The Drowning City

Chapter 6

Isyllt and Adam returned to Market Street late that night, after the guards and gawkers had left. The damaged shop had been hastily reinforced with spells and wooden beams to keep the roof intact. Isyllt lingered in the shadows across the street and watched the burnt ruin with otherwise eyes.

The street was silent, windows shuttered and dark, but she doubted she was the only one watching. Moonlight fell in pale stripes between buildings, shining on clean cobbles; death still echoed here, in spite of the fresh-scrubbed stones.

Adam crept up beside her, only the warmth of his flesh giving him away. “It’s clear as far as I can see.” His whisper ruffled the fine hairs above her ear.

“Wait for me,” she whispered back, their faces so close she could taste his salt-musky sweat.

She slipped across the cobbles and into the shadow of the ruined shop. Red ropes were strung across the door and broken wall to keep intruders out. Isyllt paused when she felt the spell woven into the cord. Subtle magic, well-cast, meant to snare or mark an intruder. She knelt and twisted through the ropes, careful not to touch them.

The air still stank of charred flesh and seared blood; crusted gore marked where the bodies had lain. Isyllt closed her eyes and reached, listening to the stones.

The explosion had killed most instantly, leaving only shudders of shock and violence. Someone in the far corner had died slower, roasted by the flames. Pain resonated there, raising gooseflesh on Isyllt’s limbs and stinging her fire-tender skin. But it was only the echo of agony blasted into the rock, not a soul left intact.

Even her mage-trained eyes could barely see in the gloom and she couldn’t risk a light. Inching cautiously, she moved closer to where she’d found the shattered ruby. If the investigators had missed something, any scrap that had belonged to the saboteur-

A hand closed on her shoulder, another slapping over her mouth before she could gasp. She tasted spice-steeped skin and summer lightning. Isyllt cocked her leg for a backward kick when her assailant spoke.

“I admit,” Asheris’s low voice whispered in her ear, “you aren’t what I expected to catch here, Lady Iskaldur.” The hand left her mouth and he turned her around. A sliver of moonlight gleamed in amber eyes.

“What were you expecting?” She licked her lips, tasted the salt of his hand. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she fought to keep from trembling in the after-math of shock. She’d felt nothing, heard nothing.

Asheris grinned, a pale flash in the darkness. He wore black and the shadows welcomed him. “A criminal foolish enough to return to the scene of the crime, perhaps. I hope that isn’t what I’ve found.”

His hand was warm on her shoulder, their bodies only inches apart. Nearly a dance step. He was only an inch or two taller. “Not a criminal, my lord, only careless.”

He took a step back and Isyllt almost matched him. But this was another sort of dance entirely. “When I offered to take you sightseeing, this isn’t what I had in mind.”

She was glad she had no need to lie. “I was in the market when this happened. I wanted to have a closer look.” She shrugged ruefully. “Habit, I’m afraid. I didn’t mean to interfere in the investigation.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Your investigation?”

“Yes. Forgive me, I neglected to mention it earlier-I’m the Imperial Inquisitor for the city.” He stepped back to give her a shallow bow.

“I hope I’m not impeding you.”

“No, my lady. There’s little here for you to impede. Such attacks are no mystery in Symir. Unless-” Light caressed the curve of his head as he turned. “Are there any ghosts here for us to question?”

“No. They died suddenly-no time to seal themselves to this place. “

“Ah, well. Better for them, I suppose, if frustrating for us. We know who’s responsible, of course, but without witnesses it’s difficult to make a proper case.”

“Have you scried the dead?”

“We have no necromancers on staff-they make the locals very uncomfortable. I’ve requested one, but the Emperor has none to spare.” His eyes flickered toward her. “Unless I could beg your assistance in the matter.”

Isyllt smiled. She trusted him no more than he trusted her, but this dance was far too entertaining to stop now. “I’d be delighted.”

He offered her his arm. “I’m a poor host, to entertain you in a charnel house. Let me take you somewhere more pleasant.” He helped her over a fall of rubble; the moonlight was bright after the shadowed ruin. “And perhaps you should tell your escort in the alley that I have no ill intentions. I suspect he’s rather concerned at the moment.”

Somewhere more pleasant, it turned out, was the police station in Lioncourt. Despite the late hour, the lobby was crowded, every bench full and more people pacing in the corners. Some wept, some cursed and pleaded with the guards at the desk, some stared at nothing with hollow eyes; the air was thick with the heat of lamps and bodies, and reeked of sweat and dust and old tea. As Asheris led her through the press, Isyllt caught snatches of conversation.

“Let me see the body, please-”

“I can’t find my daughter-”

“My wife was arrested at the docks on Sabeth, and I’ve had no word since. Where is she being held?”

She glanced up at the last, saw the man’s angry, desperate expression and thought of the disappearances and work-gangs Zhirin had mentioned. Asheris steered her past the cordons, and she didn’t catch the guard’s weary response.

A haggard-looking sergeant met them near the stairs and saluted Asheris, casting a curious glance at Isyllt. The guards at the desks were local police, but his rumpled sweat-stained uniform was Imperial poppy red.

“I need the morgue key, please,” Asheris said.

“Of course, Lord al Seth.” The man turned away to fetch it, just in time to miss the startled blink Isyllt couldn’t control.

Al Seth-the royal house of Assar. That was a choice bit of information Vasilios had forgotten to share. Much more than a pretty distraction.

