By the time Pirin had made it back to the road, he couldn’t see Alyus or Brealtod. He ran down the road a little, toward the glow and the rising smoke of the city, but there was still no sign of the smugglers—except for Gray’s especially large talon marks in the snow. But he’d promised them he would meet back at the airship, and so that was what he would do.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t keep the path clear of wraith-bears on his way. The others would need a safe walk back, after all.

He caught only one more bear stalking him in the twilight, and he dealt with it much like the first—and that included stealing the manabulbs. He consumed four to start with, curious how quickly and efficiently he could process their Essence.

That left twenty more in the haversack, ready to use.

Had he been a normal wizard, that probably would have been enough to push him to the brink of the Kindling stage, and advancement would be inevitable. It still might be, if somehow he could form a Reyad by the time he finished processing the last of these manabulbs.

When he returned to the Featherflight, he was only ten minutes earlier than Alyus, Brealtod, and Gray. They loaded their supplies onto the airship’s cargo platform, then hoisted it back up. Pirin and Gray rode back up on the platform.

The extra liftgas had come in barrels, which had been sealed with heavy paint. They wouldn’t hold liftgas for long, but long enough to transport it from the shop to the airship. When Pirin hoisted one of the barrels off the cargo platform, it didn’t feel nearly as heavy as a barrel should have. He was expecting to have to roll it along the Featherflight’s cramped keel walkway, but even he, with his slender arms, could carry it normally.

He brought the barrel to the bow of the airship, where Alyus waited. The ostal stood next to the foremost gasbag, holding a nozzle in its flank shut. In his other hand, he carried a small bellow, like Pirin expected to see in a forge.

They screwed the barrel onto the nozzle, then fitted the bellows onto the other end of the barrel.

“Pump,” Alyus instructed. “It’ll take a few minutes to push all the gas out of the barrel and into the gasbags.” He marched off down the walkway. “We’ve got a few more of these to do, so get going.”

While Pirin pumped the lifting gas out of the barrel, he cycled the manabulbs he’d taken from the wraith-bears. He filtered their power around his body, integrating it into the rest of his Essence. Although he didn’t have a new breathing technique, nor a new way of guiding the Essence, he had been exercising his channels. Combined with his mind, which had grown used to pushing Essence around in time with his breaths—his strengthened willpower—he figured he was integrating the manabulbs’ power into his own twice as fast as he had been before.

It helped that he had the pumping action of the bellows to keep his body focussed and loose, and to help him keep time.

Essence gathering was the first phase of magical advancement. At the end of the stage, he’d pack it into his core, and he’d be a Spark stage wizard—if he could advance.

“Look on the bright side,” he whispered to himself. “At least you’re going to have a lot of Essence to work with if you do advance.” He paused, then shook his head. “When you advance. When.”

Once Pirin had emptied the first barrel into the gasbag, he moved on to the next. Each of the airship’s six gasbags received an extra barrel of lifting gas, and Pirin pumped them all full—while cycling the manabulbs he’d earned.

While he was unlocking the last barrel from the sixth gasbag, Alyus returned with a spool of rope around his shoulder and a bucket in-hand. “Gonna top up the ballast while we’re at it. Gotta keep ‘er stable, now that we’re more buoyant. But you can go down—Laurill made dinner while we were gone, and she usually doesn’t do that. I used to do most of the cooking.”

Pirin tilted his head. “You?”

“We…knew each other pretty well. But don’t tell her I told you that.”

Pirin nodded. He set the last barrel down, then returned to the cargo hold. Before heading down to the surface, he approached Gray. She had made her nest on the cargo platform a little bigger. Though she had settled down in it, she wasn’t yet asleep—Pirin crept over to her, navigating around crates and barrels, then sat down beside her.

She leaned over and nudged his shoulder with her head. Pirin ran his hand through her feathers. “Thanks for sticking with me.”

Gray chirped softly. But she was just a bird; she couldn’t understand what he was saying.

“One day, you’ll be a proper Familiar. You’ll live a full, long life, and you’ll actually understand the adventures you’re going on.”

Again, Gray chirped.

Pirin sat beside the nest for a few more minutes, until his stomach started rumbling. He stood up, then climbed down the rope ladder and walked back to the hut.

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Laurill had prepared a simple plate of river fish and boiled barley. Pirin had arrived first, but Brealtod and Alyus stepped into the hut a few minutes later.

They all ate—including Laurill, who only picked at her food. Afterward, she suggested, “Why don’t you give the old Featherflight a makeover, eh? Give her a few different colours and throw off your pursuers, whoever’s after you. So you don’t get yourself in any more trouble.” After a short pause, she added, “Or not. If there’s one thing Alyus loves more than silver, it’s trouble.”

“I’m not sure if that’s really necessary…” Alyus said, poking at the remains of his fish. “I don’t imagine it’d help.”

Laurill pushed herself up and hobbled over to the counter. A fist-sized, porous gray stone rested atop it. She blew into it, and it crackled. Pirin thought a voice filtered through it, but he wasn’t sure.

It was a windstone—a rock soaked in so much Essence that it had arcane properties. Most were used to transmit voices, but they needed rushing wind to activate.

Sure enough, Laurill said, “I can call up a crew from the local shops. They give me a hand now and then.”

