I frown, my blood piping. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just… please have some tact. She has a partner. And Bri would never forgive me.”

  I pull away where she’s got me by the arm. “I think you’ve got the wrong opinion of me. I’m not gonna fuck your little sister. If you want to chastise a predator, save it for the one I’m meeting tonight.”

  Her face falls. I don’t care. I grab my flask, peeling away and heading out of the room.

  I spend the rest of the day with Lespira and Maesys. Weekes tags along, but Arriel makes herself scarce, only letting me know she contacted Catherine and the plan’s ready to go. I keep it together, but I’m seething at Arriel. This is just what I need before meeting with an utterly insane woman tonight. But I focus on what I’m doing.

  I head to the library with Lespira to teach her how to negate. She politely declines slinging a fireball at me as a demonstration. Instead, she brings Shoe, watching while I do it a few more times, faster and faster. When I explain that you’re just chucking magic at a spell, she’s even more confused, saying vibes aren’t enough. I sketch down the arcane theory on the chalkboard, and she only looks at it sideways, making more than a few corrections. It’s the right answer, in a meandering way. Finally, she tries it and chucks a bit too much magic. People come running with buckets of water. For once, it's not my fault. But eventually, she picks it up, practicing negating my negation. In thanks, she slaps some magical armor on me for later. It's like putting on wet clothes. I hate it.

  We pore over scrolls, too. I’m terrible at it, and shit broke. But she helps me, and I gather a small bundle of single-use spells from my repertoire. In return for the paper and ink, I let her copy them. I’ve worked with wizards before, but she’s on another level. And she’s only eighteen, casting at a level almost as well as me.

  Then, I meet with Maesys in the yard. He explains the shark house, saying some of their friends live in it. It answers nothing. Then we spar for a bit, fist on fist. He’s blindingly fast and impossible to hit. But he’s got an oddly familiar style of fighting, seeming wrecked as shit but stone sober. He gives me a whole lesson about anticipating movements and staying two steps ahead, making yourself an easy target. It's a bit of luck - being an easy target is the most natural thing in the world to me. He asks where I learned to fight, and I avoid that topic by a mile. I’m not sure how much Arriel has told them, and I’d rather not drop that bag on these nice people.

  We’re sampling a few more bottles of whiskey when I realize it’s nearly time to go. I head back to my room and gather my things. It might bite me in the ass, not having my armor or sword. There’s no telling how this will go. But I coil up Torm’s whip, hanging it from my belt. It’ll have to do. Then, I top off my flasks and head downstairs.

  I wait in the foyer – oddly, I’m the first ready to go. I pace, my stomach buzzing. I need Catherine dead, but there’s a chance this goes sideways like it did with Irminric. And I’d rather ravish a swamp creature than be in the same room as her.

  Arriel clanks toward me, taking me from my thoughts. Her fair hair is knotted on the back of her neck, her shield and mace strapped on. She’s got a serious tilt to her face, more so than usual.

  “Hey,” she says, coming close. “I’m sorry about earlier. That wasn’t fair of me. And Les had nothing but good things to say about you.”

  I can’t touch that right now. I slip my flask out of my chest pocket and take a drink. I give her my best smile. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Her lips press together. “Okay. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’d quite literally rather do anything else,” I throw back.

  Weekes appears, trotting down the stairs. His hakama and wide-sleeved shirt are vastly out of place, as much as my single threadbare set of Vasterholmian clothes. His magic armor shimmers faintly. “I’m ready. What’s our plan?”

  I take another drink. The room’s wobbling. I explain, and they look at me like I’m speaking draconic. But they both nod grimly.

  Weekes takes my flask and throws back a swig. “Okay. I’m with you.”

  Arriel takes it, too, slugging from it. “Me, too.”

  “Alright,” I say, tucking it away. “Let’s go.”

  I latch onto a ley line and sing:

  Something, something, something cock

  Bring us south to Port Bourac

  Pink magic swirls around us. My stomach flips, and we’re sucked through blackness. We land in a bustling street just outside a ratty tavern.

