I wake up in my bed.

  I feel like I’ve slept for days. I crack my eyes, struggling to sit up. My body's like lead. I fumble for my flask next to my pillow.

  It’s empty.

  I sigh, rubbing my face. That’s right. I look at it. There’s five stickers on it, now.

  I pause, looking around the room. Late afternoon sunlight warms the tousled sheets and blankets. The gentle movement and voices of people come from downstairs. I look down. I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday. I move around, feeling my body, looking at my hands. It’s odd, feeling every sensation, steady and sharp. I’m painfully present.

  Because I’m stone-cold sober.

  I breathe quicker. It’s like creeping out on a cliff with no handrail. I can hear churning waters down below. But when I look over the edge, it’s not dark. I see a sunset with ships rounding the pink horizon – a seal like a sheet of glass.

  I clench the sheets. My throat’s dry. I gave Arriel my word. But I’m sober, and one drink couldn’t hurt. I’d barely notice it. I don’t see my other flask anywhere. I don’t need it. But again, maybe there’s something in it.

  I stand, catching myself against the bedpost. For once, the room’s not tilting. Through the window, vibrant, defined colors look back at me – the green of the yard, the teal blue of the sky, the white of the wall around the estate. There’s crisp distinction between them. In the distance, I can see the sprawl of Carthesia, all its hills and chiseled buildings.

  I need to get out of here. And I need something to drink. I stop. It’s not a need, not like it was before. It’s not the only thing saving me from plunging into never-ending darkness. When I look down into the calm water, it’s illuminated and shallow. I can see all of it – scoop some into my hand and examine it, let it slip through my fingers in manageable rivulets. It’s a strange feeling, almost jarring. Instead, I just want a drink. I should have one. It’s habit first thing in the morning. And at every other point in the day.

  I pull away from the window. I need to get moving – the slaves need me, and the more I’m moving, the less I’m thinking. Maybe the wilderness of southern Rheda will be best – there’s less chance of stumbling on a tavern. But who am I kidding? I can always find one. And Weekes and Rose wanting to go with me? Maybe it’s better if they remember me as I was, not me flopping like a fish out of water. I gave Arriel my word, and I came through on it. But it still somehow feels like I failed.

  I gather my things, grabbing clothes from the floor and stuffing it all in my new magical bag. A hauntingly familiar greatsword stands in the corner, now cleaned up. I’ll need to take the evil enchantment off it - I half expected it to start talking to me. I drop it in the magical bag, too. I shrug on my chain jacket and buckle on my weapons belt. I sling my mandolin across my back. I tuck my empty flask in my chest pocket next to my scale pick. I look around the room, the estate. I’m welcome here anytime, Arriel said. So why does it feel like I’m not coming back?

  Say goodbye before you leave.

  I reach for my flask. It’s empty.

  I close my eyes, breathing. It’s gonna be like learning how to live all over again. Maybe getting off that island wasn’t a new life. Maybe this is. I hate it. I clear my throat and sing:

  For reasons that I don’t know why,

  I’d rather be over in Sunai

  I grasp the fifth ley line. I pause. The fifth ley line. It’s back.

  Then I’m blown apart from the inside.

  Magic shrieks. I careen into the wall. Something crunches. I collapse. Arcane electricity laces through my bones. I thrash as it fades. I gasp, groaning. Am I still together? I crack my eyes and look down. I’m in one piece. I’m steaming. It feels like my metaphorical hand’s been seared to ash. My ears are ringing. My heart’s hammering at its limit. I gasp around aching lungs.

  A crash echoes from downstairs. Footsteps clatter. I stagger to my hands and knees. I’m shaking. The door flies open. Arriel bolts into the room, wide-eyed. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  I don’t see Weekes anywhere. I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning. “I… I c-can’t –“

  She rushes over, steadying me. Nothingness swallows me. An eternity passes. Suddenly, she’s shaking me. I’m facedown on the floor again. “Chouncey? Come on –”

  She’s got her amulet. Gold light flashes. The throbbing eases. I push myself up. She helps me sit against the wall, kneeling beside me.