They left the noise and close heat behind as they climbed the stairs. The morgue was a narrow, windowless room, sealed by webs of spells to keep out heat and moisture and insects. Lamplight gleamed on metal and tile, everything polished and scrubbed, but neither the lingering tang of soap nor the sachets of incense could drown the smell of charred meat.

Isyllt rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the itch of gelling sweat, and eyed the bodies. Six of them, mostly intact. Isyllt recognized the eyeless man she’d nearly tripped over in the shop. Her ring chilled with the presence of death, but not the biting cold that meant a ghost lingered nearby.

Asheris lounged in the corner, giving her room to work. Still sleek and handsome, but all the lazy grace and charm she’d seen when they met was more purposeful now. More dangerous.

What was he doing here, she wondered, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as she circled the tables. But she could worry about that later. The bodies in the room were of more immediate interest than the fit of his jacket over broad shoulders.

She turned her eyes back to the grisly corpses. The smell of roast pork filled her nose, with the sharper reek of burnt hair and clothing beneath it. “Were these the only dead?”

“Less than half. Some were too mangled to keep and some have already been claimed by their families.”

“You let them take the bodies so soon?”

“Wealth has ever sped certain processes along.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Wealth enough to demand retribution?”

“Oh, yes. There will be arrests.”

“Appropriate ones?”

Asheris smiled with the not-quite-cruelty of a cat cornering a bird. “As appropriate as we can make them.”

“Of course.” Isyllt leaned against a cold metal tabletop, tracing the scratches where gore or rust had been scoured away. The corpse stared up at her, face eerily whole, though his body was a shriveled crisp. She touched his stiffened arm; skin cracked, char-black flesh flaking away to reveal seeping red tissue. But his eyes, milk-clouded and sunken, were still intact, and that was all she needed.

She leaned over the dead man, laying a careful hand on his face to steady herself. The heat had singed his receding hair.

“What did you see?” she whispered.

His dying vision unfolded in his eyes, wrapped around her.

A crowded shop, polished metal gleaming in the warm afternoon sun. Dust motes spark in front of the windows, swirled by the passage of customers. Outside the market’s din blurs to a noise like squalling birds. She glances down at the lovely enameled lamp in her hands, then toward the counter. A man with long beaded braids brushes her shoulder. Muffled grunt of apology and a crystalline red gleam out of the corner of her eye as she keeps moving-no, no, turn back, look, but the vision was set, only one way to play out now-toward the front of the shop, where the tired-looking shopkeeper glances up and smiles-

And Isyllt stumbled, even the memory of the explosion enough to rock her on her feet.

Asheris caught her elbow. “You saw something?”

She leaned against him for an instant, trying to decide how much to tell him. But he’d led her this far-perhaps he could take her further still.

“Yes.” She feigned a catch in her voice, let him steady her more than she needed. His shoulder was a pleasant warmth in the chill room. “I saw the man who did it.”

“Can you show me?”

Her hesitation this time was real, but after a heartbeat she nodded. She had been trained by the best, after all.

Asheris laid a hand on the side of her face. Isyllt closed her eyes and summoned up the image of the shop, locking the rest of herself deep away where he couldn’t reach. She expected him to intrude, to search, but his presence in her mind was controlled, constrained, as if he feared to touch her.

A brief contact and a deft one, but as he slipped away she caught a flash of something else-sand and fire and wind, the desert’s fury. Her eyes flew open to see him recoil, dark face draining ashen.

“Forgive me,” he said after a moment, inclining his head. “That was…unexpected.”

Curiosity defeated tact. “What did you feel?”

“A great deal of nothing. I don’t envy your magic, my lady.” He straightened his coat, brushing imaginary dust off the embroidered sleeves. “But thank you for your assistance. Even though the man responsible is dead, this helps us track down his accomplices. Perhaps we can find them before anyone else dies.” His tiny shrug spoke eloquent disbelief.

Every time Zhirin closed her eyes, she saw bodies crumpled on the street, smelled smoke and blood and fear. Before long she gave up and lay staring at the ceiling until night fell and the house grew quiet.

She should have tried to help Isyllt and her master, but she couldn’t stand to watch them pore over details of the attack. As though it were a mathematical equation or a difficult translation to be solved. As though a dozen or more people weren’t dead, for nothing more than deciding to buy a lamp today.

As if that was just something that happened.

Finally she rose and straightened her clothes. For a moment she contemplated counterfeiting a sleeping form with pillows and slipping out the window, like she and her friend Sia had done when they were young. She restrained herself; nineteen was old enough to come and go as she pleased. Better to save the sneaking for when she really needed it.

But she didn’t find her master or Marat and tell them she was going either, only slipped down the stairs to the dim first floor and let herself out the back. Crickets chirped in the darkness of the garden and hibiscus bushes whispered in the breeze. The house-wards recognized her and stayed quiescent as she left through the garden gate.

She didn’t know where to go. Not home-her mother would ask too many questions. Would make Zhirin ask herself too many questions. A councillor’s daughter, rich and fattened on Khas money while people died, and what did she think she could accomplish by playing at revolution with the Tigers? Would she even have joined the Tigers a year ago, when Fei Minh was still a member of the Khas?

Zhirin shook her head, eyes stinging. Jabbor might have reassured her, but he was on the North Bank, and she couldn’t go that far for comfort, even if she had remembered shoes tonight. She had few other friends in the city, and none she could trust with this. Not for the first time, she wished Sia had remained in Symir instead of attending the university in Ta’ashlan. But Sia could no more have stayed than Zhirin could have followed her.