  Port Bourac sits on the southern tip of Talnir. Sea air hits me, gulls crying overhead. It's a quaint, charming port – anything but Vasterholmian. Old buildings are cramped along the water, some on stilts. I spot sails and masts over brightly painted roofs. I scan them. There’s one with a folded-up spider crest on it.

  We sweep inside the tavern. I don’t see Catherine yet.

  “Conceal,” Weekes incants and vanishes in a swirl of dark gray wind.

  I head to the bar. An old human glances up as Arriel and I approach. “Evening.”

  “And to yourself,” I say. “If you’re in the feeling of favors, I’ll take a drink for my lady wife here. Whiskey for myself. And a couple rooms, if you're so endowed. Next to each other.”

  Arriel shoots me a glare. “Just wine, please. Whichever is your cheapest white.”

  The bartender pours one for her, then slides me a shot of whiskey. “I got two available. One bed?”

  “Please. We’ve got virtue to maintain.”

  He slaps down two keys. “Five copper for the night. Meals aren't included. It’s the first and second rooms down the hall.”

  “Excellent,” I say with a smile, leaning and admiring Arriel. She sighs and tosses down coins.

  She gathers her wine and a key. “I’ll be in my room. The second one,” she says. I'd expect a better read from a bodak. We’ll work on that.

  I flash her a grin. “I’ll be here.”

  She leaves. I park myself at the bar and wait.

  The jitteriness goes down after a drink, at least. I hum to myself, trying not to think. But I have to. I drink and think of sparring with Maesys. I’ve gotta stay two steps ahead, especially without any armor. Catherine’s nothing like Torm – he preferred percussive solutions. She’s unpredictable. Or maybe predictable, in some ways. But she might shove a sword through my ribs at any moment. She’s even more cracked than most on the Isles. She enjoys it. But it blinds her, and she’s willing to believe things about me. I’ve gotta use that. She’s got plans of her own in meeting me here. I’ve gotta use that, too. And I’ve gotta stay quiet about this. If anyone finds out a foreign dignitary was killed here, it'll cause nothing but problems for me. I've gotta make sure it's a problem for Irminric instead.

  I stare at the bar in front of me. It's too much. I bring my mandolin around, fingering chords. I need something to anticipate all this. I pause. Iros mentioned something of foresight. Could I harness it for my own?

  I strum a discordant chord, letting it hang, pushing and bending the mandolin’s neck. The sound warps, beginning to resound with a new tone. I close my eyes and push deep inside, brushing against my connection to the seventh ley line. I’ve never reached this far before. But it’s there, humming and throbbing with magical power. I listen closely, the potential sending shivers through me. It fuses with the sound in my ears, my blood coming alive as they match, resonating like a tuning fork. I curl the pad of my finger around the connection like a string. It rushes through my blood like a gust of wind. I gasp. I send vast waves of magic through the idea. And I open my eyes.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  I blink. I put my hands up and look at them. They’re outlined in translucent pink. Then, a second later in reality, they move like they just did. It’s like seeing everything with a slight delay. I watch a pink-outlined catfolk stand from their table and exit the tavern. It happens a moment later. This is gonna give me a headache.

  Then the hair raises on the back of my neck. My skin crawls. I turn to see Catherine enter.

  I lounge against the bar, glancing her over. She’s no different from the last time I saw her, months ago. Her white hair’s braided down her back, her magical shortsword belted on her waist. Crescents of her dark tits push from her leather cuirass. She’s starting to show the first hints of age, creases around her mouth and eyes. Her yellow eyes fall on me, and there’s the slightest twitch of her dusky lips.

  The black, churning waters in my head burble to the surface. They begin to shudder and shake, breaking against rock.

  She stalks toward me, leaning against the bar. She’s close. The smell of ale and musty ship coils around me like an unwanted hand. I keep it together. “The bewitching Catherine Roosk. What a coincidence, meeting you here.”

