‘You think it’s magical, then?’ the boy asked, sneering.

‘Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things wrong with you that aren’t magical, but this …’ He gestured to the soaked earth. ‘This seems more in the realm of “things that could go horrifically awry.”’

‘It’s just a little loss of control,’ Dreadaeleon replied as calmly as he could. ‘Magic needs fuel. I am that fuel. I don’t get to decide which muscles it eats away.’

‘That doesn’t seem much like a muscle you should be gambling with,’ Denaos said. ‘What was it that caused it? Too much magic stuff?’

‘Yes, exactly. All the wondrous thought and power that goes into my gift and you’ve boiled it down to “too much magic stuff,”’ the boy snarled. ‘You have a promising future as an archivist for the drunk and simple.’ He glowered disdainfully at the sleepy look in the rogue’s eyes, sniffed at his foul breath. ‘Mostly the drunk.’

‘Well, there’s hardly any need to be snide about it,’ the rogue replied. ‘Really, though, I am a bit curious.’

‘And I’m a bit uncomfortable with where this is heading.’

‘Hush, I’m pontificating.’ The rogue leaned back with an air of scholarly ponder, tapping his chin. ‘Why in Silf’s name, or whatever gods you don’t happen to believe in, would you still be suffering magic-related ailments if you haven’t had need, cause or want to continue using magic for all the time we’ve been here?’

He knows. He knows about the tome, about the scrying, about the stone …

The thought came almost unbidden, and the stiffening of his spine and sudden dripping halt of his flow came completely unbidden. The rogue’s eyebrow rose so slowly, with such arrogant curiosity, that Dreadaeleon could almost hear the muscles behind it creak like a door.

No, he told himself. He knows nothing. How could he?

How could he not? the boy countered himself. It’s not like you’ve been particularly subtle about it. And he has a penchant for sneaking up on people …

That made sense, the boy had to admit. He should have known he couldn’t get far enough away to avoid Denaos.

Still, he told himself, he can’t know much. What could he know? He doesn’t understand how scrying works.

But he could have learned. He could have found out, watched the wizard in his meditations long enough to have discerned that he was sniffing about the island, that he was pulling down more and more seagulls for purposes beyond getting covered in bird stool.

His heart started to beat quicker. How much did the rogue know? Was he aware of the tome’s location? Was he aware that the boy knew? Had he surmised the boy’s plan, to delay their discovery until he could bring himself up to his full strength and find it himself?

He must know; he’s not an idiot, Dreadaeleon told himself. Maybe I should just tell him. He can be persuaded to keep a secret …

No, fool! He reprimanded himself with a mental snarl. Tell him, and he’ll tell Lenk. Lenk will get it and what will you have done? Tattled like a child? They’ll be the great heroes again, adored by her, and you’ll be nothing more than a whiny little brat who had to go running to the men again.

He paused, frowning. Maybe I’m overreacting. They can’t possibly see me like that.

But when have they not? The irritation came flooding back into him with a scowl. They treat you like a match, sparking you and throwing you away at their convenience. You set the fires and they enjoy the warmth. It’s time you proved that your fires shouldn’t be ignored so lightly. You’ve conquered bigger obstacles with magic before. You can do this.

Right, he told himself. I can do this. He grimaced. Right?

‘You’re hiding something,’ Denaos said, angling the accusation like a knife.

‘What makes you so sure?’ the boy replied as smooth as he could manage.

‘You just froze while I was talking you, likely disappearing into some bizarre stream of thought that you’d rather I was not privy to.’ The rogue sniffed. ‘Also, your piss is on fire.’

The smoke filled his nostrils before Dreadaeleon could even think of a reply. He stared down with twofold horror: once to see the stream renewed and twice to see the yellow taint ending in a small blaze that smouldered angrily on the ground. His cry, too, came twice as he leapt backward and sprayed fiery soil across the earth.

‘Good Gods, how do you explain this?’ Denaos leapt from the errant stream.