  My head feels gray. Far, far down, I find my ley line connections, humming with magic. Suddenly, I remember them being ripped out. Why are they back? I don’t dare touch them. In each one, there’s music, a harmonic overtone whispering with promise. But something else emanates from them. A pulsing wave of… light.

  “What happened?” I demand.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. I found you passed out in my shrine.”

  “My fucking magic is gone,” I heave.

  She pauses, blinking. Her eyes have flecks of green. I’ve not noticed that before.

  I don’t dare try the rest – grabbing more ley lines before I’m ready might kill me. How did I even do it before? I was unquestionably guttered and all but flossing with the seventh ley line only a few days ago. My blood goes cold. That means I can’t make a hole spell anymore – no nondetection, no spewing fear, no enchantments. My guts clench, and my breath catches. No illusions.

  My blood simmers. “He took my fucking magic,” I spit through my teeth.

  She puts a hand on me. I shrug it off. “Stay calm. Tell me what happened.”

  “I –” I pause, taking a breath. “I told your god I’d be his Champion or whatever he wants me to be. Then I used the wish spell to…”

  She smiles sadly. “To get sober without it killing you.”

  I let out a cracking laugh. I had one of the most powerful spells in existence, and I used it to cheat getting sober. And then I lost it. I’m a fucking idiot.

  “Okay. Let me try something.” She grabs the amulet around her neck. She takes my hand and holds it. “Dawn Lord, grant me understanding.”

  Gold light hovers over her eyes. She looks me over. She’s quiet for a moment.

  “I think… oh gods. That's... interesting.”

  “What?” I’m about to shake her.

  “He… changed your connection to the ley lines. You can still do magic, but… there’s something else there. New potential.”

  It’s like being hit in the gut. I didn’t ask for that. What part of me wanting to become his Champion meant I’d be alright with him pinching my magic? It took me years to learn what I did. Am I even still a bard? How am I supposed to be a Champion without it?

  “I’m gonna have a fucking chat with him –”

  “It’s okay,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Probably, you’re used to doing it a certain way, and now that you’re sober… he couldn’t get rid of one without the other.”

  “What a delightful little tradeoff,” I say. Does that mean I’ll have to get to Rheda on foot? I can’t get on a ship for weeks at a time. I go cold. I can’t get back to the Isles when I need to, either. I can’t even chat with Erson outside of that shell I found. How am I gonna keep things under control there?

  “Let me show you,” she says. She stands, offering a hand. “You can probably do some new things.”

  “What, I’ve got a patron daddy now?”

  She looks at me sidelong. “You’re a god’s Champion.”

  “I’m failing to see the distinction.”

  I take her hand and stand. I sway, and she steadies me. I’m not sure how any of this is important right now. Can’t she intervene and get it all back for me? She holds up her amulet. “Dawn Lord, grant me light.” It glows with soft, golden light. “It might be a little difficult at first. You’re manifesting through faith now, rather than…” she continues.

  It’s easy enough – just a minor magic. They don’t draw on ley lines, but rather their leftover resonance permeating the world. It’s like static in the air rather than a bolt of lightning – or the fading tone of the last notes of a song.

  I clear my throat. I snap my fingers, the dragon scale pick appearing in my hand. It’s got a sun symbol etched into it.

  Where you have this, you have my power.

  I hum, matching the tone of the world’s song – a snippet of what we sang last night. “The Light That Guides.” The scale flickers to life, glowing pink. Arriel blinks.

  “Easy enough,” I say. I peer at it. I feel the faint, almost imperceptible music, the overtone. I set it in front of me, and it stays, hovering. I tap it. The color changes to red. Orange. Yellow. I tap through them. I hold and then release. It softly cycles through colors.

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  “How did you –”

  “What else have you got?”

  “Um… okay. Here.” She draws a sword from my waist. She makes a small slice across her forearm. Blood trickles from it.

  “Don’t –” My stomach sours. I look away.

  “You’ll put a hand on me and say a prayer for healing. You’re invoking Iros’ name. That’s how you’re drawing on the ley lines now.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “There’s still music there. There’s just something… extra.”

  “Well, try it.”