As Zhirin crossed the soaring Bridge of Sighs, whose lace-carved stone drew voices from the wind, she realized she was going to the temple. It had been too long.

She walked the edges of the Floating Garden, where moonlight rippled silver over black water and night-blooming lilies glowed milk-blue in the darkness. Trees rustled in the breeze, bobbing in their anchored wooden tubs. Webs of moss embroidered the surface, soon to be washed away when the rains came and the river rose. The night was too quiet; the few people she passed moved quickly, hunched as if expecting a blow.

The River Mother’s temple was always open, though at this hour it was all but deserted. The candles and lanterns had gone out, but witchlights glowed in the elaborate spiraled channels that covered the center of the floor. The drip and murmur of water echoed in the vaulted chamber.

A curtain rustled and a veiled priestess emerged from an alcove, lantern in hand. Zhirin curtsied and the woman inclined her head. Eyebrows rose above her veil, a silent question.

Zhirin had thought perhaps to light a candle and sit in peace for a time, but now she realized she needed more than that.

“May I use the pool?” she asked softly.

The priestess hesitated a heartbeat, then nodded, gesturing with her lantern toward the far end of the hall.

Zhirin still knew the way, though it had been years since she’d used it. She still dreamed of the temple some nights, dreamed of her imaginary life as a priestess. Her mother had been intent on sending her to university with Sia, the first of the Laiis to attend. Apprenticeship at the Kurun Tam had been their compromise.

At least she had met Jabbor.

The priestess opened the antechamber door and lamplight rippled across the low domed ceiling. A small room, with benches and racks for clothing and a shower; acolytes scrubbed the pool at least twice daily, but courtesy suggested one track in as little grime as possible. The veiled woman found towels and a robe in a cabinet and set them on a bench, and cocked her head in another question.

“That’s all I need, thank you.”

She nodded and closed the door, leaving the lantern behind.

Zhirin paused as she unbuttoned her shirt-for a moment she feared she’d have to hurry after the priestess to beg a comb, but no, she still had one tucked into her pocket. She set it aside as she stripped and folded her clothes. Her toes curled against the cold marble floor, gooseflesh crawling up her legs.

The water from the tap was cold too, and she stifled a yelp as it splashed over her shoulders. She worked the braids and knots from her hair, watching long strands slither down the drain. When all of her was cold and wet and clean and her hair clung like lace-moss to her arms and back, she shut off the tap.

Leaving the lantern in the antechamber, she took her comb and padded dripping to the inner room, footprints shining behind her. As she shut the door she conjured witchlight; the steps were slick already and she had no wish to miss one in the dark. If she listened, she thought she could hear the river’s pulse through the stone.

The pool filled the center of the room, deeper than a man was tall. Only a foot of water stood in the bottom now. No taps or faucet in this room-either the river came to you here or she didn’t.

Zhirin descended the shallow steps into the pool, water lapping gently around her ankles as she reached the bottom. The wooden teeth of her comb bit her palm, and her own nerves saddened her. Once she’d never have doubted that she could call the river.

She raised the comb to her dripping hair and began to hum softly.

For a moment she feared she’d been gone too long. Then the water began to ripple, welling from tiny holes in the stone. Cool but not biting, it slid up her calves, over her thighs and hips, lapping higher with every stroke of the comb.

Once, the stories said, before the Assari built their dam, the reed-maidens would sit on the banks combing their long green hair before the floods came. They said the river had been wilder then, more dangerous. The gentle inexorable rush of the bound Mir was all Zhirin had ever known, all she had ever needed.

When the water reached her shoulders, she left off combing and lay back, floating in the river’s embrace. The Mir’s voice filled her head and she sank, and listened, and let it take her pain.

Xinai crossed the river after sunset, as shadows chased the last vermilion light into the west. Her heart was a stone in her chest-she was surprised the skiff didn’t sink under its weight.

The steersmen poled in silence, lanterns doused. Insects droned across the water and frogs and night-herons splashed along the shore; an owl’s deep bu-whooh echoed in the trees. Sounds she’d heard only in dreams for the last twelve years. She’d seen a dozen rivers in the north, but none of them sounded like the Mir.

She raised a hand to the charm around her neck, the leather pouch that held her great-grandmother’s ashes, and her mother’s before her. The bag thrummed softly against her skin. Tomorrow, she promised them. Tomorrow I’ll take you home. The wall of trees rose above them as they neared the shore, eclipsing more stars.

She touched another charm, a beaded owl feather, and the darkness fell away. Colors faded to ghostly hints,but the river became a road of moonlight and the stars lined the treetops with gray and pierced the canopy with slivers of light. Her charms could best even Adam’s keen senses, though she had no way of making the effect permanent. As the skiff scraped onto the muddy bank she leapt ashore, avoiding rocks and tangled reeds easily.

Selei snorted quietly. “Always the show-off, eh, child?” The old woman stepped off more carefully, leaning on a steersman’s arm. The ground squelched beneath their feet.

“Shall we wait for you, Grandmother?” the man asked.

“No. We’ll find our own way back.”

He nodded and bowed, and the boat moved away with a slurp of mud.

“Where are we going?” Xinai asked softly. Selei had been withdrawn ever since the explosion at the market that afternoon, her good eye distant and unhappy. Xinai had wanted to listen to what the city had to say about it, but the witch had kept her close all day.

“Cay Xian.” She raised a hand when Xinai would have spoken. “From here we go in silence. The Khas watches these hills, and it will be worse after what happened today. We’ll speak when we reach the village.”

