Page 121 of The Iron Flower

“Ra’Ven was glamoured,” Sage cuts in sharply. “To look like a Kelt.”

“Ra’Ven?” My head is fair spinning with confusion.

“His Keltic name was Ciaran. His true name is Ra’Ven.”

My astonishment notches higher. “But...everyone thinks your child’s father has a Keltic family...and they...” I pause, disturbed and confused by the remembrance of what Yvan told me. “Sage...they were killed by the Gardnerians.”

Her face tenses with pain. “I know. I heard. They were the family who took Ra’Ven in when he escaped the sublands.”

The terrible ramifications of all this swamp over me. And the fact that Sage and I are intractably, completely and forever altered.

“Oh, Sage,” I say, my voice breaking.

I can see it all rushing over her, too. The world-shattering improbability of this moment. The two of us. Standing here. In Amaz lands. The Icaral of Prophecy in her arms.

Tears sheening her eyes, Sage comes toward me, and we fall into an embrace, loosely sandwiching Fyn’ir, who squirms between us and stares up at me with an expression of such adorable indignation that an affectionate laugh bursts from me.

“I’m so happy to see you,” Sage says through her tears.

I hold on to her, never wanting to let go of her again. “We’ve quite a bit to catch up on.”

A laugh escapes her. “You might say that.” She angles her head toward her dwelling. “Come in. I’ll make you some tea.”

* * *

Sage pours us steaming tea from a cobalt teapot with a golden filigree design, the cups fashioned from clear glass, set in jeweled golden holders. The interior of her cozy lodging is similar to ours, with rich scarlet-hued tapestries, a lush rug, a circular table low to the ground and cushions all around. I sip at my tea, which tastes of vanilla and spice.

“Can I see the Wand again?” Sage asks as she cradles Fyn’ir, her eyes lighting with interest.

I set down my cup, pull the Wand from the side of my boot and set it in the center of the table.

The ambient glow of the surrounding rune-lamps seems to momentarily dim in the face of it. There’s a presence about this wand. As if it’s another entity in the room.

“Do you really think it’s the true White Wand?” I ask her.

“I do.”

Then I notice her necklace—a small white bird hanging on a delicate silver chain. I inhale sharply, my eyes darting up to meet Sage’s.

“I see the Watchers,” I confess in a whisper. “Every now and then. Like the one that just led me to you. And sometimes, when I touch the Wand... I see a tree made of starlight.”

“Every religion across Erthia has something like the Watchers, Ren,” she tells me, serious. “Every single one. And the tree of light. And the Wand, in some form or another. It’s all there, central in every holy book in both Realms.”

It surprises me to hear Sage talking like this, coming from such a strictly religious family like hers. “Do you even believe that you’re a First Child anymore?” I ask.

“No.” She shakes her head as she slides a squirming Fyn’ir under her tunic’s edge so he can nurse. “But I think I believe in those central, true things. And I believe in the Wand.”

My eyes flick to her bloody fastlines. “Your hands... How are they?”

Sage takes a deep, resigned breath, her expression darkening. “They’re painful. But it’s not as bad now. The runes tamp down the pain.” There’s a glint of steely resolve in her eyes. “I’m going to destroy this spell, Elloren. I’m planning to travel to Noi lands, to join the Wyvernguard and study light magic there.”

“You think the Noi will accept you?”

She nods. “Light Mages can link magic from different rune systems, and we can fabricate all the different types of runes. So, yes, I think they’ll accept me into their Wyvernguard.” Her look of resolve intensifies. “And I swear to you, I’m going to find a way to sever the wandfasting spell.”

“I can’t believe you know actual light spells,” I marvel. “Who ever would have imagined?”

Sage’s purple eyes sparkle, a wry smile forming on her violet lips. “Would you like to see some light magic?”

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