  “Do I have to touch it?”

  “Yes.”

  I inch closer. Blood drips on the floor. I look at the ceiling. My stomach churns. I’m familiar with this one – the mandolin lets me do it, but not directly through the ley line. It comes from the mandolin itself.

  “I usually say, Dawn Lord, mend this wound,” she says.

  “That sounds utterly stupid.”

  She looks like I smacked her.

  “Alright, fine.” I bring my mandolin around and take my pick, strumming through a few chord progressions until I find the right one, edging toward the first ley line. Something strikes me – a few words, rhymes, tunes. I shakily reach out and grab it. I clear my throat and sing:

  I’ve got no choice but to give this a whirl

  Despite the presence of a whole lot of blood

  Gods, the back of my throat’s about to flood

  Light Daddy, fix this before I hurl

  “That’s not –”

  There’s a brief beat. Then, power courses through me. When I look down, my hand is glowing pink. I edge closer and touch her arm. The cut mends with a flare of pink magic.

  She stares at her arm, mouth open. “If you want, I can get you some training through the church. You could stay for a little longer.”

  I’m not sure if that means I’m already nailing this or terrible at it. But I can’t think of anything worse than learning from some prude cassock. “I’ll figure it out,” I say. I snap my fingers, and my pick vanishes into my chest pocket. I take my shortsword back, snapping the blood off it and sheathing it. “Do your connections glow, or is it just me?” I ask. “They’re… bright now.”

  She gapes at me again, flustering for words. “You can see them?”

  “Maybe abstract thinking’s not your purview. It’s sort of like…”

  I feel inside, attuning with the world’s magical resonance. New things are there that I didn’t notice before. Woven throughout is light, not just sound – like the afterimage of staring at my glowing connections for too long. I search for a pink square to let me through an entrance. I picture it. It’s seared into my vision like stars behind my eyes. Although instead of creating it myself…

  I let out a sharp whistle. Like a clap of thunder, the door rattles open, almost off its hinges.

  Arriel jumps, grabbing me. She gasps like her heart stopped. “Gods –”

  “Like that.”

  From down the hall comes Lespira’s voice. “Bri! Is that you?”

  “No, it’s just… Chouncey,” Arriel calls back. Her voice is flat.

  “Oh,” Lespira says. She mutters something else, and her voice fades.

  I freeze. Lespira. That’s who I need.

  I fly out the door. I turn, wheeling down the hall. It came from the library. That’s where she usually is. I trot toward it. The door’s shut. I whistle again. It bangs open.

  Inside, she’s sitting at a desk surrounded by a pile of books, eyes wide and hands clutched over her breast. Shoe’s on the table, gray fur poofed. Maesys is atop a wheeled ladder against the high wall of books. He startles, careening off it.

  “Shit!”

  He grabs a shelf and flips around, then tucks and rolls before he splats on the floor. In one fluid motion, he stands, brushing himself off.

  “My apologies,” I say. I step inside, sharply whistling again. The door crashes shut. Lespira jumps. Shoe blinks away. I approach her chair, coming to one knee beside it. I fetch her hand. “Pardon my interruption. Dearest Lady Lespira, might I ask a favor of your arcane expertise?”

  “Um,” she stammers. She glances at Maesys, who grumbles and climbs the ladder again, searching through shelves. He wheels himself further along the wall, balanced on one bare foot. She extracts her hand. “What do you need?”

  “Another teleport scroll.”

  “I can do that. How soon do you need it?”

  “As soon as you can.” I don’t want to explain to Weekes why our plans for going to Rheda are suddenly on hold.

  “It takes me about an hour,” she says. “I’m working on an essay, though. It’s due at midnight.”

  I glance at her papers scattered amidst ink and books. “What about?”

  She sighs, flicking her hair. “It’s for my non-magical elective. I need a classical arts credit. I hate this class. The essay is about themes of colonialism and capitalistic exploitation in Thorhild and the Titan.”

  I point at her. “I’ll write it for you.”

  Her dark brows go up. “You’ve read it?”