Xinai nodded, swallowing a frown, and followed Selei into the trees.

They climbed twisting hill-paths for more than an hour, or so Xinai guessed from the few glimpses of the moon she caught. The shadows under the canopy were thick enough to strain even her owl’s eyes. Xian lands bordered her family’s holdings, and the sounds and scents of the jungle welcomed her home.

She’d taken what comfort she could in the cold forests of the north, but it was never the same.

The path widened and the darkness ahead gave way to brighter grays. Cay Xian was close. Dust itched on her feet, grated between her toes. Boots were fine in the city, but in the jungle toes would rot in closed shoes. She missed the extra blades.

Something rustled in the trees and Xinai’s hands dropped to her belt knives even as Selei called for her to stop. She recognized the squeal of a lantern hinge a second too late. Light blossomed blinding-white in front of her and she cursed, turning away as tears leaked down her cheeks. Selei’s calloused hand closed on her wrist, trapping her knife in the sheath.

“They’re with us,” she said. “And hood that lantern, you fool. Do you think we’re not watched?”

“Not at the moment, Grandmother,” a man said. “Phailin distracted the Khas’s soldiers.”

Grandmother-not the honorific, but a kinship. Xinai hadn’t realized Selei had a grandson.

The lantern dimmed and Xinai released the charm. Red and gold spots swam in front of her eyes. Rubbing away tears, she let Selei lead her toward the lights of the village.

By the time they reached the walls of Cay Xian, Xinai could see again. Torchlight glowed over the carven parapets, flickering as sentries moved along the walls. The heavy wooden doors swung open quietly, just wide enough for the three of them to slip through.

As soon as she stepped onto the yellow dirt of the courtyard Xinai knew something was wrong. This was the heart of the Xian clan, and the heart of Xian mourned angrily.

The clan’s tree grew in the center of the courtyard, dwarfing the houses around it. In the flickering torchlight its cluster of trunks seemed to move, root-tendrils writhing toward the ground. Charms and mirrors hung from the branches, rattling softly even though there was no wind. People watched them from the shadows of its trunks.

Xinai glanced at Selei’s grandson, seeing him clearly for the first time. Tall and lean, he wore a warrior’s kris-knife at his side, the long, curving blade sheathed in silver and bone. His clothes were mourning gray and ashes streaked his long braided hair.

Others in the yard wore gray as well, if only scarves or armbands, and tears and ashes marked several faces. But the village was silent. If the clan mourned, they should have wailed and sung their grief to the trees and sky.

“What’s happened?” Xinai asked softly.

As the door was bolted behind them, Selei’s calm mask cracked, letting grief and anger show. Her shoulders slumped.

The man answered. “The explosion in the market today? The man who did that was Kovi Xian. His body is lost, and we can’t even sing his spirit home.” He spat in the dust. “If we mourn him the Khas will arrest the whole clan as accomplices. They may do that anyway.”

“He was a fool,” Selei said softly. “A proud, hot-blooded fool. I told him he would better serve his people alive, but his honor demanded it of him.” She glanced up at her grandson. “Do you have honor, Riuh? Will it take the last of my grandchildren from me?”

His smile bared a chipped front tooth. “Don’t worry, Grandmother. I’m a scoundrel-honor won’t be what sends me to the twilight lands.”

She smiled back wearily, then glanced at Xinai. “Forgive me, I grow forgetful in my age. Xinai Lin, this is my scoundrel of a grandson, Riuh Xian. Xinai has returned to us from across the sea.”

Riuh’s eyes widened. “The last Lin? Welcome home.”

“Has the funeral feast begun yet?” Selei asked.

“We were waiting for you.”

She nodded and took Xinai’s arm again, this time for support instead of guidance. Xinai hid a frown as the old woman’s bird-fragile weight settled on her. “Come, child. Tonight we feed the ghosts.”

Isyllt stands in the shop again, clutching a lamp, unable to move as shoppers swirl around her. The light streams gray and metallic through the window, like a storm threatens.

A man brushes past her. Kiril. She tries to call to him, but her tongue is numb. Her master pauses and stares down at her, his dark eyes tired and sad. He opens his hands to show her a ruby. It pulses against his palms like a heart, light scattering off faceted edges. The stone is flawed deep, and the crack spreads even as she watches.

Kiril shakes his head and the dream explodes.

And Isyllt woke gasping in the dark, the smell of smoke and charred flesh thick in her nose. She raised a hand to her face; her cheek was smooth, unburnt, damp.

Trees rustled outside her window, rippled moonlight and shadow across the floor. She sat huddled in the dark, weeping silently until sleep stole over her again.

She rose early the next day and joined the others for a hasty, silent meal before the trek to the Kurun Tam. No one looked like they’d slept well-Vasilios moved as though all his bones ached and dark circles branded Zhirin’s eyes.

Wind blew sharp and salty off the bay, ruffling the canals and swirling dust and leaves. Everywhere they passed people hung colored lanterns and garlands, erected awnings along the streets. The rains were coming soon.

And everywhere they went Isyllt saw green-clad guards and soldiers red as poppies patrolling the streets and watching the ferry crossings. An uneasy hush hung over the city.

Thin white clouds veiled the sun but couldn’t stop the heat, and the humidity was worse than ever. By the time they neared the Kurun Tam, Isyllt dripped sweat and the backs of her hands were baked pink. She sighed happily as they stepped into the spell-cooled walls of the hall and stopped to rinse the dirt off her face. In the courtyard, Zhirin helped Vasilios down from the carriage. Isyllt watched the old man lean on his apprentice’s arm and swallowed the taste of dust. There but for the whims of fate…

A shadow fell across the stones at her feet and she turned to see Asheris.

