The sun is low in the sky as I walk to the barn, hoping to get some real information out of the shaman this time. If it had been him or Veradeaux that came looking for us at the farmhouse, we would never have gotten away with the paltry tricks we played yesterday. They would have known simple telekinesis as soon as they saw it; we're lucky townsfolk aren't so discerning between pure superstition and the truly supernatural.

As I trudge through the snow, I marvel at Leavi's promise to me. How in all realms could she be planning to get me home? It's an impossible task, even if Draó and Morineaux weren't guarding their borders; during wartime on her own land, Morineaux enacts a strict policy about people coming into the country. In the travel-disheveled state I would be in, I have no doubt the guards would throw me out as a foreigner.

But she said she would help me.

What purpose would saying something like that serve? What does she think she can do to change this foolish situation I have gotten myself into?

All of this—every bit of it—is my fault. If I had stayed, I could have helped defend the castle. I could have defended Sela so that she wouldn't have had to be taken to the Meadow. I could have been the one to take her if it was unavoidable.

Instead, Agraund is dead, and it's my fault. I'm stuck in this farmhouse, wasting away the days. What is wrong with me that I ever found it acceptable to forsake my country, my duty, for such a foolish quest?

But Leavi said she'll help me get home. Even though I lied to her, even though she's in danger because of me, even though she thinks it's my fault Sean left. She said she'll help.

The wavering sunlight is scattered by thick clouds, but there's still light enough for me to see by. Food in hand, I slip through the field.

Amarris's questions make sense now. An ache rings through me that my unhelpfulness didn't stop the attack. That she would help the Kadranians try to conquer Morineaux is despicable. Then again, she always has been a self-serving snake.

Part of me doesn't even want to give this food to the Kadranian worm. Part of me thinks starving is the least he deserves after helping with this attack on my homeland.

I won't stoop to his cruelty, though. I refuse to be comparable to a Kadranian.

I push into the barn. Instead of the shaman tied up by the wall, in the middle of the room is something small and round, faintly pulsing with clear blue light. Idyne must be putting together some spell. In this small town, I doubt Veradeaux was working with any casters other than the shaman and her bumbling novice. That doesn't mean I want anything to do with the mysteriously-motivated magic, though. I skirt the sphere as I hurry up to the loft, fervently hoping someone moved him here, and try to ignore the smell of some creature that must have gotten trapped up here. If he isn't, the only possibility is that he esca—

Completely limp against the wall, the shaman is covered in mostly-dry blood. His head lolls back, revealing a jagged gash so deep in his neck, he's nearly decapitated.

I recoil, stumbling into the wall. I've seen bodies before, but never one so gruesomely murdered. His dark eyes stare into the ceiling, pain and shock eternally etched into his bloodless face. Strands of lank red hair stick in the gore of his neck.

A small, disturbed voice whispers in the back of my head, Who could do this?

I run a hand through my hair to shake off the shock. I can't just leave this body sitting here. I don't want someone else to run across him—no one needs his image in their head, and no matter how much I detest him, no one deserves to sit out as carrion.

When I step forward to collect his body, a rat scurries out of the shadows by his leg and disappears underneath a long-forgotten hay bale. I turn away, fist to my lips and grateful the cold has undoubtedly slowed his process. Holding my breath, I pull his hood over his head, then heft him by it and his robes. Once near the edge, I telekinese him down, and wiping the sweat from my brow, I climb down the ladder myself. He skims just over the floor as I drag him through the barn and out into the snow. Once outside, I pull him by his hood alone since carrying his body is too awkward in the knee-high crystals.

I find a small clearing in the forest on the side of the farmhouse that faces away from the town. In the center, I clear away the snow as best I can and gather brush in roughly the same dimensions as the shaman, then drag him onto the pile. I cover him in more damp brush.

Despite his homeland's customs, I refuse to barbarically bury him as they do. I'm not even sure I could, with how frozen the ground is.

Using the vrye spell, I light the sticks above and beneath him. It takes multiple efforts to get it to catch into a proper funeral blaze. My disgust for him burns like the flames, but as I watch them, I can't help but wonder. Who was he? Did he have family? Children? None of them will ever truly know what happened to him.

What drove him to serve the attack on Morineaux? To be a shaman?

Staring through the flames at his face, pity rises within me. I don't condone his practice, but he was a powerful man and was reduced to solitarily living his last days as a snowy prisoner. A man that should easily have been able to fend off his killer was reduced to idly watching as they came closer until he was unable to watch anything again.

"Life is so fleeting," I murmur.

I watch the fire, making sure it doesn't die, until the body of the man is gone. Somber, I break up the ashes and charred wood, then push the snow back across the site as best I can.