  I think she’s implying she’s surprised I’ve read a book. She’s half right. “If you’ve got an afternoon, I can play you the whole thing.”

  She blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

  She hands me a copy of the book. I sling it at Maesys, who snatches it out of the air and slips it back onto the shelf. Something magical and ancient courses through me. I’ve still got that, at least. I grab some paper, flick out my arcane hand, and plop down.

  An hour later, she hands me a teleport scroll.

  “This is… actually good,” she says, paging through my completed work. It’s five pages. I roll up the scroll, squaring it against the desk. I wrap it in a sleeve and drop it in my magical bag. “You even put quotes.”

  “I did the whole thing in an hour once,” I say. Irminric made the mistake of saying I could go to bed once it was done. “You’ll have to find page numbers, but it’s all there.”

  “How – are you okay?”

  I put my hands together. “My deepest thanks for your help. I’ll bid you and your beau good evening.”

  Maesys cuts in from a couch. “Hey, I have another bottle –”

  I whistle, and the door bangs open. I trot out and slam it again behind me.

  I have one last meal at the estate.

  It’s dinner, although it feels like breakfast. I suppose it’s good timing for returning to Horonai on the other side of the world. Weekes pours me coffee, and I drink it with only some fatty milk. It tastes like shit. It’s also fucking scalding. I snap my fingers, and a small chunk of heart-shaped ice floats in it.

  “Rose and I have some big news,” Weekes says. She’s sitting next to him, their paw-hands entwined. His baby ear looks mostly like his other one.

  “You’re getting married?” I ask. I’m hungrier than usual. I've eaten through half a slab of fish by myself, as well as a hefty bowl of potatoes and green beans. I dip into Weekes’ salad. Arriel eyes me, passing over more bread and fruit. Maybe it’s helping me not reach for my empty flask.

  Red tinges under his baby ear. “Well, yeah. That, too. But mostly…” he smiles. “Rose is pregnant.”

  Arriel chokes on her wine. I flick out my arcane hand and grab her another napkin.

  “How do you even know?” I ask.

  "It works fast for us," Rose says, smiling.

  “Clearly. Well, congratulations on all your hard work,” I say with a smile. That’s productive, considering he was a virgin less than a week ago. “We’re thrilled for you. Right?” I jab Arriel with an elbow.

  “Yes, congratulations,” Arriel rasps. I’ve been more convinced by a sweaty taint. “Do you have a name picked out?”

  “Not yet,” Weekes says. He shares a look with Rose. “But we’re hoping for four. That feels right.”

  A first-time father of four. Sometimes, being human’s not so boring. “Well, let’s get you settled then.”

  “I grew up in Port Nakanai, and I’d like to go back,” Weekes says. “But we have some time to wander before then.”

  “Lovely,” I say. “Then we’d best get going.”

  He and Rose head off to pack. Arriel grabs me.

  “This is your fault,” she hisses.

  “What, you think I was there holding it in?” I throw back. “I didn’t think I’d have to explain how to put a –”

  “Look. Thank you for helping him,” she says quietly. “But please stop encouraging him.”

  “Why?”

  She flusters, waving her hands around. “He’s getting married and having children with someone he met less than a week ago.”

  I gesture back. “It happens every day in dive bars around the world, you former clergy of the Wilderkeeper. Besides, are you certain it’s not cultural?”

  “I – ” she stops.

  I cock my head at her. “How long did you know your wife before you got married?”

  “A… a couple months,” she says in a desperate attempt at upselling.

  I sputter. “Let’s chat about an angel calling a devil for her wings –”

  She smacks my arm. I nearly fall over.

  Pulsing pain radiates. I clutch myself. I have to sit. The room’s spinning. I hiss into the table. “You pontifical langer –”

  “Oh gods,” she says, hovering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize – Dawn Lord, mend this wound.”

  The throbbing eases. I groan. I can already feel a bruise welling. Was I really that numb before? How am I gonna hold up in a fight? I’m gonna need Weekes of all people to protect me.

  “Please be careful,” she says, her voice quivering.

  “Of running into any vehement clerics?” I throw back. She’s got nothing but a disapproving look at that.