“Good morning,” he said with a bow. He wore riding clothes today, shades of rust and ocher that would hide dust. “I hope you slept well.”

“Hello, Lord al Seth.” Her smile felt too sharp and she tried to school her expression. “I’d thought the investigation might keep you in the city today.”

“I had a previous engagement, but I have good people keeping their eyes on things. I’m glad you’re here,” he went on. “We’re going to the mountain. You must join us-this may be the last chance before the rains come.”

“Thank you, but I intended to study with Vasilios today.”

“Bah.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Study tomorrow. I promise the mountain is far lovelier than the library.” He turned to Vasilios as the older mage entered the courtyard. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you, if I steal your companion for the day?”

Vasilios snorted, leaning on his walking stick. “I know I can’t compete with your charms, Asheris. Just don’t expect my bones to endure such a trek.” Behind him, Zhirin stiffened but kept her face pleasantly blank.

Asheris turned back to Isyllt and his smile was beautiful and implacable. “Come, Lady.”

“As you wish.” She shot Zhirin a quick glance, praying the girl understood, and that she could contact Jabbor. It would take at least an hour to reach the mountain-who knew how long the meeting would be delayed.

A crowd assembled in the courtyard, including a great many soldiers. At Asheris’s word, a stablehand brought Isyllt a fresh horse. Her thighs ached just looking at the saddle.

“Let me introduce you to our companions on this expedition.” Asheris took her elbow and steered her toward the center of the knot of horses, where a mounted woman and young girl spoke to a man on the ground.

“This is Faraj al Ghassan, Viceroy of Symir. His wife, the Vicereine Shamina, and their daughter, Murai. Your Excellency, this is Isyllt Iskaldur, of Erisín, who was gracious enough to assist with my investigation last night.”

Isyllt dropped a low curtsy, awkward though it was in trousers. “Your Excellency.” A short man, with golden-brown skin and a hooked nose too large for his face. His wife was a tiny Sivahri woman, for all her Imperial name and dress.

Faraj smiled. “Well met, Lady. Asheris tells me you did us a valuable service. The Empire appreciates your efforts. But we must speak again later-I have business in the hall, and my daughter is impatient to see the mountain.” He nodded politely and touched his wife’s hand in farewell before turning toward the hall.

Adam caught her as Isyllt set her foot in the stirrup. “Do you want me to come?” he asked in Selafaïn.

“If he decides to murder me on the mountain, I doubt you could save me.”

His eyes narrowed as he glanced at the smoking mountain. “I don’t trust that thing. I don’t trust anything here.”

“Good. Don’t start.”

His mouth twisted. “I’m doing a lot of waiting for you.”

She gave him an arch smile. “But you do it so well.” Feeling Asheris’s eyes on her, she swung into the saddle before he could reply.

The ride up the mountain was an easy one, despite Isyllt’s aching back. The road was cleared wide and paved, the horses sure-footed. The same ward-posts lined the way. She caught sight of other buildings scattered behind the hall that she hadn’t visited on her first tour-lapidaries’ offices, and servants’ quarters.

No matter how sure-footed, horses couldn’t climb the steep upper slopes. They dismounted at a way station a third of the way up and began the rest of the climb on foot.

Soldiers led the procession, with the Viceroy’s family just behind. Murai, whom Isyllt guessed to be near twelve, skipped up the road, tireless and nimble as a goat. Isyllt walked beside Asheris, the rest of the guards trailing a polite distance behind.

The path was broad and smooth, but stable footing didn’t lessen the unnerving whistle and tug of the wind around the rocks, or the sight of dust and pebbles rolling away into nothingness. The wooden railing seemed far too fragile for the fall beneath it.

The forest stretched below them, draped like velvet across the hills. The Mir glittered as it rolled to the sea and the bay shimmered with gray-green iridescence, shot with blue and gold where sunlight fell. Across the river lay the green slopes of Mount Ashaya, a jewel-bright lake nestled in her cauldron. Unlike her sibling, Ashaya slept, her fires cold and dead.

Isyllt glanced down and frowned. They must make a lovely target, strung like beads against the mountainside. Would rebel arrows reach so high? Sweat trickled across her scalp and stuck strands of hair to her face.

“How is it that a member of the royal house came here?” she asked Asheris, to distract herself from calculating assassinations.

“Barely a relation. But the bonds between us were enough that the Emperor trusted me to oversee things here.” His voice was a shade too bland as he wiped his brow. He wore no hat-which seemed unwise despite the color of his skin-and moisture glistened across the curve of his skull and darkened his collar. “Sivahra is a valuable asset to him.”

“Are attacks like yesterday’s common? We hear only rumors in the north.”

“They become more common, though yesterday’s was worse than usual. This Hand of Freedom grows bolder, or madder. They kill their own with every such strike.”

“Have you made any arrests?”

He glanced up at the sun, amber eyes narrowing against the glare. “I suspect that’s being taken care of even as we speak.” His smile was hard and cold, and Isyllt turned her gaze back to the path in front of her.

Xinai woke to sunlight dappling through a window, memories and dreams so tangled she couldn’t tell where she was. Home.

But not truly, though the room with its clay walls and woven mats was nearly twin to the room she’d slept in as a child. She swallowed, the taste of last night’s spiced beer sour now on her tongue. Outside, the familiar sounds of daily work drifted in the air.