  “I’m just as surprised as you are,” she says. She cocks her head, examining me. A deranged smile reveals her gleaming teeth. “I’ve missed seeing your face around. Although the Warchief said you're … not quite what you were.”

  Through the spell, I watch her say it before she says it. “He's no respected art critic, I think we can both agree. And you’re welcome for blowing Torm to bits for you. I’m sure you had an enjoyable evening, thinking of it. I sure did.”

  Her eyes harden. She snaps at the barkeep, ordering an ale. She sips it, eyeing me over the rim. “You blew some of my men to bits, too. I wanted to be the one to tie you up and bring you back. I was disappointed.”

  I’m not the least bit surprised she planned to knife Torm if he captured me. It's good to know I inspire such passion. I raise a brow. “I do like being tied up. Although I’m sure you’ve changed your plans. And I’m sure you know why we’re here.”

  She sits on the stool next to me, her knee between mine. It brushes the inside of my thigh. “You’ve made it very clear you want him dead.”

  “So have you. I’m not a man who wants for much. I just want Jor to do with as I please. Would you give me that?”

  She takes another sip, looking at me for a long moment. Her eyes fall on the mandolin across my back. “That’s not within my jurisdiction.”

  I brush my gaze over her. “It certainly would be, if you’re the Warchief.”

  Something gleams in her yellow eyes. The deranged tilt to her lips turns into a smile. It’s unsettling. “That’s a heavy proposition.”

  “I’m just a slave. What have I got to lose?” I brush aside a lock of her white hair. She initially flinches away, then stops. I touch her jaw and chin. She ignites. It's an odd dynamic, making her mine rather than the other way around. I lower my voice, laying it on thick. “You’ve gotta be getting tired of scales.”

  She huffs. “He knows how to handle a woman.”

  I can’t think of a more stomach-churning image. I glance her down and up. “Don’t you want to break his toys?”

  She backs away, looking me over. She sips more of her ale. “You never wanted anything to do with me.”

  I slip a hand around her knee, bringing it closer and pressing against it. “Freedom changes a lot of things. It’s a bit fucked up, wanting to have my way with you.” I pause, purring. “You like fucked up.”

  Her fingers twitch, glancing down. My stomach’s twisting. Just a bit longer. A few more moments, and she won’t be in this world anymore. The black waters rise and foam higher.

  “Look,” I continue, raising a brow. “I can piss him off like no other. And he gets sloppy when he’s mad. I can put my illusion on the ship and talk to him. I’ll keep him busy. Your part's between ribs five and six.”

  There’s a familiar look in her eyes – she’s convinced. She’s just figuring out what I get out of it.

  “I want him dead,” I say through my fucking teeth. “And I want my island.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Then we have a deal.”

  I snap my fingers, and the key appears in my hand. I hold it up between us, wiggling it a little. “We’d best seal it, then.”

  Something absolutely crazy bleeds into her eyes. She chugs down the rest of her ale.

  As I say it, I scratch underneath my eye.

  The mandolin hums. In the translucent pink world, seconds before reality, I see the moment before me – the flash of pink across her eyes. She’s not expecting it. She’s already convinced and let her guard down. A dark elf may resist magic more easily, but not one that’s already working toward the same end. I brush a magical connection into it, like a finger up her dusky arm.

  Then, I see it. The slight slackening of her face, the brief flash of pink across her eyes. She brightens, the burning lust in her yellow eyes searing hotter.

  She leans in, brushing her dark lips against mine. I pull away, only just. I feel sick. I keep it together. “You’re gonna be the slave here, not me.”

  “I like this side of you,” she breathes. She stands.

  I grab her braid hard, keeping her from leaving. “Then you'll like what else I've got.”

  She looks giddy, sneering down at me. “Don’t keep your Warchief waiting, then.”

  I give her a lingering smile. And I stand, leading her to the room, the first along the hall.

  I unlock it and push inside. It’s certainly a room worth two and a half copper, not more than a bed and bare furniture. It shares a wall with the adjacent room. I set my mandolin on the dresser. It knocks against the wall. I put my belt there, too, the whip within easy reach. The door shuts and locks.

