The children streamed past Taras, joining the Aravind around their crèchemate. Despair seemed palpable, pouring off them. The pressure pushed against his soul. They blamed him for this tragedy, and he knew that they were right.

Feet heavy with regret, Taras dragged himself over to Meri to witness the destruction he had caused. If he hadn’t stayed behind with the people of the Western crèche, if he had gone with Rhae like he should have, then the soldiers would have passed by. Meri would be alive.

Aravind gasped in shock. “He still lives! Vasi, Ayis, run and find Thenxi’s apprentice. We might be able to keep him breathing until she returns.”

Taras slid down to the ground next to Meri. His belt and tunic had been burned off by the explosion, and underneath, Taras could see a snarled network of burns radiated out from his chest, where the lance had struck him. The skin had melted off in the very center. Patches of raw flesh alternated with ugly welts. His left arm bent backward at an unnatural angle, and bone stuck through the skin. Blood stained the ground underneath him. He lay still, but Taras could feel a faint pulse of his spirit when he leaned close. Frayed and almost extinguished, but still holding on to life.

“Let me make restitution,” Taras said, holding out his hands toward Meri.

“Only a Seer has a chance to save him,” Aravind said, each word cold and clipped. “You have done enough here. Go.”

Taras turned a stern gaze at him. “That was a command, not a plea. Stand back and see the power of flame; it can kindle life as well as burn it up.”

Aravind stepped away, panic widening his eyes. He didn’t have a chance if Taras wanted to consume them all. Then he bowed, concern for Meri overriding his fear, his duties as crèche father paramount. “Save him, Taras. Please save my son.”

Taras retrieved his shield, lost during the final battering he’d taken, and tapped into the energy reserves. He was nearly spent, but the rush of power hit him like a healing balm. Taras placed his hands over Meri’s chest, concentrating on the light of life.

He couldn’t prevent Meri’s death. He didn’t have enough energy left, despite the extra he pulled from the embossing in the shield. He’d refill it later, but in the meantime, he’d need a new plan. Casting such a powerful ability was impossible with his current energy levels.

A thin trickle of light formed in the air around him, passing from Taras to Meri. As he dug deeper, reaching for the last of the uncorrupted reserves in the shield, the light strengthened, almost congealing in front of him, until it glowed like a bar of molten gold. With a last gasp of power, he plunged it into Meri, connecting his soul to Meri’s, lending him vitality and wholeness.

New muscle and skin formed, knitting itself across Meri’s body. Scars faded, though the widest, most jagged burns didn’t fully disappear. Bone retracted within the elbow, skin growing back over the jagged puncture wound. The arm twitched back into place, as normal looking as the other side.

Meri opened his eyes. He lips trembled, then he threw his arms around Taras. “I owe you my life. I can see you, but from the inside. Is that . . . normal?”

“You are linked to him now—a soulbond,” Aravind said, brows knit. “Is it safe?”

Taras shrugged. “Not safe.”

Aravind gripped Taras by the shoulders. “What have you done to him?”

“As long as I live, so will he. That is the only gift I can offer.”

Meri gasped, covering his eyes. “What is happening? You look like the sun itself, shining so bright I can barely stand to look at you, even though I’m not using my eyes anymore. Will I always be able to see you like this?”

“Reports vary, although I may fade at great distances. I’ve never performed a bond such as this—usually it is forbidden to our sect—so I can’t say for sure.”

Meri’s face grew pensive. When he spoke, his voice was tight, husky with raw emotion. “Forbidden magic?”

Taras let a ghost of flame flicker across his hands. “You would prefer to die?”

“No! I . . . I have a blood debt to you, Seer.”

“I’m no Seer, just an old man who likes to keep things in order. My mistakes led to your trouble, so I have restored the balance.”

“Will you face trouble for your actions?” Aravind asked as they slowly made their way to the campsite they’d set up earlier. He met Taras’s eyes, concern etched on his face.

Taras wiped blood off his forehead, staggering over to a small pillow on the ground. He slumped down on the makeshift seat, groaning with the effort. His bones creaked; his body dry and weak like an old rag with the water rung out. Who knew what the future might hold?

“Trouble? We shall see.”

=+=

When the flames finally stopped, Errol clawed his way out from under the corpse of the sergeant who had saved his life. His con had paid off; they’d thought he was part of Freyman’s circle and should be kept alive at all costs.

He felt a twinge of guilt. The deception had cost the men their lives. Although, if they had died facing him in battle, then it wouldn’t have bothered him, he realized, and that bothered him. Disregard for their lives shouldn’t depend on whose side they signed up for it, should it?

But the worst guilt of all came from the sight of that boy, burned alive, chest ripped apart by the lance. He’d been so proud of finally creating his first lance, even if wasn’t as strong as a full Eel’s, and what had he done with it? Attacked a child, unprovoked, because he’d convinced himself that a small boy could take out a justicar of the light! Taras had probably just let the kid wear the shield to earn favor with the group.