The door creaked softly and her hand neared her knife hilt. Riuh Xian ducked his head into the room.

“Good, you’re awake.” He’d washed the ashes from his hair and replaited his beaded braids. In better light he was younger than she’d thought, not far past twenty.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly noon. You missed breakfast.”

She wrinkled her nose at the thought; last night’s feast still sat heavy in her stomach.

He tossed a folded bundle to her. “Grandmother says I’m to take you to Cay Lin, if you wish.”

“I know the way.” It came out harsher than she meant, and he began to turn away. “But I don’t mind the company. Thank you.”

She bathed in the clan bathhouse and dressed in hunter’s clothes-calf-length trousers and loose tunic under a snug vest. In traditional clothes, she was suddenly aware of her shorn hair. Practical, but out of place among clansfolk’s long beaded braids. Such a ridiculous thing to worry about, but she tugged a cap over the damp spikes anyway.

A group of girls led by Riuh’s lovely cousin Phailin left the village for the stream and Xinai and Riuh went with them, ducking quietly into the woods along the way. No telling how many eyes the Khas had watching Cay Xian.

They crossed the stream-a narrow tributary of the Mir, but wide enough to survive the dry season-and headed northeast toward Lin lands. They walked in silence, but she felt Riuh watching her. She tried to ignore it, to ignore the way his hand lingered on her arm when he helped her up steep slopes and over fallen trees. Think of Adam, she told herself, think of the job, but the forest swallowed such things, filled her head with warmth and jade-colored light and the smell of sap and earth.

She nearly missed the marker. The stone had fallen, half-covered by mud and vines. Crouching, Xinai brushed away dirt and leaves, bared the carved bear clan-sign. Cay Lin was only a league away. Whatever was left of it.

Riuh stopped, wiping a thin sheen of sweat off his brow. “Would you rather go on alone?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll be here.”

He didn’t tell her to be careful and she liked him more for that. She smiled, quick and clumsy, then turned and began to climb the bramble-choked slope that led to the village.

The woods weren’t empty; all around she felt watchful eyes. Not soldiers, but ghosts and spirits. Her charms shivered around her neck. Wise to be gone from here before nightfall, though the thought galled. She should have nothing to fear on her family’s lands.

Should or not, she knew she did. Many spirits resented human incursion into their lands, or simply found them good eating. And a clever spirit was more cunning than a tiger when it came to stalking prey, and had more than claws and teeth to bring it down.

Trails were long overgrown, landmarks reclaimed by the jungle, and it took her more than an hour to reach the stone walls. The sight of them struck like a blow in the pit of her stomach and she stumbled to a stop.

The wooden gates had rotted away, only a few moss-riddled timbers fallen in the opening. Vines crawled the walls, crumbling the arches. Wind rustled the leaves of the canopy and spears of light danced across the ground.

Cay Lin. The clan-heart. Her home. Home to nothing but ghosts now.

She crossed her arms to still her shivering, then forced them down again. Lifting her chin, Xinai stepped through the ruined gate.

The emptiness was a solid thing, a weight in her chest. Nothing dwelled here, not even animals. Shutterless windows stared like accusing black eyes; she couldn’t meet their gaze. Somewhere in these leaf-choked streets was her house, the houses of her friends, the shops they’d frequented. The well she’d drawn water from, the pool where she’d tossed wishing stones-dried now. She saw no bones, though she could still remember where the bodies of her kin had lain untended. Time and weather had erased them, or the earth swallowed them.

The banyan still lived, though its leaves curled and drooped in the dry heat. Its root-tendrils had spread, stretching throughout the walls, dripping through broken roofs and pulling down houses. A forest made of one tree. Yellow dust puffed under her feet as she crossed the root-tangled yard. The slap of her sandals echoed like hammers.

A charm shivered warning a heartbeat before she walked into the trap, but she couldn’t stop in time. Magic enveloped her in a rank miasma, a net of pain and suffering distilled with time and purpose. Xinai tripped on a root and fell, bruising her hands on dry earth. The gentle cacophony of the jungle vanished as long-walled-off memories broke loose to swallow her.

She shudders as the lash falls. She lost count of the strokes after the fifth, can’t even feel the individual blows anymore, only the twigs that gouge her stomach, her nails cracking as she claws the ground. Pain is a red sea and she so much flotsam.

She only realizes that it’s stopped by the absence of the whip-crack over her sobs and roaring pulse. Booted feet rush around her; she feels them through the yellow earth beneath her cheek. Muddy now with blood and tears and sweat. Others still cry and curse and scream. At least they’re alive.

Xinai pries open her good eye and blinks away a film of tears. The other is swollen shut-she feels that pain clearly, and it nearly makes her laugh.

“Is she dead?” one of the soldiers asks. A boot lands in front of her face, leather dull with dust. She wonders if he’ll kick her, but she has no strength to flinch.

“Not yet,” another answers. “Do you want her for the work-gangs?”

The boot nudges her shoulder, flips her over. The blur of leaves and sky washes black as her back strikes the ground. She means to scream, but all that comes out is a teakettle whine.

“No.” The man above her is a blur of Imperial crimson. Red as poppies, their uniforms, red as blood. “She’d be dead before we reach the mines. Let her rot with the rest.”

She tries to roll over but only manages to turn her head. Through the forest of boots and red uniforms she sees other bodies limp on the ground, the earth trampled and soaked dark. Other villagers are roped together and dragged through the broken gates-neighbors and friends, clan-kin all of them.