‘It’s … it’s perfectly natural,’ Dreadaeleon stammered. ‘Well, all right, not natural, but not uncommon. Sometimes fluids get crossed when a wizard channels them through his body, resulting in urine that explodes when exposed to air. Nothing to worry about.’ He nodded sternly, placed his hands on his hips, then looked up at the rogue. ‘So, uh, what do I do?’

‘How should I know what to do about your fluids?’ Denaos said, cringing away. ‘How often does this happen?’

‘Not enough that I know what to do,’ the boy shrieked, gesturing wildly. ‘How do I stop it? What do I do?’

‘Well, don’t point it at me!’ Denaos angled himself sharply behind the wizard, seizing him by the shoulders and directing him toward a nearby bush. ‘There! Just … just close your eyes and think of Muraska. It’ll wear itself out.’

Damn, damn, damn, Dreadaeleon scolded himself mentally. This! This is what happens when I don’t rest! I knew this was going to happen. Well, not this, specifically, but something like this! Oh, I’m so bad at this … His hands twitched about his loincloth, fearful to touch and aim the suddenly lethal spewer. Well … no, it’s fine. Denaos can keep a secret, right? He’ll make me pay for it later, but for now, all that matters is that no one sees—

‘What’s going on?’ a familiarly feminine voice lilted to his ears.

He nearly broke his neck as he contorted it to see over his shoulder. Asper stood, hands on bare hips, her expression a blend of concern and irritation that drifted between the wizard and the tall man standing between them. Dreadaeleon felt his blood run cold, even as he felt a sudden, fiery spurt.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN!

‘Watch my back,’ he whispered his plea to Denaos.

‘Better than your front, surely,’ the rogue muttered in reply.

‘Is there something going on here that I should be informed about?’ Asper demanded again, crinkling her nose as she witnessed Dreadaeleon’s activity. ‘Or is this actually as foul as it appears?’

‘Foul?’ Denaos mimicked her indignant stance. ‘What’s foul about it?’

‘He appears to be urinating on a burning bush,’ she replied, fixing him with a suspicious stare. ‘Why?’

‘Dry season.’

‘And Dreadaeleon is …’

‘Performing his humanitarian duty by putting it out.’ The rogue sighed dramatically. ‘Listen, this is rather a personal aspect of a man’s life, so is there something we can help you with?’

‘Lenk has something to say to us,’ she said. ‘He has a hard time climbing the rings with his injury, so I went out to find you.’

‘Well, injured or not, he’ll have to come to us,’ Denaos said with a shrug. ‘Dread’s going to be a while.’ At her confused stare, he nodded sagely. ‘It was a very dry season.’ Following that, he thrust his own curious stare at her. ‘Interesting that you should come this far just to find us, though … Almost out of character, isn’t it?’

Even over the crackle of the blazing bush, Dreadaeleon could hear the accusation intoned in Denaos’ voice. He lofted a brow, then lofted it higher as he heard Asper’s feet slide aggressively across the sand and her hand clap on the rogue’s naked back. An instant of remembered pain flashed through his mind, memories of the rogue’s arm around the priestess, the sensation of impotent fury that followed.

He hid his scowl, strained to stifle himself and hear the harsh whispers emanating between her clenched teeth.

‘You say nothing of what happened,’ she snarled to him, pulling him closer. ‘Nothing.’

‘Ashamed?’ Denaos muttered in reply.

‘Secretive,’ she growled. ‘You know the difference.’

‘I don’t know why it matters so much.’

‘No, you don’t.’

By the time he heard her break away from him, listened to hear feet tramping down the sandy hill, the blood boiled in his ears with enough fury to render him deaf to all else, save the thunder in his own head.

You fool! You FOOL! What was she doing while you were scenting out the tome? What was he doing while you were preparing to save them all? Of course, why wouldn’t they? Filthy, god-fearing animals acting in decidedly filthy mannerisms …

‘She’s gone now,’ Denaos said, glancing down the hill. ‘How’s the progress over there?’

Maybe it’s not like that … Maybe she’s talking about something else. Let’s remain calm here. It’s the fumes that are making me like this … burning urine can’t be good for the sinuses.