“Our hunter knows the ship by its shape; he saw it at night,” Alyus replied. “A new coat of paint won’t do us much good now.”

“Who’re you being hunted by, Aly?” Laurill pressed.

“What does it matter to you, anymore?”

“The Red Hand is chasing us,” Pirin blurted out. Despite what Alyus had said, she seemed reasonable enough—and more than willing to help.

“The Red Hand?” Laurill’s face contorted into a betrayed scowl. “Not just some petty crime boss, but the Red Hand of the Emperor? Of the Dominion?” She turned to face Alyus shakily, then pointed to the door. “Out. Now. Leave me, and don’t come back. I’ve had enough of your adventures, your awkward little rebellions, and whatever this is.”

Alyus raised a hand calmly. “Now, Laurilll—”

She raised a hand and stumbled, then grasped the table to stay upright. “Out.”

Pirin pushed his chair back slowly and stood. “I didn’t mean—I just—”

“And what did you mean? When were you three going to tell me that you were in open rebellion against Aerdia and the Dominion?” She broke into a fit of coughing. “Aerdia is the only future of the elven continent. The true king is gone, holed up in some dingy hall in the north, and he’ll die off soon enough.”

“And where is your Governor-King?” Pirin asked. “He hasn’t been seen in years, either, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Laurill snapped. “We’ve all read the writing on the walls, eh? Governor-King or not, the Dominion is our one lord now. Sirdia will fall soon, soon, soon…” She shut her eyes and clutched her forehead. “Get out, before I report you to the local rangers.”

“Come on, Pirin,” Alyus said, grabbing Pirin’s arm and pulling him toward the door.

Pirin threw off Alyus’s grip and looked Laurill in the eyes. “Are things safer now? Are you happier now, now that you’re just living in the shadow of the Dominion?” He didn’t know where the outburst came from, except for a twinge of anger inside his chest. He didn’t resist it.

“You can die with Sirdia if you choose.” She ushered them towards the door, hobbling along on her crutches. “And you, Embercore, if you stay on the same road, you may just reach a deserving destination.”

Pirin took one last look at her, then stepped out the door, following Alyus and Brealtod. They climbed the rope ladder to the Featherflight in silence. Alyus ran up into the envelope of the airship on the pretense of loosening the ballonets and preparing the ballast, leaving Brealtod and Pirin alone in the gondola.

“What was that all about?” Pirin whispered, as soon as Alyus’s heavy bootsteps faded. “I thought she—”

Brealtod hissed softly, but it didn’t seem like he was trying to shut Pirin down, rather, answer a question. With his scaled hands, he pointed at Alyus, then mimed out cradling a baby.

“They…had a child?” Pirin guessed.

Brealtod nodded.

“And since he hasn’t talked about a child…” Pirin sighed. Had the lie about Alyus’s daughter been so far off?

Brealtod drew a finger across his neck, then pointed to the west.

“His daughter,” Pirin began, and when Brealtod nodded, he knew he had guessed right, “she died?”

If Alyus and Laurill had once had a daughter, that would have shared her mother’s Boodline Talent. She would have formed a Reyad—as far as Pirin knew, an Embercore wasn’t passed through blood. She would have been a wizard, and…she had died serving the Dominion.

“All we got back was her rotting hand in a box,” came Alyus’s voice, distant and deep. He stomped back down the ladder. “And that was it. She was gone, cut down by a band of rebel horsemen far across the sea.”

Pirin bit his lips and backed away sheepishly. He hadn’t meant to be overheard.

“The Dominion shouldn’t have ever been in Plainspar, but they were. They have been, for centuries. And now, they’re coming here, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” He placed a hand on Pirin’s shoulder. “Next time, mind your own business.” Pirin didn’t detect any anger in his voice, only cold acceptance. “Let’s get moving.”

That night, none of them got any sleep. They sailed south, floating away from the city and away from Laurill’s hut. Pirin stared behind the airship all night, barely blinking. Maybe Laurill would report them anyway. He had to be ready.

In the morning, they set the airship down in an open clearing. Alyus and Brealtod needed sleep, they said. Pirin still didn’t feel tired, so he took the first watch—standing up on the top platform.

Cold winds brushed over the airship. Hoarfrost clung to the trees, and the sky was perfectly blue. In the distance, a small farmstead hid in the forest, and even further away, low mountains pierced the land. He pushed his gaze further and further away. His rhythmic breathing, his cycling pattern, lulled him into a trance. Supposedly, wizards meditated; they needed strong minds for their most powerful magic. It was part of the advancement process, right?

But when the thoughts left his mind, slivers of memories slipped back in. The invisible wind slipped through the keyhole at the base of his neck.

He saw old glimpses of a windswept, blizzard-shrouded island. Gravel shores, weathered plateaus. Riding gnatsnappers. He studied herbs, and he studied anatomy. It passed too fast. Too many glimpses of too many years, all out of order and all rearranged.

After a few hours, he heard bootsteps behind him, thudding against the ladder and the deck. Climbing out of the envelope of the airship, Brealtod approached. He hissed a couple times. That was usually the sign for Pirin to head below deck and sleep. Pirin took the opportunity to head to the crew quarters.

He needed to get a little rest. They had a few more days before they would arrive at Bâllenmarch, and he had to use all the time he could to train.