Page 128 of Secrets of Graves and Gold

“You got us out of Florian under lockdown using nothing but your cunning and connections,” I point out. “You’ve done plenty of fighting with just your knives.”

“Not enough to go up against an army of scourge sorcerers.”

I don’t know how to argue against that statement. All I can say is, “There’s the rest of us too. You’re not in this alone.”

For the first time, Ivy turns her head to meet my gaze. Her normally bright blue eyes look dulled, like the midday sky on an overcast day. “Do you really think the five of us can stop the march without me calling on my magic? Even with the cleverest plan you can imagine?”

I open my mouth and close it again. She’s jabbed at the guilty uncertainty that’s been coiled in the middle of my chest ever since my trick with the fire failed—ever since I first fumbled in Stavros’s weapons training, really.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But we didn’t know when we first set off from the Haven either, did we? We simply knew we had to try.”

My attempt at striking a hopeful note obviously falls flat. Ivy pulls her legs up in front of her, her head drooping until her chin rests on her knees.

She trails her finger idly through the grit that coats the worn stone floor. “You started shouting out names at the march yesterday while I was trying to tear down their magic. Scourge sorcerers who died. What was that about?”

I recall that impulse with a twinge of unfulfilled pride. “I was thinking about what the old letter said about the scourge sorcerers fearing death. It occurred to me that they might struggle more if I reminded them of those among them who have already died. I’m not sure it had much effect.”

“It did throw them off a little,” Ivy says. “They were pushing back, and their magic faltered right then. But I still wasn’t strong enough.”

My heart squeezes at the pain in her voice.

I loop my arm right around her. “It had nothing to do with strength. I’ve never met anyone stronger than you in my entire life.”

Ivy doesn’t answer, only stares down at her hands and the random lines she’s sketched in the dirt.

What else can I tell her? It’s not as if I know what I can do to stop the scourge sorcerers at this point either.

How can I encourage her when my own hopes have deflated?

What does any of this mission matter if the woman I love falls apart in the middle of it?

I take her nearer hand in mine. “How are you feeling after you’ve gotten some rest and half a day without needing to use any magic?”

“Am I still mad, you mean?”

I grimace. “I don’t think you’re outright insane. And I know the effects of your magic aren’t going to vanish immediately. But have you noticed any change? Or whether anything other than using your magic makes you feel better or worse?”

She gives a soft chuckle. “Always the scholar. You can write a book about me—the first treatise on what it’s really like living as a riven sorcerer.”

At my wince, Ivy leans her head toward me, sinking into my embrace. “I’m sorry. That was meant to be a joke, not a criticism. I know you’re trying to help.”

I stroke my thumb over her knuckles. “Don’t worry about me. If there is anything I can do to make your healing easier, I’d want to know—that’s all.”

Ivy exhales in a long, shaky stream. “It’s hard to tell whether specific things scatter my mind more or just set off the madness that’s already taken hold. I mostly notice the effects when I’m keyed up, aware of danger around me…”

“What kind of effects, exactly?”

“My thoughts get… jumpier. Like they’re leaping straight to more extreme conclusions, assuming I’m in grave danger from everyone around me. And I think I see or hear things—things that scare me. Attackers approaching, weapons aimed at us, threatening voices.”

My throat constricts. “That must be awfully disturbing.”

I suppose it’s no wonder most riven end up becoming as destructive as they do if this is the main consequence of using their magic.

I can picture the sequence so easily. They discover their power and start using it to enhance their lives. The more things they want and get, the more addictive the power becomes.

But at the same time, it’s eating away at their mind, convincing them that people mean them harm and that enemies lurk around every corner…

Without the self-control and awareness that Ivy’s cultivated her whole life, how long would it take before a person with a riven soul found themselves drawing away into isolation, comforting themselves with luxuries without caring what damage their magic did in exchange? Lashing out at anyone who got close, imagining they were a threat?

---