  Hands are on me. They wrap around from behind, tugging frantically at my shirt, sliding under. I shiver. I hate what it’s doing further down. I close my eyes, pretending it’s literally anyone else. I whirl around. I kiss her before I lose my nerve. It’s repellent. It tastes like ale. She growls, tongue searching. I hum, flicking out my arcane hand. She pulls off my shirt, her hands grabbing. Her fingers knot in my hair. I take her hips, pulling her into me.

  On the other side of the door comes a faint click and the low hum of magical enchantment.

  My arcane hand clenches her jaw, making her look at me. She’s got some muscle, but I’ve seen her fight before. She’s quick. She stiffens. “On the bed,” I order.

  She snarls. “I want it right here.”

  I straighten up, looming. “I’m not asking.”

  I unbuckle her belt and toss it aside. I push her. She plops onto the bed. A mad smile curls at her lips. “Gonna hold me down? That is fucked up.”

  “Stop talking.”

  My arcane hand sticks a thumb in her mouth.

  I straddle her, tearing sheets away. She bucks up into me. I put her arms overhead, tying her wrists. Her yellow eyes burn into me. I’m sick of looking at her. I flip her over. My arcane hand trails down her front. She moans, pushing herself against me.

  “Fuck me already, coward. Or did the whiskey get you?”

  I lift her leather skirt, carving a handprint into her ass. It echoes. She winces, then moans. “I’ll not tell you again.”

  My arcane hand keeps her busy. In the translucent pink of my spell, I watch it happen seconds before. I turn and grab the whip. I loop it so both ends are toward me. I drop the loop over her head, then pull.

  She jolts to attention.

  I throw my weight on her. She’s strong, but not enough for this arrangement. She gives a gurgle. I clamp a forearm on the back of her head, shoving her into the pillow. She thrashes, her hands grabbing at the sheets. Her legs kick. A growl comes out, muffled. She’s warm. Hopefully not for much longer.

  My arcane hand knocks on the wall three times. Utter silence falls over the room.

  It’s surreal. No sound comes. And yet, my head roars. Bottomless black water crashes and churns against an unbreakable cliff. There’s only thrashing beneath me. I strain, pushing her down, keeping her locked in place. I yank on the whip for all I can, twisting it down, gritting my teeth, watching the corded strain in her dark neck. My muscles groan. But I can also see her every movement, moments before it happens. She tries to buck me, and I brace myself harder. She tries to free her hands, and I tighten the whip. I can only smell ale and musty wood. But I’ll never have to see her yellow eyes on me again.

  I’m slicked in sweat. My muscles ache. My mouth is dry. My face is wet. I don’t know why I’m crying. Maybe it’s knowing exactly what I’m doing here – that she and Torm and Irminric still won. It’s utter relief that there’s one fewer slaver in the world, that she’s part of a hundred stories just like mine. It’s knowing that she’s thrashing and dying, full of fear and regret that she ever set eyes on me in the first place. It’s that this is real, and not just a dream I’ve had dozens of times. And it’s knowing that I am fucked up. I’m just like the rest of them. I learned to speak their language a long time ago, and maybe it’s the only one I can think to use anymore. Even if I'd been able to stomach working with her, she’d have killed me. I’d still be a slave. She'd cast me away like a broken toy the moment she's done with it. She’d not feel the least bit bad about killing someone. So why do I feel different? Why don't I?

  She begins to weaken, clawing at the sheets. It slows. I’m locked in place, still heaving. My blood pounds, but I can’t hear it in the silence. There’s only the sound of waves. After a moment, she goes still. I wait a few more moments.

  I feel for a pulse. I don’t find one. In the strange pink magic of my vision, a few seconds from now, she doesn’t stir.

  I push off her, backing up against the opposite wall. I sink down. I’m shaking. My arcane hand fetches my flask, and I swig from it. I’m covered in cold sweat.

  She’s dead.