“Mira,” she whispers, scraping uselessly at the dirt. “Mira.”

“What’s that?” the soldier asks in Assari. He crouches beside her, hands loose between his knees. His tone is nearly genial now that she has no fight left.

Another man’s shadow falls over her and she squints against the glare of sky through banyan leaves. Not a red-coat, this one. He wears green, with red stripes on his sleeves. Sivahri-a local guard. She closes her eyes against his traitor’s face.

“She’s asking for her mother,” he says, his Assari barely accented.

“She’s the leader’s brat, isn’t she? Your mother’s right over there, girl. You want to see her?”

“Captain-”

“What? She made her choice, didn’t she? She should see the cost.” He slides a hand under her shoulder and hoists her up. Not roughly, but she shudders as his fingers brush a weal. Her braids swing across her back, snagging on blood and torn flesh. “There.” The captain points toward the heart-tree.

No, Xinai told herself, struggling for control. It’s not real. It’s over. But she couldn’t break free.

Her mother slumps against the root-trunks, chin against her breast, long black hair wild over her shoulders. Her hand curls as if to hold her kris, but the blade is gone.

“Mira-” She rocks forward, catching herself on one forearm; the other arm crumples when her weight hits it. Like a three-legged dog she creeps forward on hand and knees. Pity the Assari should see her crawl, but she has no strength left for pride.

Her mother’s flesh is still soft, not even cold, only drained to pasty yellow-gray. Blood spills down her chest like a necklace of rust and garnets. The air reeks of raw meat and bowel and she can’t tell the smell of her mother’s death from her own sour metallic stink.

If the captain laughs, she knows she’ll throw herself at him, fight until he kills her and she joins her mother in the twilight lands. But he turns away, indifferent to her grief as he is to her life, and begins overseeing the removal of the last prisoners.

The Sivahri guard watches her, weary lines carved on his face. Forest-clan, she guesses. He could be kin to any of the bodies that litter the dust. His uniform is damp with blood and sweat.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly in Sivahran.

She was wrong-she does have some pride left. Xinai spits. It strikes the dirt yards from his boots, but he flinches as if it hit him. She lowers her head to her mother’s lifeless shoulders and closes her eyes, waiting for the darkness to claim her.

And as it had twelve years ago, darkness waited for her. Not the shallow red-lined black of exhaustion, but a deep and icy pit that fell forever.

“Leave her alone!”

She flinched at the shout and opened her eyes. A mottled gray-green face hovered close to hers, white hair tangling in an invisible wind. A gangshi. She might have known-spirits that feed on suffering would love the site of a massacre. What a feast she must be. Xinai flinched again, stronger, jerking awkwardly away from the gangshi’s gaping hungry mouth and empty eyes. A charm bag pulsed and throbbed around her neck.

A woman lunged between her and the spirit, a blur of black hair and shining kris-blade. Xinai scrambled back on all fours, fetching up against a twist of banyan trunks. Her dagger trembled in her hand and she coughed as she drew a deep breath. A few more heartbeats and the gangshi would have drunk down all her pain and fear, and her life with it.

Her vision grayed and she leaned against the tree for strength. Her face was slick with salt and snot and her back burned with phantom wounds.

“It’s gone now,” the woman whispered, turning back to Xinai. And then, even softer, “You’re back. I knew you would come home.” Her voice was wind in leaves, water through river-reeds; the sound sliced through Xinai, deeper than Assari whips could ever reach.

The woman stood over her, watching with lightless eyes. Her hair hung in snarls around her narrow face, her clothes in tatters. Her skin was ashen, paler than the earth beneath her feet. Xinai’s charm bag hummed against her chest.

“I knew you’d come.” The ghost stepped forward and passed through a hanging root. Xinai couldn’t speak as the dead woman knelt before her. Her throat was slashed; the wound gaped when she moved, flashing bone white as pearls amid ruined flesh and crusted blood.

“Don’t you recognize me, child?”

Xinai’s dagger dropped to the dust. Her vision blurred again, glazed with fresh tears.

“Mother-” The word broke on a wet hiccup.

Shaiyung Lin smiled a sad, terrible smile and stretched out a cold gray hand to stroke her daughter’s cheek.

“They showed me-They made me see-” She choked on snot. The gangshi’s trap had undone all her defenses and she could only sob, helpless as she’d been twelve years ago.

“Don’t worry,” Shaiyung whispered, wrapping her icy insubstantial arms around Xinai. “You’re home, and we’re together, and it will be all right. We’ll put things right.”

The sun dipped into afternoon by the time they reached the last landing. Isyllt slumped against the carven cliff-face, trying not to double over from the sharp stitch in her side and the burn in her thighs. Stone benches circled the small platform, but she feared if she sat she’d never stand again. Wind keened around the crags, threatening her hat and tugging at her sweaty clothes.

More wards ringed the upper slopes, different from those along the road. “What do these do?” she asked, moving closer to the nearest post.

“If too much pressure builds inside the mountain, it will erupt,” Asheris said. “These shunt the energy aside, bleed it off into the air.”

“Or let you channel it into the stones.”

“Exactly.”

She reached out, not quite touching the ward-stone. Its magic shivered warm through her fingers. The edges shimmered, like the air around a flame. An intricate spell, cunningly wrought. It would be the envy of half the Arcanost-they prided themselves on being at the forefront of magecraft.

“Ingenious.”

“Thank you,” Asheris said, lips curving. “We are rather proud of the technique. No one has ever done this before, to the best of our knowledge.”