The moon is peaked in the sky as I walk back to the farmhouse. Who could have done this?

I suppose it's possible someone completely unconnected to us ran across him and, for whatever reason, saw fit to end his life, but I find that unlikely. That cut wasn't the clean kill of someone trying to rid the world of their victim; it was angry, violent. It was revenge.

Maybe the guards found him and mistook him for part of our party—or had hated him while he was at the manor and found it a convenient time to stop him from returning. But it was still too violent for that, unless one of the men struck off on his own. I can't imagine anyone managing to put such malice into attacking a defenseless man while others were watching.

Leavi couldn't have done it. Considering she reprimanded me for keeping him outside in the first place, I can't see her murdering the man, despite his attempts to do just that to her. She's too gentle.

There's Sean. Though he's gone now, considering the state of the shaman, I don't have a hard time believing that he died two, three, four days ago. I can't picture Sean killing someone, though, much less a man he hardly knew. As helpful as he was in detaining Amarris, I still don't think he could stomach it. At least he has a cutting weapon, though, unlike Leavi, who doesn't even have a kitchen knife.

Jacin doesn't even know he's here, and Idyne...

Dark certainty settles in my stomach. Idyne could have done it. The image of her whipping out that shard of silverglass flashes into my mind. She held it like she knew what she was doing, her stance ready for a fight, rather than the awkward and hesitant ones of Leavi and Sean.

She's a kra'kaa, where practically the only predictable thing about her is that she'll play her side of the game, even when she says she's on yours.

But what reason could she have to murder this man?

Then again, we don't know anything about her—where she's from, who she is. Maybe she does have a reason to hate him enough to do this. Maybe she's unbalanced enough for it too.

I want to corner her and demand an answer, but I realize I have nothing, really, to say. What good would it do? She'd either deny it or not, and then what would happen?

Nothing good.

There's no reason to tell Leavi, either. She already didn't accept my earlier warning that she shouldn't trust Idyne; telling her only forces her to choose which of us to believe. Right now, I'm not sure I would win that argument.

Resolved to keep my silence, I push into the house. Jacin and Idyne are asleep in the living room, but despite the warmth of the hearth, I don't want to sleep with the witch just five feet away. Snagging the blanket Leavi loaned me, I pad upstairs, planning to choose a room near the chimney, when Leavi throws open the door to the guard room. Relief cascades down her face. "Aster."

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing now. I was worried about you." Her eyes sweep over me. "You've been gone for hours."

I pause. "The Man from the East died while I was sick."

Her jaw drops. Voice heavy with shock and grief, she asks "How?"

The thought flits through my mind to tell her that it was just animals, but I don't want her to blame herself. "Someone killed him." I'll let her come to her own conclusions about who.

Her mouth moves but no sound comes out. Slowly, she turns and wanders back into the watch room, sinking onto the chest. I edge in after her.

Her gaze returns to her watch post, but though the stars shine brightly tonight, I can't imagine she sees anything. The silence drags out, and I'm considering slipping back out to get some rest when she finally speaks. "Why does death keep following us, Aster?"

"I—" I draw closer, worried for her. "I don't know. But it's going to be alright."

She gives a mirthless laugh. "Not for the people who have died the last few days."

Her words are a punch to the gut, and I sink onto the chest beside her. I can't imagine what the castle will be like without Agraund.

Her eyes turn sympathetic. "I'm an idiot," she mutters, shaking her head. She sets a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Aster."

"It's fine," I reply softly, turning back to her. The flecks in her eyes catch the starlight. My shoulder buzzes beneath her hand, and my thoughts have slowed to a strange stop. I feel like I should be saying something, but I don't know what.

"I found a way for you to go home," she offers quietly. "If that helps."

Sudden panic burns in my chest, and I drop my gaze. I want to help, I want to right what I've done wrong, but—

I don't want to go. I certainly don't want to walk into a war, leading men I'm not prepared to lead, making decisions that alter the lives of thousands. I swallow. They're depending on me, though. The dread numbs my tongue. Even if I can't do much, they're depending on me.

Which means I need to be there.

I force down the fear as I meet her eyes again. "How?" My lips offer a smile. It's fake and practiced, but she doesn't know that.

"Idyne. She set up a... portal, is what she called it, that will take two people to Morineaux. You and Veradeaux." Her lips twitch a small smile, but I get the feeling it's just as fake as mine. "It'll be ready in a week."

Despite the fear and dread, gratitude fills me. "Thank you, Leavi." I know what I have to do is an impossible task, but she's somehow made it slightly more conquerable.

Then it sinks in who she said offered the portal. "Are you sure that's a good idea? What did she ask for it?"

