Even more daunting, she could not experiment, but must make it happen on the first try.
Three times you shall die, but each time you shall come back to life.
Let it be so.
She forced herself to relax, then seized hold of her magic and pictured herself on the precipice somewhere above where she dangled and projected the image that would place her there. Then she closed her eyes to the world and pictured herself lifting upward. Through her singing, she projected what she wanted to happen, making it real by force of will alone. She imagined and then caused herself to lift out of her cloak and into the rain-swept emptiness of air and wind—rising, as a shade might, into the storm, the weight of her body becoming that of a feather. She sang herself clear of her garment, sang her way into the void, so insubstantial that not even the wind and rain and cold were a part of her existence. She gave herself over to her magic, disappearing into the impossible in an effort to make it real, closing off any thoughts of falling or of death.
Believing.
It seemed to take forever before she felt herself merge with her projected image and allowed herself to become corporeal again. As weight and solidity returned to her form, she was aware of firm ground beneath her feet once more; the hard, rocky surface of the ledge was as real as the shortness of breath that engulfed her the moment her song died away. She stood where she was for long seconds, afraid to look, unwilling to break the spell. It was entirely possible she was only fooling herself and nothing had happened. If she looked, she would know. And if she had deceived herself, she would fall.
She felt as if the world had shifted on its axis—as if something in her life had been upended and nothing would ever be the same again. She opened her eyes…
And the truth was there, waiting to welcome her into its arms.
TWO
For long moments, Tarsha stood where she was—soaked to the skin, battered and aching, but alive. She stood on the edge of the precipice she had willed herself to reach, through no more than the magic of her wishsong. She should have died. She should have fallen into the canyon and been lost forever. But death had been denied once more, and she had been given yet another chance at life. And the surge of intense gratitude and happiness she felt as she embraced this unlikely truth filled her with new hope.
When she had convinced herself that the feel of the hard rock beneath her boots was reality and not imagination, she turned back to find Tavo. At first, she didn’t see him. The gloom and the rain conspired to wrap everything in a blanket of shadows and shimmering damp. All she could make out—and this only barely—was the dark bulk of the airship that she and her companions had flown in on.
When she finally spied her brother’s huddled form sprawled upon the ground, she rushed to him at once, but her heart sank as she neared. He lay so still. She dropped to her knees and pulled him against her, whispering his name, calling him to wake, begging him not to leave her. But she could already tell that he had. The life had gone out of him. She bent to him and cradled him, realizing as she did so that he had been cut nearly in half, discovering, too, that his throat had been slit. Refusing to accept what her eyes were revealing, raging against the unfairness, she used what faltering remains of her wishsong magic she still possessed in an attempt to revive him, filling the air with its sound, wrapping him with its healing power, summoning every last bit of magic she had at her command until there was nothing left to try.
Then she wept as she clutched him to her until there were no more tears left, and those she had shed had mingled with the rain and were lost. That he should have died like this was unthinkable. He had been so strong in his magic; he must have been rendered completely helpless for this to happen.
Tavo, she whispered to herself. Tavo, Tavo.
He had suffered so much in his short life, and all of it leading to this. He had come back from his madness and begun to regain control of himself. Drisker had helped him believe that he might yet have a purpose to his life, and that he might put that purpose to good use. He had come to realize that his sister loved him—and had always loved him. He had recognized that she was there for him and would always be.
Except, she thought with a bitterness that nearly undid her, she hadn’t been there when he needed her the most.
It didn’t matter that she couldn’t be there, that she was herself in danger of dying. Or that she had done everything possible to protect him from a creature so devoid of any morals or compassion that killing was nothing more than a necessary exercise. The hard truth was still that she had failed him when he needed her, and she would have to live with that the rest of her life.
What she felt about Clizia Porse in the few seconds that she allowed herself to consider it was so incendiary that her rage and pain transformed into unspeakable thoughts of what she would do to the witch once she caught up to her again. Because she would find her. She would hunt Clizia to the ends of the earth and beyond. She would bring her to bay, and then she would destroy her once and for all.
She laid Tavo down again carefully, touched his face gently, and bent to kiss him. The rain was beginning to lessen as the storm moved eastward. She rose and looked about at the bleak emptiness. She needed to find Drisker.
She summoned a werelight the way Drisker had taught her and moved toward the opening into Cleeg Hold through which he had disappeared while giving chase to the witch. The corridor she entered wound ahead for a long way, and there was visual evidence of the battle that had been fought here. Finally she reached a widening in the passageway in which the magic’s residue was so thick that the space she was entering stank of it. The floor, walls, and ceiling were scarred with gouges and tears. It was not hard to imagine what had happened. This was where Drisker had caught up to Clizia, and a terrible struggle had ensued. What had happened was unknowable, but two things were certain: Clizia had emerged to kill Tavo, and Drisker was missing.
She took time to search for any sign of the Druid, both at the battle site and in the stretch of corridor beyond, but there was nothing that revealed the details of what had transpired. It was possible that Drisker, like Tavo, was dead, but she could not make herself believe it. Not until she had real proof—and even then she wasn’t sure she could accept it. Drisker had survived so much. The slaughter of the Druids at Paranor, his banishment into a limbo existence, the assassination attempts, and more. He was bigger and stronger than any death that might come for him.
Yet he was still missing.
She retraced her steps, trying to decide what to do. She was alone now, and a part of her was whispering that enough was enough. How much could she expect to accomplish on her own? How real was the possibility that she could track down Clizia and dispatch her in revenge for all that had happened? Maybe it was time to step away from all this. What chance did she have without Drisker Arc’s leadership and guidance?
She didn’t know.
But there was something else to consider. If she walked away now, she would be abandoning Drisker and those who had gone on to Skaarsland to try to save the Four Lands. She would be discarding all of her efforts to make Tavo’s life mean something beyond the madness that had seized him and caused him to hurt so many people. It was bad enough that her brother was dead; it would be worse to abandon the fight that had cost him his life. Also, she knew what Drisker would say if he were there. She had promised to serve him in exchange for the help he had given Tavo. Until she knew definitively that he was gone, she had no right to consider only herself.