The Sorcerer of Trabir knew he would do anything for Sage after he didn't hesitate when she asked him to take her home. Not her home. Sage wanted to see where he was born. The island of pain and his people—the ones who sold him to Master Callux, the Sorcerer of Trabir, because he was worthless in their eyes. Still, he wanted to grant her request.

The moment the Sorcerer's feet touched the island he regretted all of his decisions. He turned to look at Sage. The overcast sky made Sage's gray eyes wide as she looked at the pebbly beach and snow. His breath shook, visible in the chilled air. Visiting here had been her request, after all. She'd asked to see his birthplace in the far northern Abbet Isles.

"So this was your home once." Sage wrapped her arms around herself. "And I thought the mountains were cold. This place is unforgiveable."

We should burn this place to the ground. The spirit slithered in his mind. This place has caused you nothing but pain and suffering. It should not exist. Kill them all, Dalton.

He grimaced. "Sorry, the spirit doesn't like this place. Suvo island was where I was born two hundred years ago. Only my ancestors remain."

"Should we leave?" Sage looked at him with worry. "If this place is hurting you, Dalton, we can go somewhere else."

"No," he held out his hand. "You asked to see where I was born. I will give you what you want. Come on, the village is on the far side of the island."

His skin prickled like frost crept across his skin. The spirit churned in his body. He magicked a staff in his hand so he could have something to grip. His fingers formed claws, and he gritted his teeth as they walked. This place. It set off the spirt more than any other place on the continent.

"Your eyes are glowing," Sage said. "What does the spirit want?"

"I don't know," his shoulder sagged. "It's a ball of fury and power. All can do is keep the rage of the elementals. The spirit was a mistake and an abomination. It can't be destroyed, only contained by someone with a strong will like me."

"I read about its creation," Sage said. "It's the combined powers of the last elementals. Tomas, the fire element, raged at his son, and his wife, Orientina, the ice element, saved her son by taking her husband's magic and hers together. Somehow that much raw elemental power made the raging spirit of Trabir, who has taken on hosts of magic. Scholars think that when the spirit passes from one person to another, it leaves the previous host powerless, and their magic is combined to make the spirit stronger. That's why your magic is boundless."

She's been showing interest in us. Perhaps she is the one to free you from our hold. You could be free, Dalton. Just get her to follow the rules.

He pushed the spirit from his mind. The spirit's rules were dangerous, and he wasn't allowed to speak them aloud. Besides, he was resigned to his fate. The Sorcerer refused to let anyone else become like him, even if being with Sage made him happy.

"In a way," he smiled at Sage. "Nine former hosts and I access all their magic and even my own. When I was a child, I cast shields around people. Even that wasn't enough to impress my father. He decided his ugly son was a problem and sold me to the last sorcerer."

"You aren't ugly, Dalton," she said. "And we can work to get the spirit out of you. You don't have to live like this forever."

"Love, I manage and if I get rid of my curse, it'll go to another," he said. "I can't let anyone else have such raw anger and grief. I can barely keep it under control."

She took his hand and squeezed it lightly. Then she paused and turned her head slightly as if she was trying to get a better view of the village coming into view. The Sorcerer briefly wondered if she'd ever seen homes made of blocks of ice. He realized that was silly. Of course, she'd seen nothing like the icy settlement of Suvo.

"Where are the people?" She asked.

"Out of the cold," he said. "The homes are warmer inside despite being made of ice."

The central fire was lit and burning. Someone spiked a beast on a spit above the flames. A single man dressed in thick white furs turned the meat. The Sorcerer noticed Sage shiver and led her towards the fire to warm up. The man looked at them and the moment he saw the Sorcerer he wrinkled his nose.

"If it isn't Spilt Wine," the man rotated the meat again, but the Sorcerer could sense the disgust and hatred in his voice. "What are you doing here, Gormon's son?"

The Sorcerer took a deep breath to control himself. His people never allowed him to pass the rites of manhood for a warrior's nickname. Instead, he'd gotten a cruel nickname that even his family still used seven generations later.

"You would insult your guests?" Sage frowned. "Where is your hospitality?"

"Who's the love?" the man's gaze drew down Sage's body.

The Sorcerer immediately stiffened. He'd forgotten how his people treated women as little more than beautiful objects designed to accompany their men. They would view an unmarried woman like Sage as merely a beautiful asset.

"Sage is someone you shouldn't stare at if you value your life," the words jumped from the Sorcerer's mouth before he could stop them. "We came to see family."

"You have no family here," an old man limped out of an igloo. "You are an abomination, Spilt Wine."

"Sage, this is the great-grandson of my brother, Eyus," the Sorcerer took her hand in case he needed to transport them off the island. "He should be welcoming us to a meal."

"If that is what it will take to rid us of your cursed presence," the old man spat. "Let us celebrate our honored guests."

The Sorcerer moved Sage closer to the fire. The meat crackled, bringing the aroma of magnificent roast meat everywhere. Slowly, the people of the tribe emerged from their homes of ice and brought out furs to sit on and wrap themselves. The Sorcerer watched a few young men even bring out their fiddles and start to play.

