Nicanor’s grip on Lowen’s hand tightened. “When you were in the grasp of the Blue Sickness, you repeated a name,” he said. “Gwyrdmet. You talked about protecting the Gift.”

  “Yes.” Conwen nodded. “Your child will be a precious gift indeed.”

  When Nicanor’s eyes darkened with confusion, Conwen told him the story Lowen already knew. The truth of the Waste Wars and the terrible price their people paid in order to keep the children born of Scrat and Satyr from the clutches of Lord Dewer.

  “Your tale is barbaric,” Nicanor said once she had finished.

  “The Scrat and the satyrs believed they had no other choice. No such child has been born in one hundred years.” She looked up at Lowen with a wan smile. “No such child until yours.”

  “But what does that mean?” Lowen was tired of not understanding. Tired of lying and guilt and terrible, blanching worry. “What manner of child am I carrying?”

  “A perfectly healthy one, I would hope.” Conwen paused, studying Lowen’s face. “Are you truly willing to seek out Gwyrdmet?”

  “Grandmother, I must confess I don’t know who Gwyrdmet is. I was so desperate to see you well, to have you swallow the elixir, I would have promised you anything.”

  “You have never heard tell of the Green King? Do they teach young people nothing these days? And you, satyr? What do you know of Gwyrdmet?”

  When Nicanor’s face remained blank, Conwen huffed and pulled herself up in her chair. “Gwyrdmet is a powerful being. A life force of the forest. The protector of the trees and all who dwell within them. Some call him a god. He resides with his court in the foothills of the Cappal Mountains.”

  “That is a great distance from here,” Lowen said. “It would take many weeks to reach the mountains.”

  “It would, but that’s where you must travel to beg Gwyrdmet for his help.”

  “Why do we need his help?” Lowen’s voice was little more than a whisper. She leaned against Nicanor and he wrapped a long arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

  Conwen took another long gulp from her water cup. “Your child will be powerful. Our most secret legends tell of children with gifts such as the world has never seen. Children who spoke with the moons, who could draw power from the stars. Cold, fiery power that could heal and nurture as surely as it could destroy. I have even heard tell of children who could fly. Children who could disappear and move as wraiths, unseen.”

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  “Such things are not possible,” Nicanor said. “No one could draw that much strength from the moons.”

  “You’re right. Magick has its limits. Those who work with it are bound to the source of their personal power.”

  “Like salt witches?” Lowen had read about them. Women who drew power from the sea, from the briny fury of the waves and the raw, brutal force of the rolling tides.

  “Yes, the sea is one source of power. There are others. In Joria, people cling to magick channeled through the moons, but there are places in the world where folks draw power differently. Even Armoria’s changelings practised a form of earth magick before that scrappy thief swept into the city and raised his ugly tower.”

  “Have you ever even seen the Obsidian Citadel, Grandmother?”

  “No, thank goddess. It would probably make my old eyes bleed. I’ve seen pictures, and that’s enough.”

  “I’ve heard about people who can draw magick from animal companions,” Nicanor said.

  “Sounds bad for the animals.” Conwen shifted in her chair. “The ones who give me pause are those who draw from the dead. They’re a shady, suspicious lot.”

  “They can draw magick from the dead?” The thought made Lowen queasy.

  “Magick is everywhere, my girl. But there are only a few born able to use it, and those that can are bound to use only that which offers them power. You can work with the moons or the sea or even the decomposing corpses of your loved ones if that is your wish, but you can never work with more than one. Not even if you want to. You could try for a year and day to draw down power from the moons but if you were born with the ability to draw from the brown, dry dirt of the earth, Aikana and Mamai will forever ignore you.”

  Lowen placed a hand on her stomach. “And what magick will our child have? What will she draw power from?”

  “If the legends are true, your child will be able to draw from everything. Everything with power.”

  “But you said that wasn’t possible,” Nicanor said. Lowen was silent against him, cleaving to the gentle rise and fall of his chest pressed tight against her body.

  “It hasn’t been possible for a hundred years. Not since the last Gift died. It is not enough to simply hide such a child from the likes of Lord Dewer. He and others like him will want to take that power for themselves, to twist it into something dark and unnatural. The child must be taught to control their gifts and use them responsibly. The fate of all Joria may well hinge upon it. That is why you must seek Gwyrdmet. He is as old as the mountains and as wise as the moons. He will know how to guide you.”

  A thick silence fell upon the hut. Lowen and Nicanor leaned against each other, turning over everything Conwen had told them. When Odelin flew back through the window, the sharp ruffling of his feathers made them all start. He landed on Lowen’s shoulder and bobbed agitatedly.

  “People are nearby,” Lowen said, feeling as though she had woken from an unsettling dream. Or a nightmare. “Nicanor, you must leave before you are discovered.”

  Nicanor stood his ground, his forehead creased. “We have learned so much today. How can I simply return to the satyr and pretend all is well?”

  “You must,” Conwen said firmly. “Lowen will send for you shortly.” She looked pointedly at her granddaughter. “Won’t you, Lowen?”

  Lowen nodded. “Please go. Odelin will accompany you, he’ll alert you to any danger.” The bird fluttered obediently to Nicanor. He hovered briefly—appearing to debate whether or not to land on one of his horns before settling for his broad right shoulder.

  The satyr allowed himself one last look at Lowen, his gaze drifting down to her stomach and the protective hand she instinctively placed on it. Then he swept aside the curtain of feathers and beads and disappeared into the forest.