Errol didn’t know who they were, or why the boys played in the streets like this was their home, but Taras had clearly been friends with them. And he had killed the boy and turned Taras into an enemy. One stupid presumption, and he’d destroyed his chances with the only important ally he had . . .

He blocked out the accusing thoughts, pushing a pile of rubble off him. He’d managed to dive under a steel beam the construction crew had left along the village’s trading route, although the sergeant’s corpse had done most of the hard work, acting as a gruesome meat shield while Errol had curled up into a ball and begged not to die. All that was left was a shriveled husk, half burned away by the fires. Errol buried him next to the melted steel beam, covering him one handful of slag at a time.

He tried to stand up and finally noticed that his right leg had been burned so badly that he couldn’t even feel the pain; the knee and ankle were locked into place and his toes didn’t respond anymore, a revelation that panicked him more than he thought rational. Surely he could relearn the use of his legs. Or perhaps he could find a healer, someone other than Taras. They probably wouldn’t be on speaking terms for the rest of their lives—and for Errol, that might not be much longer.

The skin on his right side had melted from the chest down, fusing with a layer of fabric he wore under his tunic. He couldn’t tell how he was alive, much less strong enough to excavate himself from the pile of bodies and split-open builders, but he had a strange suspicion that the Bridge itself had revitalized him.

After the first stream of fire, Errol had locked onto Taras with his sensor field, tracking the surge of energy that tipped him off to subsequent fire blasts. The energy pattern’s signature was slight and unremarkable, but once he’d identified Taras in the chaos, Errol felt confident that he could recognize him again once he was in range.

Errol dragged himself over another burnt body. It crumbled away beneath him, already burned to ashes. He crawled back toward where they had first seen the boys playing, where he had shrugged off his pack and attacked without thought or reason. Part of him wanted to crawl over to Taras and beg his forgiveness, to explain that it had all been a tragic misunderstanding of the highest order, but Errol had a feeling that Taras would cremate him on sight.

He wouldn’t blame the man if that’s how it ended for him. He had blood on his hands and didn’t know how to make atonement. Worse, if the scouts returned soon, while Taras hunted him down, they’d all end up as crisps on the ground too.

A gentle rain opened above him, like the Bridge was apologizing for its bad manners the day before. The water washed away the dust and blood stains, but Errol still felt dirty.

The path swerved upward and to the north, forcing Errol through more broken terrain. He started to run out of breath. Each movement sapped his strength almost immediately, prolonging the three-limbed crawl on his hands and one good knee. Serrated edges of broken stone cut his hands and tore away the fabric of his clothes, but he dug his hands into the rubble and inched forward, arms shaking.

The slope grew slick with rain and blood. Errol ripped off the rest of his tattered tunic, wrapping the strips around his hands for meager protection. A slab of rock shifted ahead, sliding into the rubble like an iceberg from Wyvern's Gate, shaking the ground. The tremors passed over him and he sagged down, his face scraping against the jagged rocks.

What was the point of continuing? Even if he reached his pack, what good would a few lockpicks and a silver charm do? His leg was useless, he was out of food and water, his team scattered and possibly dead, and he'd managed to make a mortal enemy of the only friend near enough to help. Even if could hold out until the scouts returned, there was no guarantee that they'd be duped by the same fiction he'd spun for the sergeant. Worse, they might believe him, but decide they liked the taste of freedom and remove his meddling from the chain of command before returning to Laurentum. They could blame him and the Sarge and go free.

Errol tried to reach out for the Bridge spirit, but she’d gone strangely quiet since the last bout of storms, as though her communication had been cut off. He took a rest break, gasping for air, and turned the information over in his head. He had been building up a theory about the way the Stormorb drew power, and this sudden silence seemed to confirm his suspicion. Maybe he’d be able to help, if he could reach the temple in time; but first he had to crawl another twenty-five feet. He looked over at his pack, so close, and squeezed his eyes shut against sudden tears.

Breathing slowly, in what he hoped resembled a calming rhythm, Errol stretched out his arm, trembling with effort, and pulled himself forward. He paused, rebuilding his strength, then repeated the crawling motion with his other arm, pushing with his good toe to assist. His head felt light; the world spun around him, and he blacked out.

When his senses came back, Errol reused to open his eyes. Instead, he pushed forward again, a little less vigorously this time, and took longer to rest. He didn’t want to know how much farther he still had to go. He would make it, or he would die. The distance didn’t matter, only the attempt.

He coughed, sputtering, and hacked up something wet onto his hands. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know it was blood. The faint tang of iron was confirmation, but he instinctively realized that his body was rebelling against him, shutting down. Errol didn’t bother to clean the blood, saving his strength for his next tortured round of dragging himself forward.

He didn’t want to die alone.