Corva stares at Jack’s pained face. What just happened? Merda.

It’s strange enough that Jack has apparently found a way to resist his paralyzer array and move more easily than either her or Thegn. However, the way he placed his fingers on Thegn—and the immediate violent reaction afterward—it’s too much to be a mere coincidence. Granted, it’s not like she saw it clearly while cowering and running in her escape from Fareburne. But it’s unmistakably the same technique.

Where in the world did Jack learn the Touch?

Sure, she’s aware that he’s been practicing soulmancy. She’s seen him on a couple evenings, huddled in a corner under a bit of soulmantic shielding, making those little imbued beads that he sells on the side. But the Touch is a technique on an entirely different level. Was he even alive when the Shadowfold hit Fareburne?

Whatever. She lets air escape from her mouth. She needs to focus. We’ve got bigger problems right now.

The Old Beard is down for now and his scythe has become a pile of ash, but all three of them are still stuck in Jack’s ridiculous sound trap. If Zeke was right, there’s a horde of Umbrati grunts about to descend on Bule. The cliffside town is difficult to get to and mildly fortified, but once the horde makes it in … well, it’s not going to be pretty. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter why the horde is invading. The horde sees anyone with significant skill or training as either a threat or an asset. That fact paints a giant target on people like Jack and her—whatever she is. They’ve got to bolt. Now.

She shifts her eyes to Zeke, who is lying at the base of the bar. He’d popped free from Thegn’s hand when the old Reaper hit the ground, but he hasn’t moved since he landed there. Is he—

A wave of relief washes over her. He’s not dead. Corva isn’t sure how she knows it, but she does. She’s got to get him awake, though. He’s the only one in the room that isn’t affected by the subsonics. He could turn off the array and they could get out of there.

If she were closer, she could turn the array off herself. That relax-and-move thing worked for the most part, but it was exhausting. Can I work across the whole room that way? Her arms and legs feel spent just from the effort of the movement she made. A movement that would’ve nearly gotten her killed if it weren’t for Jack. No way she’ll make it across the room.

Maybe she could somehow signal Jack to take care of it. He seemed to move so easily when he reached Thegn. Looking at him now, though, he looks utterly spent. His eyes are half-open as he lays fully prone on the floor. Nope. Jack’s not an option, either. She needs Zeke.

But she can’t reach him. Not physically and not through her mind. She doesn’t even know how she would. So far, she’s just spoken to Zeke directly and he responds in her head. The mental communication thing was a one-way street from him to her. But now she can’t speak. She tries, but the best she can manage is a noise like a bawling child trying to squeeze words out between crying and wheezing for air.

Zeke can reach my mind. Why can’t I reach his? She thinks back to when Zeke caused her to collapse on the stairs up from Lower Bule. It was just earlier this same day, but it feels like ages ago. He’d said something. Something about flow. She’d had a hard time paying attention at the time; the realization that he was in her mind had been enough to overwhelm her and put her into shock.

But that word. Flow.

Him talking to her on the stairs. Him channeling energy to her in Cliff City. Her pulling energy from him in the fight at the bar. It was all flowing in one direction. Every time, she’s been on the downstream side of things.

What was it Avó used to say? A water drop cannot flow upstream, but with time, it can still find the top of a mountain. The old woman’s proverb didn’t make sense then and it barely makes sense now, but it keeps repeating in Corva’s mind. Something about the way Zeke phrases things reminds her of Avó. Cryptic and cautious. Speaking in riddles and metaphors. Neither of them seem capable of just giving straight answers. They treat facts like prized weapons. Weapons you’re not allowed to train with until they think you’re ready to handle them.

To flames with all of you. How are your secrets helping you now? Avó, you’re dead. Zeke, you’re not faring much better. “Can’t flow upstream.” Bah!

You know what bothers me about the Four? All your minds have always been so noisy.

What? Corva darts her eyes around her limited field of view. Who said that? The voice sounded like her own, but not at all the way she speaks. It’s almost the same way she hears Zeke speak to her. However, this certainly isn’t Zeke. The delivery and cadence are different. And it’s definitely not Jack. Weariness and fatigue are still carved into his face.

It’s amusing to watch you try to figure this out. But we’re all short on time here.

She catches some movement in her peripheral vision, down near her feet. The rat! It’s that same large white rat that tranced her back in the ditch. Back before Zeke chased it off. Now, it ambles around her feet, stops, and turns to face her.

You’ll have to forgive me for being a bit talkative. The rat tilts its head in the direction of Thegn. That young man absolutely abhors any form of mental communication. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to speak at length with anyone. Of course, you Four are the only ones who can hear us. Unfortunately, he keeps killing you and the others before I can even begin to have a decent conversation with any of you. Really, he acts like he has no consideration for my feelings at all. So frustrating.

Corva stares at the rat, confusion wrinkling her face. Her mind reels, trying to keep up. Everything he says is accompanied by images. No, they’re memories—sights, sounds, even smells and feelings. They flow by her mind, bombarding her as he speaks. Not her memories, though. They’re like a full-sensory series of visual aides, reinforcing and buttressing his words in her own inner voice. All she has is more questions.

But look at me, I’m going on and on. The rat rears up to sit on its haunches, freeing his forepaws to move as he pushes his words into her mind. He leans forward in what could only be described as a rat’s version of a bow.

I’m Caffiel. In days past, you knew of me as the sixth sigil.

He lifts his head from his bow so Corva can see into his strange red eyes.

And you are Durga. Harbinger of War.