  I feel a million different things, like spiders crawling on my skin. Mostly, I just feel exhausted. I sit in the silence, not hearing anything, not looking at the dead dark elf on the bed, whip wrapped around her neck. I close my eyes, tucking my arms around my knees and leaning my forehead down. Maybe I should just leave. What are Arriel and Weekes gonna think? My ankle itches. I scratch it raw.

  I take another drink from my flask, numbness mercifully hugging me like a thick blanket. The churning waters begin to subside. Darkness is setting outside. I pause. There’s another small, pink sticker on my flask in the shape of a sun. I stare at it.

  Finally, the silence falls away. The sounds of the tavern drift back in. I wait a few more minutes, listening to it. I stand, my legs unsteady. I fetch my shirt and put it back on. I grab my mandolin, strumming up a pink square. I slap it on the wall, and it opens.

  Arriel and Weekes are waiting on the other side. Weekes is holding a small, metal rod. They take one look at me and stop.

  “It’s done.”

  They hesitantly step through. I close the hole behind them. Weekes looks at the body, ears drooping. Arriel only looks at me. I can hardly meet her eye.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, taking another drink. It’s my only hope of sleeping tonight.

  She keeps looking at me. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

  I snort. “I’m not sad another slaver’s dead.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I don’t want to talk about it. I uncoil the whip from Catherine, looking at her bloated, slack face. Then, I clear my throat and shakily touch a ley line. I sing:

  Now she’s done snuggling a whip

  Put this one back on her ship

  The body swirls with pink magic, then vanishes with a puff.

  I stoop, picking up her belt. A sword is sheathed on it, humming with magical energy. I peer at it. The world loses focus for a moment. Arriel and Weekes are talking, but I don’t hear them. They might even be talking to me. I can only focus on the sword in front of me. It’s beautiful, with a lustrous pine wood handle. I close my eyes. It’s singing, its own tiny ley line humming with music. I reach out with my mind, brushing against it, plucking and testing its harmonics.

  I wrap a hand around the handle. It fits perfectly. Did it change? Magical items do that sometimes. I draw it. It sings from its sheath, a clear, bright note. It’s a masterful Vasterholmian shortsword, single-edged and coming to an angled point. It’s almost waiting, aching for something – for a command. I finger its tiny ley line again. I can feel where a command used to be. Lissarel, or fire in elven. I stop. There’s a sense of release, like the slackening of a string needing to be tuned. It wants me to pick a new one.

  Right now?

  “Oh, fuck me,” I mutter. I open my eyes. Arriel and Weekes pause, turning to look.

  Pink flame erupts.

  I nearly drop it. We all screech. The room flares with light. I pause, clenching it at arm’s length, heaving. Hot pink flame licks down the blade. Arriel and Weekes look at me, wide-eyed. Their faces are cast with flickering pink light.

  “I’m stuck with that, then. Fuck me.”

  The flames vanish. We’re left in gathering darkness.

  Weekes laughs. The sound splits the room like a peal of sweet music. It’s a lovely sound. I laugh, too. He throws his arms around me.

  “Don’t touch me. I need a bath.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Let’s get you back, then,” Arriel says. “I can take us.”

  I’ve never been so happy to hear that. I’m exhausted - not much more for grabbing ley lines. “I’d appreciate that.”

  I sheath the sword, then transfer it to my own belt. Then, I grab my mandolin and whip. I chuck the room key on the empty bed.

  “Dawn Lord, bring us to your light,” she incants.

  A searing flash of light splits the room. A familiar feeling wrenches my stomach. Suddenly, we’re in a small chapel. I glance around. The walls are laced with white marble. Are we inside the Ronchellard estate? We must be. Before us is a small statue of a person with a sun sigil on their chest.

  From somewhere overhead, light casts on it. And as I watch, it winks.

  I hear nothing the next day. Surely, Irminric’s dealing with a mess of sizeable proportions with the port authority in Port Bourac. There’s no good opportunity to get to him. If he’s smart, he’ll be out of there and back to the Isles soon. He’s got two Warlords to replace. And something tells me it’s best to let him stew for now.