‘Really, though,’ the rogue continued without his reply, ‘I’m not sure why it needed to be a secret. Chances are she’d be impressed that you could pull off something like this.’

She doesn’t need to know anything, he muttered inwardly. She doesn’t need to know that you can’t even control yourself while he … He felt his teeth threaten to crack under the strain of their clenching. She knows all about his bodily functions, doesn’t she? No … no, stop thinking like that, old man. He’s a cad … a liar … a rat.

He probably seduced her, tricked her … I’m still the better man.

The stream sputtered and died out, leaving a fire that gave no heat that Dreadaeleon could feel. His head throbbed, but he didn’t mind. His fingers ached, but he didn’t feel them. All feeling poured into his stare as he felt the crimson light flicker behind his eyes.

The better man with all the power.

Too late, Kataria realised that not everything could be learned from the wisdom of the elders. For years, she had been content to accept their categorisation of the human menace as a disease. It had made sense when she had only four notches in her ears.

Humans contaminated, infected, multiplied, spread. It was how they had bred to the point where they threatened land and people, where they began to require a cure. Still, she was forced to admit, certain aspects of the elders’ wisdom left out key information.

Such as onset time.

Perhaps one year was enough, she thought as she stared down at the strain that sat against the reed hut. Perhaps one year and six days was enough to be infected beyond the point of a cure. That made sense now that she had six notches in her ears.

After all, she thought resentfully, how long has it been since you felt the urge to kill him?

‘Six days.’

‘What?’ Her eyes went wide, as though fearing he could hear her thoughts with those puny little ears.

‘Six days since we landed,’ Lenk elaborated.

‘Shipwrecked,’ Kataria corrected.

‘I was trying to be optimistic.’

‘It doesn’t suit you.’

‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘Six days since we were shipwrecked on an island forgotten by man and abandoned for dead by the very people we so foolishly trusted to come and rescue us from a slow, lingering death surrounded by an impenetrable wall of salt and wind.’ He turned a glare upon her. ‘Happy?’

‘Well, now you’re just being negative,’ she replied. ‘What’s your point, anyway?’

‘My point is that I’ve had enough of it,’ he said. ‘Enough loincloths, enough lizardmen, and enough forbidden islands.’

‘Better than berserker purple women, giant fish demons and gaping, diseased wounds, surely.’

‘I haven’t forgotten those.’ He rubbed the bandages upon his leg thoughtfully. ‘And I’ve had enough of that, too.’

‘Enough adventuring?’ Her tone was as sly as her smile. ‘I thought it was all you wanted.’

‘No one wants to be an adventurer. They just do it when they can’t get any other work.’

‘Your grandfather was an adventurer,’ she offered. ‘He wanted to be one.’ She frowned at his puzzled expression. ‘Or so you said.’

His face twitched, an expression of doubt flashing across his features like sparks off flint. She held her breath at the sight, waiting for the question that would inevitably follow. He didn’t ask it, didn’t have to. The doubt upon his face twisted to an all-telling despair in an instant as he undoubtedly realised he couldn’t remember his grandfather ever having been such a thing.

His memory was improving. He had said that, but he was human. Humans lied. He had little to offer in regard to his past, save for brief flashes of memory in a deep and smothering darkness: a name of a girl he once knew, an image of a tree struck by lightning, the sound of cocks crowing. Even those days he spoke of slid by swiftly, into memory and out, back into darkness.

To look at him struggling to recall brought her own memories to the surface. When she looked upon him out of the corner of her eyes, his silver hair was a pelt, his eyes were faded and cloud-covered, his breath slow and stagnant. In those brief glimpses, he was no longer Lenk; he was a beast, and he was sick.

When she looked at Lenk, it was difficult to see him as a man anymore. More and more, he resembled something dying, struggling with the symptom of his own memories.

And you know what happens to sick beasts.

She closed her eyes, trying to forget the sound of shrill whimpers fading under the crunch of pitiless boots.

‘Yeah,’ Lenk suddenly whispered, ‘he was, wasn’t he?’