The burn on her abdomen was agony. Blisters had formed, which meant she risked infection, and one of the scratches on her face began to throb. Telo made camp in the same caves that had accommodated Elaaron’s company several nights ago. Irenya treated the scratches with a paste Telo made from cold ash and the milky juice of a ruti stem. It calmed the throb, though Irenya doubted the concoction was a suitable remedy for blisters if they became infected.
Despite the pain, she felt—knew—the time was right; she was going home and the conviction went marrow-deep. So did her intuition about where she might cross from Dar Orien to her world. She understood now why she felt no sense of her own world, except at the mirror … that’s the place where I cross, that’s my threshold. She considered the pos