  I’m bored, though. I hate staying here for long, but Arriel’s right. It’s safe. I spend the day catching up on sleep. The next, I wander around, poking through rooms and cupboards. Iros gave me another sticker for killing Catherine. Another good deed done, according to him. It’s got me thinking about the last chat we had. He still wants me to be his Champion.

  I find a sitting room filled with plush couches and chairs by an extravagant fireplace. A piano takes up the corner. It’s richly built with glossy mahogany, although it looks like it hasn’t been played in years. I take a seat, plunking it. I wince. I’ve heard goblins hold a better tune.

  I hum and flick out my arcane hand, setting down my flask and getting to work.

  I lose track of time. Not thinking of anything else is a welcome relief. But I glance up when footsteps come in. It’s Arriel.

  She looks at me, giving a small smile. I nod. She slides onto the bench beside me.

  “Where’d this lovely piece of work come from?” I ask.

  “I don’t actually know,” she says. “Bri said she had to learn when she was little. She hates it.”

  “I can tell.”

  I move to the next octave, my arcane hand tightening the string. “Are you okay?” she asks. “After the other day, I mean.”

  I find myself clenching my teeth. “What do you think?”

  “I think that you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I’m sorry for what she did to you. And I feel especially awful for what I said. I hope you can forgive me.”

  I pause, focusing on flattening out the key. I take another drink, the feeling of roaring waves returning. “I had another chat with your god when he scraped me off your wards.”

  She goes tense beside me. Our shoulders are brushing. “You talked with him again? What did he say?”

  “That he wants me to be his… Champion.”

  When I glance over, her mouth's open wide enough to park a ship. “Y… you?”

  I gesture at her. “He told me I’d like seeing that face. And I’ll say, the idols don’t do him justice. Whatever gender he’s got going on, I like it.”

  "Gods." Her face pinkens. She looks away, blinking. “But you… ”

  “I don’t want any part of it. Why in the sweet hells would I do that when he didn't show up for me even once in those five years?”

  Her warm blue eyes search me. “You don’t really believe that.”

  I stop, finding myself clenching again. She’s right. I hate how well she reads me, sometimes. “He wants me spreading his light and says I’ve been doing that already. He said he needs someone who’ll do something about the state of the world, not just pray about it. But I make for a better pisspot than I do a cleric. And I’ll not be just a feel-good story.”

  “And what if you’re not? What if he wants you as you are?”

  I pause. I don’t see even the faintest bit of wisdom in that.

  She continues gently. “You’re not too broken to be of any worth to him.”

  “We’re done talking about that,” I cut in. The black waters start churning in my head again. I get back to my work.

  She’s quiet for a moment. “It’s a decision only you can make. Maybe it’s a new start. A chance to make the world into what you hoped it was. And maybe a chance away from this.” She points to my flask sitting on the stand.

  My throat tightens. I can’t look at her. I never cared about quitting before. Why do I feel bad about it now? She knows all of it – she saw me in that cell in Takazaki, nearly dying over a glass of potable. And she saved me all the same, not bothering me about it since. “Is it worth it?”

  “For you? I can't answer that. But maybe breaking more chains would break your own.”

  I was hoping she wouldn’t say that. “Breaking chains might end with me torching a city from dragon-back in the eighth season.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  I move to a new key, following with my arcane hand inside. I keep working. She only sits and watches in silence. I’m nearly done.

  “I didn’t know you play piano, too,” she says. “Only stringed instruments?”

  “Sure. Although I’ve got no small amount of skill with a skin flute.”

  She gives a polite cough, turning away. “How did you learn this?”

  “I’ve got an efreetin friend down in Byra,” I say. “She’s fairly wealthy and has one in her manor. She was a… sponsor when I was first starting out, let’s call it.”

  “She saw something in you?”

  “She likes getting in early with lots of artists. It’s a numbers game, hoping one of them hits it big. Whether it’s worked for her or not, I never asked.”

