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the bandage West made for her.
    It occurs to her to tell Brion a white lie, but what is thepoint? “I woke up from my dream and it was bleeding,” she says. “I was—”
    “Come over to the forge,” he says, “and I’ll redress it.”
    His big, calloused hands are gentle as he unwinds the bloodied bandage, washes her wound in the quenching pot, then applies a salve and wraps it in a clean white cloth he produces from his leather sack.
    The bandage is bulky and will get in her way, but he means well. “Thank you, Brion. Thank you … for everything.”
    “I’m not finished with you yet,” he says, wagging a finger at her. “Now, go and do what you must. I will be here when you return, ready to complete your training. You will be taking your knife with you, I trust?”
    She nods, thinking that had she known she were leaving Mount Kheiron so soon she would have made a much larger knife.
    “Of course,” she says, removing her apron with one hand and placing it on the hook, she hopes not for the last time. She realizes that she is afraid, not just for Sky, but for herself. She is afraid of leaving Mount Kheiron, where Night Demons are the only threat. Something in her dreads returning to the bush. She had come in from it unscathed, but returning to it she is fearful that her good luck has run out, that her survival skills have grown rusty, that something lies in wait for her out there. For all this, she knows she has no choice. She must find Sky.
    Brion sees her out and stands in the doorway of the shop, a hand raised in farewell. She has already broken into a runwhen she hears his voice at her back. “Kheiron be with you, Malora Ironbound!”
    Moments later, Malora is in the basement corridor of the atelier, where she pauses to catch her breath before knocking. She can tell from the light under the door that Orion is already at work in his alchemical laboratory. Like her, he is an early riser. She lifts her good hand and knocks softly.
    Orion opens the door. His overwrap is a mass of stains, his dark curls are in disarray, eyes glazed with distraction. Then he registers Malora’s presence and bursts into a warm smile. “Malora! Come in!”
    She stands back from the open door and holds the sleeve of her tunic over her nose. Behind Orion, the alchemical laboratory is dimly lit. She sees a pot bubbling over an open flame that is attached to another pot via a long twisting tendril of copper pipe wrapped in a rag. The alchemist is distilling something that smells like the earth itself being heated in a blast furnace. In her mind’s eye, she sees a place where the sand drifts in layers of many colors, where murmuring figures huddle in striped robes around fires in the shadow of billowing tents. Other scents begin to unfurl toward her like long tongues, lashing her face, her nose, her ears. There are too many of them, all demanding her attention. This is the way it always is for her here. The shelves behind the distillation apparatus are chockablock with colored vials, each containing a different scent: flowery, earthy, spicy, sweet, tangy. Although Orion assures her the vials are airtight, Malora knows differently. Some of each scent escapes into the room and mingles in a single, swarming cloud.
    Seeing that Malora’s distress isn’t just the olfactory assault of his laboratory, Orion’s smile quickly fades. “What’s wrong, Malora? Is it the house? Is it the horses?”
    “The house is wonderful,” she says, working to focus. “Everything I could ever want. And the boys and girls are fine.” Then she pauses, realizing this isn’t exactly true. “Can you join me out here in the hall and close the door?”
    “Of course,” he says. Orion shuts the door and takes her elbow, drawing her into the far corner. “You’re trembling all over,” he says, then sees the bandage. “And you’ve hurt yourself. What’s happened? Tell me.”
    Malora takes a deep breath to calm herself. In as steady a voice as she