“I didn’t know it was possible for a half-Fey to be a Valtain.”

The man laughed as he set down cups of steaming green liquid

before me and Max. “I’m not half Fey, darling. Just have some blood from some distant great great grandmother or such. But the ears do make me look exotic, no?”

He looked expectantly at me, as if he was waiting for an answer, so I nodded. “Oh yes. Very.”

The man’s name was Klasto. He introduced us with equally bubbly enthusiasm to his partner, Blif, a middle-aged woman who sat in the back of the shop with a book perched in her hands and did not bother to get up as we arrived. She peered at us from beneath a blunt black fringe, gave a little wave, and let Klasto do all the talking.

That, it turned out, was not difficult, as Klasto apparently never stopped talking. Even as he and Blif excused themselves to go gather some supplies, his voice still rose and fell down the hallway.

Max lifted the tea to his nose and frowned. When I went to take a sip of mine, he stopped me.

“I think this is wyarwood root. It’s a hallucinogen. Look at their pupils.

These people are high out of their minds.”

Sure enough, when Blif and Klasto returned, I realized Max was right— their pupils were so dilated that they nearly consumed their irises.

Max and I exchanged a glance. I was almost certain we were thinking the same thing: I don’t know about this.

But we had come this far, and I didn’t have any better ideas.

So, when Klasto asked us to explain our predicament, I gave him the details, careful to omit things that we needed to keep closely guarded. Ishqa, apparently, had already given them some background. While I talked, Klasto circled, hmm-ing as he examined us like we were sick livestock. He squinted at the scars on my arms, pursed his lips at Max’s tattoos, and paused for a long time to stare at the gold on my palm.

“What is this?” he asked.

Blif said, without looking up from her book, “It’s a wayfinder.”

Klasto’s white eyebrows arched. “A wayfinder? How fun. Ishqa told me that he was looking for the Lejaras, but I didn’t realize you managed to get your hands on a wayfinder.” He smirked and added, “If you forgive my pun.”

Ishqa told him about the Lejaras? I was torn between being surprised and being annoyed. Ishqa had hesitated to tell Max about the pools of magic, but had apparently seen fit to inform a couple of drug addict Wielders about our mission.

My surprise must have shown on my face, because Klasto laughed and gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Oh, sweetheart. Don’t look so concerned. Yes, of course we know about them. They’re legend, and we live in legends. The Lejaras, the three pools. One that embodies change, one that embodies life, and one that embodies death.”

Max and I exchanged another glance. That part was new information to

me.

“That’s what they do?” I said.

Klasto shrugged. “Who knows? That’s what the whispers say. But

whispers have been wrong before. In fact, one might say there’s plenty of evidence that the whispers are wrong about the Lejaras existing at all.”

“If they existed,” Blif said, not looking up from her book, “someone would have found them by now.”

Klasto rolled his eyes. “So sayeth the non-believers. You are no fun at all.”

“So what… are they, exactly?” Max asked.

“They’re raw, powerful sources of magic that draw deeper than—”

“No, I know that part. But what are they? Are they things? Are they places? Are they literal pools of magic, like a lake?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, to which part?”

“Do dragons have green eyes or yellow?” “What?”

“Exactly. You can’t tell me if dragons have green or yellow eyes, because they don’t exist. Or at least, no one has seen one. So, as long as that remains the case, then yes. They have green eyes and they have yellow eyes. Therefore, the answer to your question, too, is yes. The Lejaras are all of those things, and none of those things, because no one has seen them. They are whatever your beautiful heart wishes for them to be.”

“Because they do not exist,” Blif said, and Klasto rolled his eyes.

“It’s nice to dream, though, isn’t it? But alas, we don’t have all night. So let’s begin.” He reached towards me. “May I?”

I wasn’t sure what he was asking.

“I won’t touch your memories, I promise,” he added. “That isn’t quite the nature of my gift, anyway. Your privacy will remain intact.”

Ah.

For all that times that I’d reached for the minds of others, it was rare that someone reached into mine. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea… but if there was even a chance it would help restore my magic, it was worth it.

I nodded. Klasto laid his fingers gently on my temple. I felt a strange pressure on my thoughts—not painful or even uncomfortable, but odd. It lasted for a few seconds, then he withdrew his hand.

“Hm.” He frowned, then turned to Max and reached out. Max caught his wrist. “No.”

