FORTY-EIGHT

THE SORCERESS WAS WHISPERING to her.

Shine swallowed a weird, tangy flavor and cracked open her eyes to radiant sunset streaks of red-orange cutting between thick black clouds still puffing up, up, up from the volcano.

She sprawled surrounded by grass and sparkling pebbles in the bowl of the mountain, easily sensing her exact place. The mirror lake was just past her feet, and bright dawn sprites peeked up nervously from the shore. The Selegan River spirit coiled far at the foot of the mountain, silver-happy and relieved. The mountain groaned and burped smoke, but the anger she’d awakened rested again. Like a snoring giant, they’d reminded the army of their potential.

The sorceress stretched beside her, one arm around her waist, the other pillowing her head as she whispered into Shine’s ear. Her words danced along Shine’s jaw, tickled her cheek and lips, and she smiled a little bit.

the mountain’s house is your body, too

She was whole. Strong. Crystal bones and slow-flowing magma in her arteries. Muscles of long, sinewy quartz, skin of hot ash and fertile earth growing tiny grasslike hairs. The mountain was pink flesh, sand-pale skin, freckled, and laughing.

No, wait, Shine was flesh and bone and skin, smiles and teeth and feathers. The mountain was stone and crystal freckles. No—

It didn’t matter. Both were both. She felt so good.

And extremely exhausted.

“Shine,” said the sorceress, and Shine tilted her head to meet the sorceress’s eyes. Evergreen and bone white, perfectly bisected by red-slit dragon pupils. “Shine,” she said again. She skimmed her hand up Shine’s stomach and breast and neck, to cup her jaw. She scraped her sharp lacquered nails at the soft skin. “I love you.”

“Shadows, I’m too young to be married,” Shine whispered.

The sorceress bared her teeth and rolled away, up to her feet with easy grace, and wandered toward the copse of aspen trees. But she glanced over her shoulder and smiled.

Shine laughed happily and got up to chase her.