Thalia's heart raced, each word resonating with the fading visions from her coma.Three becoming one.The ancient methods she had witnessed—storm-callers, cryomancers, and root-singers working in concert—echoed in these new techniques born of desperation and innovation.
"We've been experimenting with similar combinations," she said, her fingers moving to the hilt of the blade strapped at her hip.She drew the sword partway from its sheath, revealing the distinctive blue-silver gleam of ice-glacenite infused with storm essence."This is one of our prototypes.Ice-metal smithing combined with storm magic.It's effective against the Deep Ones, but the knowledge to create it is limited to a handful of us at Frostforge."
Jorik's eyes widened as he studied the weapon."May I?"he asked, extending his hand.
Thalia hesitated only briefly before passing him the blade.He accepted it with a craftsman's reverence, his fingers tracing the intricate channels carved into the metal.
"The construction is remarkable," he murmured."The storm energy flows through these veins?"He looked up at her, genuine admiration in his gaze."You forged this?"
"With help," Thalia admitted."I discovered the glacenite ore, but the storm infusion was done with the aid of Isle Warden storm-callers who agreed to ally with us."She glanced at Lyra, who was studying the blade with professional interest."The results were promising, but we've only been able to arm a fraction of our fighters."
"This is just the beginning," Jorik said, returning the sword with careful precision."If we could combine what you've learned with what we've developed...the potential is enormous."
"Have you found other combinations?"Thalia asked, barely containing her excitement despite her lingering exhaustion.
A look passed between Jorik and Amara, some silent communication that Thalia couldn't quite interpret.Finally, Jorik nodded."We have.Though with less success and more...unpredictability."
"There's a third element we've been working with," Amara said, her Southern accent soft but clear."A magic that none of us fully understand."She pulled her son closer, almost unconsciously."My father practices it.He calls it earth-speak."
"Root-singing," Thalia whispered, the term surfacing from the depths of her visions before she could stop herself.
Amara's eyes widened."Yes," she said slowly."He’s used that term before, too.How did you...?"
"In my coma," Thalia explained, her fingers gripping the edge of the table as though to anchor herself to this moment, this revelation."I saw visions of the ancient past.Root-singers working alongside storm-callers and cryomancers to create a seal against the Deep Ones."She leaned forward, urgency sharpening her voice."Your father—he's a practitioner of this magic?An actual root-singer?"
Amara nodded, though uncertainty clouded her features."He claims to be, though I've never seen another like him.He can sense currents of energy in plants, in soil, in stone.Can manipulate those currents in ways I've never understood."Her expression grew troubled."He's been trying to teach Niko, who shows signs of the same ability, but my father is...eccentric.His explanations rarely make sense to anyone but himself."
"Grandfather says the energy sings to him," Niko piped up, his child's voice clear and unselfconscious."He says I need to learn to listen with more than just my ears."
Thalia's pulse quickened.The boy's simple explanation matched the talent she herself possessed.But what she'd seen in her visions was more than the sensing of currents.Fully fledged root-singing, performed by a trained practitioner, was far more overt magic, able to do more than detect the flow of energies.It could rearrange and direct them.
"I need to speak with him," she said, the words emerging with an intensity that surprised even her."With your father.As soon as possible."
"Tamsin is helping in the herb gardens," Amara said."They've put him to work identifying medicinal plants among what was salvaged."She studied Thalia with new interest."You know what earth-speak is, don’t you?I’ve never met anyone else who has heard of this."
"Yes.I do."Thalia glanced at Kaine, whose watchful expression told her he was following every word with careful attention.“I am… I am an earth-speaker.A root-singer."
The words felt powerful—and hollow all at once.She could hear the roots.She could feel the slow, ancient language of stone and soil.But she did not yet know how to answer it, how to shape what she heard into something deliberate.
She swallowed and lifted her chin.
“Or, at least… I need to become one.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The herb supply room adjacent to the infirmary engulfed Thalia in waves of scent—pungent valerian root, sweet chamomile, the sharp tang of feverfew.She followed Amara through shelves stacked with clay pots and bundles of dried plants, her legs still unsteady from days confined to a sickbed.
Somewhere in this labyrinth of healing botanicals waited a man who might hold the key to unlocking the magic that had taken root inside her, a power ancient and nearly forgotten that she had only glimpsed in visions of a time long past.
"He prefers it here," Amara said, her voice low as though reluctant to disturb the hushed atmosphere."Says the herbs speak to him more clearly when they're not competing with the wind and sun."
Thalia nodded, understanding intimately what the old man meant.Even now, currents of energy whispered to her from the dried plants surrounding them—faint echoes of what they had once been when alive and growing.Her ability to sense these currents had always been strongest in the forge, where she could feel the latent power in metals, but here among the remnants of living things, the sensation took on a different quality—softer, more melodic, like the difference between a war drum and a lullaby.
They rounded a corner where the passageway narrowed, forcing them to walk single file between two tall shelves laden with jars of powdered herbs.The air grew thicker, warmer, carrying an earthy musk that reminded Thalia of the fertile soil near Verdant Port's harbor after spring rains.A single oil lamp cast amber light across the small clearing at the end of the shelves, illuminating a workstation where an elderly man hunched over a collection of small clay bowls.
"Father," Amara called softly."I've brought someone to meet you."
The old man didn't look up, his weathered hands continuing their methodical work, sorting tiny seeds from one bowl into several others with practiced precision.His skin was the deep brown of Southern soil, mapped with creases that spoke of decades under harsh sun.A ring of tight gray curls circled his head like a crown, the top smooth and bare, gleaming in the lamplight.
