Irenya left Fis and her rocky cone that evening, a new anxiety rubbing along with the others. She had broached the subject of going home one more time. The seer’s reply had been unequivocal.
‘We all want answers,’ said Fis. ‘You may talk of theory and possibility until the words stretch across the realm. You may seek out mystics and mages until your legs are worn to stumps. But the only answer is what you do.’ The woman held Irenya’s gaze. ‘What you are seeking will come to you.’
Abandoning a dying woman in such a place left Irenya feeling helpless and guilty. Do you see yourself? Fis had asked. Irenya knew that answer. Fis was like a precipice, a magnet to draw Irenya O’Neil, panic-stricken and reeling, to the edge.
And what would she do with this new knowledge? She should tell Elaaron