  “And did you? Hit it big?”

  I laugh. “If I had, I’d not be sitting here. Everyone tries, and almost everyone fails. I ran out of money and sponsors, so it was the unwashed ass end of Rheda for me. Although I was even running out of luck there, dodging around the Players’ Guild.”

  She smiles a bit. “You don’t talk very often about the years before. At least, not honestly.”

  I take another drink. My face is numbing. “It’s different people,” I say. I’m getting jittery. This is coming dangerously close to things I’ve not talked about before. My head roars and churns. It’s gonna swallow me if I keep going.

  “Before and after?”

  “Before the island, before the Pit… and after the Pit.”

  “What’s the… oh.” She pauses for a long moment. She squeezes my arm. “We have fighting pits here. A lot of money changes hands. That’s how I met Bri. I was volunteering at the medical tent. There are no slaves, of course.”

  “There certainly are slaves when dying for entertainment is an option.”

  “Nobody dies here.”

  I don’t even need to say it. She smiles sadly.

  I find myself clenching my jaw. If Irminric catches me, I’d rather face the tide than be tossed back in the Pit. I hitch at the immense feeling of black water splitting on rocky cliffs. She squeezes my arm again. It brings me back, if only a little.

  She watches me finishing up. I strike a few chords, then make a few more tweaks. The piano's got a unique sound, old as it is - aged like a fine bottle of dwarven whiskey.

  “Do you like it when people ask you for a song?” she asks.

  “I like it when they don't threaten harm if I don't.”

  She nudges me. “I’m serious. Do you like it?”

  I give something like a laugh. My throat constricts. Making a living from it was all I wanted to do before that ship came around. I’d never even held a sword before. It's what I was made for. “If not to sing, then why'd the gods give us voices?”

  She smiles. “Would you play me something then? No magic. Just you.”

  It’s hard ignoring the fluttering in my stomach. My heart sinks. It’s becoming harder and harder not to look at her and wonder about things.

  I breathe, playing some chords. I hum, finding the flow. The fact that she’s sitting next to me, wanting a private show, is inspiration enough. It becomes slow and melodious, like the helpless sting of regret.

  One day, I'll be the kind of man

  Who can give you what you need and more

  Right now, I can't see much but

  Anything beyond the floor

  I don't need love as much as I need

  To find a way to live another day

  One day, your mother will say

  That she's proud of you, and look at me

  I'll say you should've found a way

  To fall in love and go and be free

  I don't need love as much as I need

  To find a way to live another day

  I don't know how long I can keep together

  No matter if you say you'll last the weather

  There is nothing I can see beyond another rim

  But I want to say

  Don't leave me

  Please stay and be my sanctuary

  But I'll crack the door

  And I hope you soar

  One day, I'll see you standing there

  Across the room, and I'll see you smile

  I'll know that you found your wings

  But I'm still gonna look a while

  I don't need love as much as I need

  To find a way to live another day

  I continue, fluttering between more choruses and stretches of airy melody. I let the last few chords ring. She’s got moisture in her warm blue eyes when I glance over. She claps softly. I’m buzzing in the best kind of way. “That’s beautiful. Is it a Chouncey original?”

  I take another sip of my flask, gesturing at her. “That depends if you’re a producer.”

  “Just a fan. But I still think you’re the most talented person I’ve ever met.”

  I laugh. It splits my heart. I can’t stay here much longer. I need to get moving again. “Now, see… I told you to quit being so nice to me.”

  “Why does that bother you?”

  “The Byrian Isles are celebrated for their kindness. It reminds me of home. Look, it just… makes things harder. Part of me is still wondering all this time if you really are an angel.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I thought you figured out by now that flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

  “You think that’s flattery? I’m not within a hundred yards of being warmed up yet.”

  “Alright, then. Try it.”

