“Name them.”
“I want Mother Sanque to explain exactly what the ceremony does. What changes when the bond formalizes. What it feels like. Whether it can be undone if it goes wrong.” She squeezes my hand. “And I want you to stop acting like you're trapping me. I walked into that ditch on my own. I'm walking into this on my own too.”
I look at her hand in mine. Her grip barely spans half my palm.
“All right,” I say.
Mother Sanque returnswith tea and a strongbox.
She sets the tea on the table followed by the strongbox, which lands with a heavy thud. Iron-banded, old, scratched and dented from years of use. I recognize it.
“You kept it,” I say.
“You left it with me six years ago and told me to hold it until you needed it.” She pushes it toward me. “I'd say you need it.”
I open the lid. Gold coins, more than I remembered. Enough for the Bride Market and then some.
“The portal to Korsmot is half a day's walk from here,” Mother Sanque says. “Down the eastern slope, through the ravine. I'll draw you a map.” She looks between us with that sharp, assessing gaze. “The Market runs all week. You'll have time to register and prepare.”
She shuffles to her shelf, pulls down the jar of oil from last night. Hands it to Maren.
“Keep using this. Skin contact strengthens the bond. The stronger the bond is when you stand before the stone, the cleaner the formalization will be.” She fixes Maren with a look. “You understand what I'm saying.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” She turns away, starts pulling paper and ink from a drawer. “I'll have the map ready within the hour. Eat something before you leave. You both look half-starved.” She pauses, her back to us. “The stone is old, girl. Older than anything I've studied. It will read your intent. Both of you. If there's deception, if either of you stands before it with a lie in your heart, it will know.”
“There's no deception,” Maren says.
Mother Sanque looks over her shoulder. For the first time, something in her expression softens. Not much. Just a crack in the stone.
“No,” she says. “I don't think there is.”
We eat.Bread, cheese and dried fruit, simple food that sits well in my stomach. Maren sits beside me, close enough that our arms touch. The contact hums through me, steady and quiet, and the beast stays behind its closed door.
Mother Sanque draws the map with quick, precise strokes. Marks the portal location, notes the terrain, adds warnings about loose rock on the eastern slope. She hands it to Maren, not to me.
“She's the practical one,” she says when I raise an eyebrow.
At the door, Mother Sanque catches my arm. Her hand barely wraps around my wrist, but her grip is iron.
“The binding stone doesn't make you something you're not,” she says. Low enough that Maren, adjusting her pack a few steps ahead, can't hear. “It formalizes what already exists. The bond just gave it a name.”
I look down at her. This ancient, sharp-eyed woman who has spent her life collecting knowledge that others have forgotten.
“Thank you, Mother Sanque.”
“Don't thank me. Come back alive and tell me what the stone felt like. I've never had a firsthand account.” She releases my arm. “Now go. The market won't wait forever.”
Maren is at the bottom of the stairs, still wearing my cloak, the map in one hand.
She looks up at me and something in her expression is different from yesterday. Not warmer. More decided. Like a door has opened and she's walked through it.
“Ready?” she asks.
I sling both packs over my shoulder. The strongbox hangs heavy at my belt.
“Ready.”
