The king shakes her again, and she lowers her head.

  I jerk back so suddenly I knock into the woman behind me. She grumbles at me but otherwise ignores me.

  Sentenced to death for practicing magic? I assumed it was forbidden, like it is in King Afon’s kingdom. But the punishment is death?

  It can’t be. She must have hurt someone, broken some other law as well.

  “His leg was broken.”

  I hear a whisper behind me and turn to see two women conversing, their heads tilted toward each other.

  “I saw it myself. It was bleeding and bloody when he fell from the tree.”

  “And then what?” whispers the other, her eyes wide as she hears the tale.

  “The next day, he walked. He should have died, and instead he was out in the fields, harvesting grain.”

  “Wait!” A man shoves forward and falls to his knees at Wthyr’s feet. “I am this woman’s husband and speak on her behalf. She is a healer. She only did what she—”

  “No, Einion!” the woman cries, and life returns to her face as she stares at her husband. Her eyes grow wide. “Say no more!”

  He turns to her. “But you—”

  “No!” she says. “Do not follow me to the fire!”

  Something significant passes in their expressions. He falls silent, his head dropping in defeat, and then he steps away from her.

  Leaving her to her fate. A murmur goes through the crowd.

  “She healed the boy,” the woman behind me says, satisfaction in her tone. “She’s a wicked woman.”

  I can hardly believe my ears. I spin around, inserting myself into the conversation. “She’s wicked for healing her son?”

  They stare at me like I’m a mouse in their flour.

  “She’s wicked for using magic,” the woman says, and the other shudders and clutches her collar.

  “God help us,” she breathes.

  “God?” I exclaim. “What god condemns a mother who protects her own?”

  Except I don’t say it. I bite my tongue and catch the words before they condemn me as a worshiper of the old religion.

  My skin prickles. The people here embrace the new god, the one the Romans brought and left here before they abandoned us.

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  King Wthyr continues. “Under the treaty of Alban, magic is forbidden.”

  The treaty of Alban. It holds in King Afon’s lands, as well. By going south, not only have I not escaped it, I’ve found a place the enforces it with more strictness.

  What am I doing here? I suck in a breath and whirl around. I’m a walking embodiment of magic, using the power to conceal my true identity!

  But unless he has magic himself . . . the king won’t be able to tell that.

  “She is therefore sentenced to burn at the stake.” Wthyr’s booming voice speaks above the murmurs and whispers, cutting into my thoughts.

  I want to run, to flee, but my feet seem glued to the earth, and I stare as the executioner ties the woman’s hands to the stake. He guides her to stand on a small platform above the pyre and fastens her ankles as well.

  She sobs now. Her chest heaves as great broken cries leave her throat.

  A fire is lit on the sticks beneath the woman’s feet, and I come unglued. I flee from the courtyard, shoving and weaving between the crowd, my pulse racing in my neck.

  The screams of anguish follow me. My skin grows hot, and I glance down to see red gurek flickering, glistening over my fingertips. My breathing comes too fast. Not now!

  I make it outside the palisade and duck into a tent right before a scream shreds my lungs and the gurek explode.

  The baskets and apples in the tent blow themselves outward as if a storm centered itself in the booth. I bite my lip to silence another scream as the power of the gurek tears through my body, ripping through my chest. I press my hands to my torso and pant, expecting to feel blood seeping through my tunic, but my body is uninjured.

  I scramble to my feet and run. The street is empty as far as I can tell, but the people will lose interest in the execution soon and return to the market, and I can’t be caught here with this destroyed booth.

  I can’t stay here.

  I run through the gate at the stone wall, through the lower town before my legs give out and I stumble.

  I have to learn to control the gurek so they stop causing mass destruction whenever I’m distressed.

  The forest is in front of me. I half-walk, half-crawl to the edge of the woods, but then I keep going, deeper, into the quiet hush of foliage. I collapse under a shrub and hide myself there.

  I can still hear her screaming. Caerleon is far behind me, and the sounds of the vendors, the cattle, the children playing, have all faded from my hearing.

  But not the screaming.

  I cover my ears with my hands and sob as I rock back and forth.

  Why did I come here? I could go back. Make my way home to Brenin.

  He won’t be there.

  Any survivors would have escaped to the hills. They’ll hide for weeks, maybe months. Eventually Brenin will go to his father’s land, but not until it’s safe.

  I weep more then, because I know I cannot return. King Afon’s men will hold the land. I need a garrison to come with me and take it back.

  I can go north to Buellt, the way I intended to all along. The king of that land is rumored to be just and fair. The treaty of Alban doesn’t hold there.

  The trees are whispering.

  At first I don’t hear them over my shuddered gasps, but with my swollen eyes closed and my breathing slowing, I pick up on the soft murmurs.

  Light flashes in front of my eyelids, and I open my eyes to see soft yellow gurek, the shade of fresh butter after it’s been churned, flitting before my face. A feeling reminiscent of entering my mam’s house and smell her baking bread warms my chest. The gurek dance away, and I sit up, scrambling out from the bush.

  The forest is alight with gurek.

  Pinks and yellows and lavenders flit from flower to earth with the energy of sprites, or even fairies. I’ve never seen them so active, and I’m breathless, filled with wonder.

  They seem as if they are alive.

  A few of them light on me, leaving tiny impressions of color and warmth on my flesh before they vanish again. And I suck in a breath as the pain and anguish from the explosion in the market dissipates.

  “So you summon all the colors.”

  I whip around to see the same man as before. He holds a staff in one hand, and his hood is shoved back, revealing a bald head with tattooed markings across his skin.