Author’s note: To cut the novel down to a more reasonable length, I had to remove several chapters that I enjoyed, including this scene about settling into Carrick.

I had a lot of fun writing the friendship between Asha and Eirian, complicated somewhat by their different perspectives on Owen. This scene also demonstrates Eirian’s moral goodness—even about little things like being a good steward of their benefactor’s cash—and how Asha perceives him, lovingly, as a stick in the mud.

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Hands tucked deep in the pockets of a new coat, Asha wandered along the harbor under the dimming sun. For five days, the gray sky hung low over Carrick, pressing down. The sun didn’t so much set as gradually surrender, like a lamp slowly running out of oil.

Ignoring the lingering stares of the locals, Asha moved purposefully, as if she belonged. As usual, the trick was the walk. It was the same as when she and Laine had fled the plains for Lios Greine. Then, she’d given up her loose-limbed, meandering prairie gait and replaced it with compact efficiency and careful footfalls wary of loose stone.

In Carrick, the walk was brisk but not hurried, confident but not challenging. She observed these characteristics in the merchants setting up their stalls, parents shepherding their children to and from school, and fishing crews unloading the day’s catch.

Late afternoon smelled of salt, fish, and coal smoke—a three-note melody conducted by the perpetual wind off the sea. Fishing boats bobbed in their moorings, crews unloading and preparing to head home. A gull swooped low, snatching a scrap from the cobblestones. Her eyes followed until its flight carried it out of sight beyond the rooftops. Her gaze flicked back to street level, scanning the crowd once more.

She turned the corner, and that’s when she saw him—the lanky figure leaning against the wall across from Owen’s building. He was wearing an oversized coat against the cold, his light brown hair curling under a gray woolen cap. She raced across the street, launching herself at him with ferocity. Her cheek slammed against his ribcage, her arms locking around his back in a crushing embrace.

“By the road, it’s good to see you.” Eirian pushed gently against her shoulders, attempting to loosen her hold enough to draw a full breath.

After another moment squeezed tight against him, she complied, stepping back. “Unless you were looking for someone else?”

He shook his head and offered her a weak smile. “I was looking for you. Is there somewhere we can talk?” His characteristic flush started creeping up his neck. “Privately? I think I learned my lesson.”

“This way, Stringbean,” she said with a jerk of her head. She might once have grabbed his hand as they walked, but the Fishers of Carrick had a certain reserve to their interactions. As they headed for her apartment around the corner, she practiced her Fisher walk, fast but controlled.

She unlocked the door to her efficiency and waved him inside with a grand gesture. She watched Eirian appreciate the tiny decorations she’d put up to make the place feel more lived in—the row of sea glass positioned on the windowsill, a spiny plant sitting on her kitchen counter that had been a gift from curious neighbors—as he simultaneously tried not to frown at her mess—a pile of plates in the sink, new clothes layering the comforter at the foot of her bed. She saw his fingers twitching and knew he wished to tidy up.

“You bought all this?” he asked, nodding at the clothes on her bed.

“Why not? Garo said we could put anything on his credit. I’m just trying to fit in.”

Eirian turned to look at her. His tells were so easy—the corner of his mouth quirked when he wanted to say something but felt he shouldn’t.

“So where’ve you been?” she asked, brushing past him towards the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? A snack?”

She glanced back. He looked healthier than when she’d last seen him, with less of that deathly hollowed-out appearance. She noticed his coat was well worn and had been mended many times—either thrifted or a hand-me-down. She filled two glasses from the tap and passed one to him.

“Iko,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

“Iko,” he repeated, and they both drank.

“Clearly, you’ve been learning Fisher customs. So… tell me what you’ve been up to.”

He looked away and took off his cap, pushing his hand through his hair. “When I tell you where I’ve been, you’re going to understand why I don’t want to tell you.”

“Okay,” she said, drawing out the word.

He took an unnecessarily long sip before finally saying, “I’m sleeping on Owen’s grandmother’s couch.”

Asha’s eyes went wide as water hit her windpipe. Her throat seized, her lungs rebelled, and the liquid she’d been casually sipping suddenly became a high-pressure spray exiting her lips. Most of the water spewed forth in a fine, startled mist. Some of it dribbled from her chin onto her shirt as Eirian, ever the gentleman, jolted forward to assist her.

“Owen’s what?” she managed between coughs.

He retrieved a kitchen towel and handed it to her. “Are you okay?”

She finally straightened, wiping the towel across her mouth and blinking watery eyes. “Answer the blasted question, Eirian,” she rasped. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly, and I may have just permanently damaged my sinuses, so you’ll have to speak up.”

Eirian sighed. “I went for a walk that first morning, and I ran across Maeve Osondu Diouf in her garden. She’s been teaching me magic.”