“Just like I said to her, no memories. Totally painless.” “No.”

Klasto looked annoyed. “You expect me to fix all of this”—he gestured to the tattoos on Max’s exposed forearm—“and all of this”—he gestured to Max’s face, presumably his head—“all without any visibility into what the problem could possibly be? I won’t force you to do anything, darling, but it will certainly limit my options.”

Max’s teeth ground. I understood that look. He knew Klasto was right, even if he wished he wasn’t. I was the only one Max had ever willingly let into his mind. And look at where that had gotten him.

I laid my hand over his in wordless encouragement. His flesh was warm and smooth. His fingers rearranged to accommodate mine right away—so fast it surprised me, as if some intuitive response still remained even if his memories of me did not.

Max glanced at me, looking a bit startled, then back at Klasto. “Fine,” he muttered.

Klasto, pleased, placed his hand at Max’s temple, eyes closing in concentration. Max’s eyes closed too, but more like someone bracing for impact.

A few moments later, Klasto’s eyes opened again. “Will you stop?” he snapped.

Max looked confused. “Stop what?”

“If you’re going to let me work, then let me work.” “I am letting you work.”

“You’re putting walls up against me. I don’t appreciate being strung along and I—”

“I’m not putting up any Ascended-damned walls!”

Blif had looked up from her reading with mild interest. Klasto’s face slowly shifted as he realized Max was serious.

“That’s… oh, my.”

“What?” Max demanded. “It’s just… interesting.”

Gods, I hoped that when this was all over, no one described us as “interesting” ever again.

“You have…” Klasto cleared his throat. “Many, many walls, my friend.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

Klasto stood, his thoughtfulness disappearing beneath a bright smile. “It means we’ll save that bit for later, then. First, let’s tackle the obvious.” He gestured to Max’s Stratagram tattoos. “Kindly remove your clothes, please.”

“Remove my clothes?” Max repeated.

“Well, you may keep your undergarments. Provided there are no tattoos in that region.”

I choked a little at that thought.

Max looked away. “There are no tattoos in that region,” he grumbled.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear that on your behalf. Come come. Don’t be shy.”

The awkwardness on Max’s face was a stark reminder of the gap between my memories and his reality. I mourned as his hand slipped from mine. He stood and pulled his shirt over his head.

I had to stifle a gasp.

I hadn’t seen Max’s body since his return. Once, I had memorized every contour, every muscle and scar. They were still there, but now Stratagram tattoos covered his entire skin, layered in a grotesque mosaic. Some were large—a tattoo nearly spanning the width of his pectoral, and another across his back that reached from blade to blade. Most were small, interlocked sequences tracing his body—one line running from his hip up beneath his armpit, clusters beneath his arms, over his stomach, throat, back, and hands. He dropped his trousers to reveal similar tattoos on his legs and ankles. As he removed his boots, I glimpsed two large tattoos on the soles of his feet.

He had new scars too, easily distinguishable from the old ones by their fresh appearance and surgical precision. A streak of mottled red from his navel to his sternum. Two semi-circles over his shoulders. Three perfectly straight lines across his left forearm.

My breath came fast and ragged.

Max had spoken little about his imprisonment, but here was the horrific evidence of what had been done to him—proof of the nightmares I relived each night, the fears that gripped me during every failed rescue attempt.

Six months.

Six months, they had done this to him.

I no longer just wanted to kill Nura. I wanted to dismantle her. Klasto’s face had gotten uncharacteristically somber.

Max turned to him. “Well?”

“Oh, dear.” Klasto’s voice was small. “This— this all must have been quite painful.”

Max looked as if he might say something, then thought better of it, and just asked, gruffly, “What now?”

Klasto gestured to a sheet-covered table at the center of the room. “Lie down.”

Max obeyed. Blif had stood, taking her place beside the table. Klasto joined her. I went to the table, too—I couldn’t help myself.

“We are going to start by freeing you from these chains,” Klasto said.

“These tattoos are magic-scorched,” Blif said. “We can’t remove them, not completely, but we can break them.”

“I apologize in advance for the fact that this will be unpleasant, darling.”

“I do so love unpleasant things.” But despite the joke, I could hear the tension in Max’s voice. I felt it in my own bones, too. I never wanted Max to endure even a single unpleasant thing ever again.

I stepped across the room and took his hand, without thinking. Klasto nodded to Blif, and they began their work.