  Once I’m steady again, I gather my things and head back down to the foyer. Arriel, Weekes, and Rose are waiting. “Let me know if you need anything,” Arriel says, smiling with her teeth. “And send me your address once you’re settled. I’d like to send a gift. Is there anything that’s… customary for your… people?”

  “That’s so nice of you. Thank you,” Rose says. “Their little ears are sensitive when they’re born. We usually put caps on them. There’s the cutest maternity shop over in town. They’ll have it.”

  I pause, looking at everyone gathered. Weekes and Rose are going with me, but… is this the last time I see Arriel? If I want to come back, it’ll be the long way. My throat tightens. Is this the last time all three of us will be together?

  They look back at me. My throat’s dry. I keep my hand firmly away from my flask. There’s a buzzing need in my blood. I keep it together. I smile and pull them all into a hug.

  Multiple sets of arms and ears fall around me. It’s warm and soft. I close my eyes, peeking at the black waters deep inside. They’re still illuminated, cast with the image of ships against a pink sunset. But they’re abated by the seal for now. Weekes and Arriel don’t know the half of it. I’m better off wandering on my own, rebuilding myself from the ground up. But I’m not alone. This is still here. Weekes and Arriel helped me win my freedom against all odds. I’ll never forget it.

  They pull away. “Remember what I said,” Arriel says. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  I nod. “As soon as I can, I’ll get hold of you.”

  “Thank you,” she says. She smiles. “I’d like to know how things go.”

  “We can always come back for an afternoon,” Weekes says.

  My stomach clenches. “We sure can. But she’s got her little flat Coramine society to manage. We’d best give her a break.”

  Her face goes flat. She looks ready to smack me again.

  “Does she…?” Rose asks quietly.

  “We still love her for it,” I say. I pull the teleport scroll from my magical bag, unfurling it. I pause. Strong magic channels from a nearby room.

  And then a door opens.

  Arriel gasps. I turn. A figure stands in the door to the office – a half-devil with ashy, purple-tinged skin and dark hair. Short horns sprout from her brow. She’s wearing a fancy brocade outfit with a shoulder cape and a wide, feather-accented hat. A couple guns are tucked in a belt across her chest, and a rapier at her hip. She slings her hat onto a padded bench. Her black eyes are locked on Arriel. A wide smile curls her cheeks.

  They meet with a tearful laugh.

  Arriel scoops her up, spinning. Their lips meet for a long moment. And then they hug. Arriel holds her close, her barbed tail and arms wrapped around.

  It’s a knife in my gut. My vision mists. And yet, Arriel’s glowing again – not with light, but with joy. Tears stream down her face. It’s beautiful. And if I never see her again, maybe it’s a good way to go.

  I unravel the scroll, clearing my throat. Her eyes open. She smiles sadly at me over her wife’s shoulder.

  I’ll pray for you.

  I have to go. I can’t stay here. I swallow a bulge in my throat. I lift my hands, drawing a pink heart in the air with two fingers. I step back, and it stays. She smiles.

  I tease the ley line from the scroll in front of me and sing:

  I’m blessed to see an angel nigh

  I'll think of her beyond Sunai

  With a swirl of pink magic, we’re tunneled through blackness.

  We halt on a familiar beach. A rippling lake spreads before us, morning sunlight cresting the horizon. Far off is an island, something like a faint pink glimmer casting off it. I catch a whiff of citrus and pine on the wind. And there’s a familiar town stirring nearby.

  “Where are we?” Rose asks, smoothing her windswept fur.

  “Sunai,” I say. “I carried your one-eared fiancé out of the lake like a sack of potatoes over there.”

  She laughs. Weekes only shrugs.

  “Do you like singing?” I ask her. I bring my mandolin around.

  Weekes squeezes her hand. “She loves singing.”

  “I do not!”

  I strum up a song, beginning to head east around the bottom end of the lake. “Well, join if you feel so moved. Cheeks, you’ve got the main line. ‘Southern Wash’.”

  He starts singing as I play. I harmonize. And eventually, Rose’s voice joins in, drifting like a flower petal.

  And we head into the rising sun.

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