“I thought you were done with all things Owen Diouf-MacAvoy after the beach.”

Eirian flushed the color of a sunset.

“Is this some kind of ‘keep your enemies closer’ situation?”

“No, Asha, I just—”

“Hang on, does Owen even know he has a grandmother?”

Eirian frowned. “I am pretty sure he understands the biological imperative of a maternal grandmother.”

“I meant a grandmother in Carrick.”

Eirian’s countenance took on a grave aspect. “It doesn’t really matter, Asha.”

“Wait—so why haven’t I ever heard about a grandmother? We’ve spent a lot of time with Garo and Turlo—particularly Garo—and it’s never come up. And does that mean that’s Owen’s grandfather’s coat?”

“Maeve mentioned there might be bad blood between her and her sons—Garo, especially.”

“Aha, I knew there was something dodgy going on.”

“Isn’t Garo funding your lifestyle?” Eirian asked, looking pointedly at the clothes draped over the foot of her bed.

“Beside the point.”

“Listen, Ash. What I came to tell you is—she’s offered to teach me the spell, the one the mage used on herself to right her mind.”

Having finished cleaning water spots from the front of her shirt, Asha let the hand holding the dish towel fall to her side. She stared at him for a while, working through the implications of what he’d just said. “Well, that’s nice of her.”

“This knowledge could save thousands of lives.”

Asha shook her head. “Not without the Druids’ Orb it doesn’t.”

“Okay, but at least it can help the people with Laine… Asha, I came to ask if you’d go back to Druimrua with me.”

Her grip tightened involuntarily around the dish towel. She had to fight to keep her face neutral, as she said, “Sorry, Stringbean, I’d love to help you, but I can’t.”

“But this spell is the missing piece for Laine. You heard how Skylar talked about her. He implied that she—”

“Laine is a grown woman. She knew what she was getting herself into.”

Eirian looked away, chewing his lip. It really was entrancing to watch his face contort through various expressions. His eyebrows seemed to be engaged in an entire conversation of their own—his right rising skeptically while the left remained steadfastly lowered. Persistent concern softened his eyes even as he disagreed with her. His countenance was as expressive as the patterns of sunlight shining through a jar of sea glass.

“We should be helping people now,” he insisted.

“Maybe,” she said. “But then again, the way we can help the most people is by bringing an end to the Darkest Era, eradicating the White Torches permanently. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He set down his water glass on the windowsill and pushed his hands through his hair, mussing it further.

“This is our chance to be heroes, Eirian, the kind that bards write about in songs. The kind that end up immortalized in the Cycles.”

“I don’t care about any of that.”

“Hmm.” She watched him, unmoving, his hands still knitted against the back of his head. “Why’d you leave, E., really?”

“I told you—you should have someone more capable to help you find the Fishers’ Orb.”

Asha shook her head. “That’s horse manure. We all know you’re plenty capable. So why quit? Why then?”

“We lost the Druids’ Orb, Asha—our single best chance to help White Torches, to help Myles. Now I have the knowledge to restore their minds after they’re freed from conscription, but no way to free them in the first place.”

“I hear you, but that’s still not a reason to quit. If anything, it’s a reason to keep going. No side quests. Only the main quest to get to Suel and take the Artisans’ Orb.”

Eirian let out a sigh. Finally, “I told you Lockley’s not my father’s last name, right?”

“Right,” Asha replied, wondering where this was going.

“He was my older sister’s father, our mother’s first husband. He died in a mine collapse. My whole life, whenever I felt down about something, I would think about that night, specifically my mother waiting up for him to come home. It put things in perspective. If I forgot my homework, got annoyed with one of my siblings, got my heart broken, or whatever. But that night—after the mercenary ambush, after losing the Druids’ Orb—it didn’t work. I just realized I was waiting on someone…” His eyes closed briefly, and he let out a breath. “Waiting on someone who would never come back. I know how the story ends, Ash.”

Her own ghosts flickered at the edge of her mind, but she pushed back fiercely. Trying not to let frustration at Owen color her tone, she said, “You know, he hasn’t been the same since you were poisoned.”

Eirian stared at her between his elbows. “How do you know it was that, and not leaving the Goatherds’ Orb behind? Or the mage rooting through his memories after having his shoulder dislocated and losing the other Orb?”

Asha dropped her chin. “Please. Have I not proved myself to be an excellent observer of animal behavior?”

Eirian flinched visibly. “Owen doesn’t want my help. He’s said it a dozen times, a dozen different ways.”

Asha sighed. “Owen doesn’t know what he wants.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Eirian dropped his hands from the back of his head. “Not like Owen gives himself what he wants, anyway.”