Three days after the ritual burning of Yashi, Irenya stood at the cirayla and waited for inspiration. She had arrived late this morning and the tables were already polished. The scent of lavender wax wafted through the dining hall, but it was no match for the reek of burning flesh. Her hands were icy cold, her memory still aflame. She thrust her hands into the warmth of her armpits and remembered Leachim’s deep breathing. In her thoughts she sifted the physician’s words, decided that basing a whole system on one source of power was a pretty dumb thing to do; lose the MageGate and it’s all gone. Until she reminded herself of what happened when electrical power failed: no lights, computer, fridge, heating, cooling, TV, or radio—nothing. And it is long term.
A familiar voice recalled her to