  My brows go up. I glance her over. Her tawny hair would feel sublime held in my fingers. “You might as well ask me to flatter a sunrise. And I’d trade a thousand sunrises for one morning waking up to see your face.” I turn and lean against the piano frame. “I’d give you my heart like that –” I snap, and a small pink heart token appears in my hand. I offer it to her, softening my voice. “Just for a glimpse of seeing you smile my way.”

  She looks at the token, then slowly takes it. A smile pulls at her lips.

  “And there it is,” I say, brushing a thumb along her jaw. “It got me somewhere.”

  She looks down at her hands, fidgeting with the token, mouth open like she’s gonna say something. “I actually haven’t always followed Iros. I was an orphan in the Low as a child, and the church of Aenta took me in. I was a member of their clergy for a few years.”

  I’m not sure why she’s telling me this. “The clergy or the clergy?”

  A blush touches her cheeks. “We were encouraged by the Wilderkeeper to serve as we wanted. Some of us were more… dedicated to serving in certain ways than others. In my case, I took occasional turns as nature saw fit to guide me. It’s not looked down upon – in fact, it’s celebrated to go where your heart and body take you.”

  I’m really not sure why she’s telling me this. It’s not making things easier.

  She continues. “I left, though. I realized after a certain point that I needed more structure, more commitment. The church of Iros has that, to some degree. It’s more dedicated to helping people than whims and atmosphere. It fit me better.” She looks over at me, and I’m not sure what I’m seeing in her eyes. She speaks quietly, heavily. “I mean to say that… sometimes I miss the time in my life when I loved freely. If we’d met back then…” she trails off. I’m on the edge of a fucking knife, waiting for her to finish. “But I wouldn’t change this life for anything. Bri loves me and wants only me. And I love her, so I’m going to stay with only her.”

  I stare at her, my blood pulsing. A horrendous feeling is settling into my stomach.

  “But I wish you weren’t such a tempting man sometimes,” she says quickly. She pockets the token.

  I swallow glass. “And I really wish you’d not said that.”

  She looks at me for a long moment. Her face becomes something else – something I’ve not seen before. It’s not annoyed, or disappointed, or –

  She kisses me.

  It’s frantic. I nearly lose my seat. She wraps her hand around the back of my neck, holding me against her smooth, warm lips. Her tongue finds mine. It’s honey. My lungs are ragged. My heart’s thundering. She breathes into me. I pull her closer, feeling the strength of her hip, her leg. There's alluring, erotic heat between them, calling for my face. I'd have her here on this bench. It's the closest I'd ever come to divinity, sinking into her, watching her go slack. Or her sucking my soul clear through my cock. Or maybe bending her over this piano. Or her bending me over the piano. Either’s more than fine. Maybe we'd just tumble around the floor or split one of those couches in half. I'd even fix it for her. She could toss me naked into the hallway and paddle me senseless, and I'd thank her for the honor. I’m sopping wet, entirely straining in my pants at the thought of it. There’s only her lips, the quickness of her breathing, the smell of her verbena oil. I lace my fingers through her hair and give it a slight pull. It’s soft. She quivers, a quiet sound escaping her. My arcane hand strokes her arm. Her skin pimples. I bare her neck and move to her throat, feeling the plush press of her chest against mine -

  And then she pulls away.

  She pauses, straightening herself. Her lips are red. I’m breathless. If I swing her around on this bench, would she stop me? I’m almost shaking at the thought of kneeling on the floor, and –

  “Thank you,” she says quietly. I’m not sure what for. She smiles a bit.

  “I’m in fucking love with you,” I say. I feel like crying.

  “I know. And I can see how you would think this is why Iros brought us together, but… I don’t think it is. You’ll find someone whose heart you can happily abscond with.”

  She might as well have sunk a knife in my ribs. She touches my face.

  “The light be with you.”

  It’s not like other times I’ve heard people say it. It’s almost a prayer – fervent and tender. For a moment, it’s almost like the light is there. It’s in the warmth of her tiny smile, the blue of her eyes, the tawny, dark blonde of her hair.

  It’s light I could’ve had for my own if things were different, if I never ended up on that island.

  Then she stands and leaves.