She shrugs, dropping her hand. "Nothing. Said she didn't charge for friends." Something wavers in her eyes—uncertainty or fear or something we don't have a name for. A chill skitters through me.

I rest my hand near hers, fingertips barely touching. I want to comfort her, but I don't know what about or how. I want to fix things for her, but I don't know what, if anything, is broken.

I want to tell her I'm here, but I'm leaving soon.

"Like you said." She smiles weakly. "It'll be alright. You'll get home and hopefully the rest of us won't be far behind you. Maybe we'll meet again someday."

Something in me plummets. It didn't occur to me that this next week will likely be the last time we'll ever see each other. It's hard to believe that someone who has been such a constant in my life for the past week will probably never be in it again. It feels like it's been so much longer than that.

"Yes," I finally manage. "Maybe."

She glances back outside, voice turning wistful. "You should probably be getting some sleep, shouldn't you?"

I force a thin smile. "I doubt I'll be getting to sleep any time soon." The image of the dead shaman forces itself back into mind.

She glances over at me, hopeful surprise flickering on her face. "Oh?" Returning her gaze to the window, she says, "Well, if you can't sleep anyway..." She draws her hair around her shoulder. "I think we still have a little tea. I could make us some and you could help me keep watch. If you wanted."

The lightness of the idea lifts my spirits slightly, leaving me pleasantly surprised. I nod. "I think I'd like that." A smile lifts my lips.

She smiles in return and goes. When she comes back, we sit with warm cups in our hands and talk until the stars fade from the sky.

* * *

I'm dancing. Sleepy firelight illuminates the party around me. Leavi dances with me, an easy grin lighting her face. I've never met someone like her, someone so foreign, yet so kind and unselfish. Someone so good.

Her mouth moves, but I can't hear her. The sounds around me are clear—laughter, conversation, music—but Leavi's words don't reach my ear.

I strain to listen, and she keeps talking like everything's normal, but I can't hear her. Something's off, something's wrong...

The scene fades into us sitting on the farmhouse porch, facing the flurry of falling flakes. The air is weighty with our worries, yet she's here for some reason, trying to comfort me. I turn to her. She's silent, and I rest a hand on her shoulder.

The porch shows through her lightly translucent skin.

Fear and concern burn in me. She looks at me and tells me something important, impassioned, but I can't hear her.

Around us, everything shifts until we're standing on a snowy roof at sunset. Leavi, looking behind me at nothing, fearfully steps back, and her foot connects only with air.

My arms snatch out and hold her close to me. I stumble forward. I won't let her fall. My feet steady. I won't let her fall.

Her terrified eyes search my own as the spell tears words from her silent lips.

I can hardly feel her, and through her head I see the forest.

In her ear, I whisper assurances, because even though I'm scared and don't know what's happening to her—why is she fading?—I know she's scared, too, and I want to help.

She's fading in my arms, disappearing, and I don't know why; I don't want her to go, but she's disappearing.

She meets my gaze, pained tears coming to her eyes. Her fading lips form one word, and this time, though I can't hear it, I know what she says.

'Goodbye.'

Heart aching, I slip into wakefulness. Cold sweat dampens my forehead, and I sit up, trying to steady my shaky breath.

"Calm down," I murmur. "It was just a dream. I've dealt with them before."

At the same time, though, I know this one was different. It wasn't a nightmare of past failure and pain—it was simply an expression of my sorrow and fear.

I don't want to go. I don't want to lead men who disapprove of me, to rule beside family who think me useless, to make decisions where the outcome can decide who lives and dies. I don't want to spend my life a pawn of the Queen, a tool that no one cares for but everyone needs though I don't even work properly.

I rake a hand down my face, sunlight working its way through the shutters.

I don't want to leave her.

I shake my head violently. "That's absurd. You hardly even know anything about her."

Which is true. I don't know any of the little things that a person should about a friend. Her favorite color, favorite food, her dreams, her fears—these are all still mysteries to me.

But I know the important things. I know she's kind and willing to sacrifice for what she knows is right. I know she's witty and sarcastic, that she's far more intelligent than I, that she's trustworthy.

I know that after I leave, I'll never see her again.

But that shouldn't matter. I've been foolish to allow myself to form whatever level of attachment to her that I have. I'm only going to end up having hurt both of us.

Which is why I won't bother her anymore. I can't afford to want to stay any more than I already do, and I don't want to hurt her by going. Instead, I'll practice. There's no reason to be downstairs for more than meals. I can stay up here and cast.

When I get home, I'll be thrown into the middle of a lake of responsibilities and be expected to already know how to swim. So I'd best start learning.