no one mourns the wicked; any

[Cassi]

She has no legacy, nothing to echo in the great halls of Beqanna. She is a strange magician, one in her nascence, with nothing pledged to anyone, nothing to give them.
(She is too selfish, anyway. Much too selfish.)
There is a great and tragic love story in her skin, a story of a golden mare leading her to a river, of hazel, of a courtship lasting years before they touched (and oh, the first time they touched the mare was dead before the lightning brought her back). But the love story has been writ, the book closed, Spyndle gone – what’s left in her narrative now is a much darker twist, a sordid tale of a quivering boy, of bodies begging to be burnt.
Of magic itching through her skin like hives, begging to be used, to destroy.

The mare inquires about the lighting, and Cordis’s skin flciekrs in response. Of course it is real, the heat and low buzz is a comfort. But perhaps to the eye it’s nothing but a marking, that can’t feel the way it burns in the marrow of her bones, keeps her alive, keeps her sane.
(Though she’s unsure she wants to be either of those things.)
Instead she breathes, “yes.”
Instead, she exhales a bolt of lightning leaps from her skin before she quite realizes it, leaves a raven dropped dead at their feet.

she said it was a mistake to let them burn her at the stake

Cordis

(and she learned a lesson back there in the flames)