It was the only thing that the Sorcerer missed. Every male child here learned to play the fiddle. Most could play a few songs. When he was only Dalton, he'd written his own music so lovely that the young girls would sit at his feet as he played. He thought that was what made his father the angriest. It wasn't his son's magic or his face but the fact that despite that, his music made him valued. His father had sold him just before his first courting season, so no woman could accompany his fiddle with their drum and say they wished to marry him.

"Why do they hate you?" Sage asked him.

"They fear anything different," the Sorcerer said. "They've lived like this as long as anyone can remember. Magic is a threat. So is anyone who looks or thinks differently. I was sold when I was fifteen. I served the old sorcerer as a slave six years before I took his spirit."

"You bellyache like that isn't our way," Eyus limped over. "The strong live. You were determined weak."

"Undesirable from birth, you mean," the Sorcerer said. "You can't stand you all were wrong about me. Why else would you still insult me after all these years?"

The old man grumbled something unintelligible and limped off. Sage squeezed the Sorcerer's hand. He wondered if she'd excepted a warmer welcome as her tribe had given when they visited. The Sorcerer knew this place was hardly a home. It was a place people survived.

"I was wrong." Sage moved to stand. "We shouldn't stay here."

"It would be rude to leave now," the Sorcerer pulled her back. "We must at least eat the meal being prepared. Then we can travel from this place."

He eyed the fire. The meat would take a while longer to cook. The longer they waited, the more uncomfortable the people's gazes grew. Sage seemed to shrink into herself. He needed a distraction.

Eyeing the musicians, he took a deep breath and summoned his fiddle. The instrument appeared in his hands like an old friend. He raised the fiddle to his chin and the bow to the strings. Sage watched in shock as he rose to his feet and played.

The melody seemed to cast a spell over the camp, though he knew there was no magic involved. It started slow and sweet. His longing and despair poured into each note. It was an old song he'd written in the days he'd first become the Sorcerer. It was a piece of himself broken and lost in the world.

Then Sage caught his eye. She was a shining beacon of hope. She'd walked through fire and she'd not let it destroy her. His bow found faster and happier cords to fit his new muse. The music transformed into something new and somehow the new song was joyous and more beautiful than before.

She stood beside him. The surrounding air made her hair float like magic. Her gray eyes matched with his and she smiled softly. Then a little girl came from the crowd and handed Sage a hand drum made of a thin animal skin stretched over a frame. His breath caught as the beautiful white-haired girl stood beside him and beat the drum in time with his fast-paced jig.

His bow almost faltered. No one had ever played with him. Sage circled him as she beat her drum in a similar style to the courting dances in her own tribe. He smiled and danced to the beat of their music. The Sorcerer wasn't sure if Sage knew the meaning of a duet to his people, but he didn't care. He just wanted to see the smile on Sage's face grow bigger.

They danced and played until they were breathless. Then he let his fiddle disappear and led Sage back to the fire. He let some islanders serve them meat. Sage wrinkled her nose and the Sorcerer quickly realized he'd made another mistake.

"I'll see if they can give us something else," he said. "I know you do not eat meat."

He pulled aside one of the village women and explained the situation. The woman eyed Sage's thin frame and bustled off to an igloo. The Sorcerer took the meat off her plate and placed it on his own.

 She leaned against him. He could feel her shiver. The Sorcerer needed to take her from this place. The woman came back with a plate of roots. He remembered eating things like that as a child when his father was punishing him, but he said nothing.

"You should stay away from this love," the woman handed Sage the roots. "Spilt Wine is nothing but trouble."

Sage took the plate and glared down at the woman. "That isn't his name. He will be called insults no more. He is my family and I know him well. As sage, I can give him a new name."

The Sorcerer looked at Sage. There was something fierce in her eyes he hadn't seen before. He knew she was smart, but this was something else. There was tenderness in her expression as she took his palms and held them out to the sky like she'd done in all the ceremonies with her tribe where she confirmed children's names.

"You are to be known by those who know you well as Just Redeemer," she said. "For that is your heart and you should be seen for who you are."

"Thank you, love," the Sorcerer said. "Let's get out of here."

He didn't care if it was rude. The Sorcerer was tired of this place and he wouldn't let it destroy Sage's light. They wouldn't let these backward people and their cruel decisions define them. Sage was worth more than that—he was worth more than that.

The Sorcerer threw his plate of meat into the fire. He watched with a smile as the flames leapt to devour the meat. Then he took Sage's hand and helped her to her feet. Moments later, they reappeared at the castle of Trabir.

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "We're never going back there again."

"No," he was breathless. "But thank you."

"I just see people for who they are," she said. "And I won't let people lie to you about that. Your tribe is blind. I meant it when I said you were Just Redeemer."

His heart beat faster as she ran her hand across his face. He'd never felt like this before about anyone. Sage was beautiful both inside and out, and he knew he would ruin her. The spirit was too dangerous—too cunning. Still, he couldn't pull away as Sage pulled him close and kissed him until he was thoughtless and wished she would stay forever.

I wrote this whole chapter surprisingly without music. Then I read it to the love of my life, who's always my first reader, and he suggested the song Rule #14 - Fiddler's Heart by Fish in a Birdcage. I think the song fits Dalton and the scene quite well. 

"There's more people dancing 

Than I've ever seen 

A man made of gold 

Grew up on these streets 

Connects with the people 

And loves them as they are 

Everyone's listening to that fiddler's heart."

Don't forget to let me know what you think. I'd love to hear from you.-- Eliana