“Be careful, Lady Iskaldur,” the Vicereine called, securing the veil pinned over her hair. “Once he starts talking about his mountain, you’ll be hard-pressed to silence him.”

Asheris chuckled. “Her Excellency has no ear for the music of the mountain. But come, my lady, we aren’t at the top yet. You must see the cauldron.” He gestured toward another narrower stair leading up.

Isyllt sighed and promised herself a long bath when they returned to the city. “Of course I must.”

“And me,” Murai said, springing up from her bench. Isyllt felt even wearier just watching her.

“Of course, little bird. Your Excellency?”

“I’ve seen your mountain often enough,” Shamina said. “Be careful up there, Murai.”

“I always am, Mama.”

“I won’t let her come to harm,” Asheris promised.

He took the lead as they ascended the final stair, Murai walking in the middle, sedate until they were out of sight of her mother. Then she hurried ahead, following on Asheris’s heels.

Sivahra stretched below them, forests and rivers and hills, patchwork fields in the south and buildings like grains of salt scattered on a tablecloth. Isyllt took off her hat, letting the wind unravel her braid and dry her sweaty hair. The air was cooler here, without the jungle’s heat and the river’s damp. Then the wind shifted and she tasted hot stone and ash, the breath of the mountain.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Asheris called over his shoulder.

“Yes.” She returned his smile, and the honesty of it surprised her.

He offered her a hand and helped her up the last uneven step. The wind buffeted her and she leaned on his arm as she found her feet.

Then she looked down, into the mountain, and her breath left on a wondering gasp.

A cauldron of char-black stone-the smell of it reached her even against the wind, burnt and bitter. And deep within the well a pool of molten rock bubbled gold and orange, leaking smoke.

“Can you feel it?” he asked. “The strength of it? I thought I’d never love anything as much as the desert winds, until I came here. I’d stay up here forever, if they would let me.”

“Would you really? Or would you miss it, before too long?”

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. “I don’t know. It’s not an option I can explore.” He turned his head, but not before Isyllt saw the longing and bitterness naked on his face. She looked down in turn.

She took a few careful steps away, thinking to circle the cauldron’s rim, but Asheris raised a warning hand.

“Please, don’t. We know the rock here is stable, but I can’t vouch for the other side. And if you fell there, it’s a very long drop with no one to catch you. I’d much rather not spend the night searching for your body.”

Isyllt glanced down the steep face and nodded. As she looked up, she found Murai watching her. The girl ducked her head.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s rude to stare. But I’ve never seen anyone so pale before. Are you from Hallach?”

“No, I was born in Vallorn, which is farther still north. But I haven’t lived there for a long time.”

“Are they pirates there too?”

Isyllt smiled. “No. Vallorn has no sea, only mountains. All the pirates have to go to Hallach or Selafai.”

“I was born at sea, while my parents were coming back from Assar. My mother’s time came early. That’s how I got my name.”

“Murai?”

The girl nodded. “In Sivahran it means bird’s nest”-she wrinkled her nose-“but it’s really from Ninayan. Mariah. It means the sea. It was the captain’s idea.” She ducked her head again. “I talk too much. Asheris, will you show Lady Iskaldur the birds?”

“Of course, meliket.” Asheris looked toward the cauldron, where magma cooled in ash-gray veins only to crack and melt again. He raised one hand, letting the wind billow his sleeve theatrically. A red-orange bubble swelled and burst, spitting fire that flared into golden wings. Birds wrought of flame soared from the pit, spiraling up until they hovered in front of Isyllt and Murai. Tiny beaks opened soundlessly and sparks rained from their wings. The girl laughed in delight, and Isyllt echoed her.

After a final swoop the birds flew higher, till they vanished against the sun. Murai applauded, bouncing on her toes. Isyllt grinned at Asheris and he smiled back, and for a moment there was only the wind and the fire and the taste of magic like spiced wine on her tongue.

She wished she could have met him somewhere else, somewhen else.

Asheris’s smile dimmed, and the moment with it. He glanced at the sun and straightened his shoulders. “It’s time to go down. Lady Shamina will be waiting.”

The light deepened and streamed sideways between the trees when Xinai finally returned to Riuh. His eyes widened and she wondered what he saw in her face. She’d wiped away the dirt and tears as best she could, but she was too light, spinning; shock still tingled in her hands and cheeks.

She didn’t speak on the way back, despite Riuh’s attempts to draw her out. Her head was too full of questions, all the things her mother had told her, all the things she had to ask Selei.

They heard the noise before they saw the village walls. Shouts and screams, metal on metal, the sound of clumsy feet through the brush nearby. Her pulse surged with shock and panic-for an instant she thought it was another memory-trap. For an instant she thought the memories were real.

Riuh caught her arm and pulled her behind a bank of ferns. Her knife was in her hand, blind instinct, and it was all she could do not to cut him. His attention was turned toward Cay Xian, though.

“Ancestors.” She read the word on his lips-her heart raced too loud to hear it. Her hand tingled against her dagger hilt, and her back stung and itched with sweat.

Riuh drew his own knife. “We’ve got to help them.”

“No.”

They both spun at the voice. Phailin Xian stumbled out of the trees, clutching her bloody arm to her chest. “Cay Xian is overrun. You’re not enough to change that.” She staggered and went to one knee; blood trickled down the side of her face.

Riuh knelt beside her, wrapping a careful arm around her shoulders. “What happened?”

“Khas soldiers. They came with warrants, demanding Kovi’s accomplices, members of the Dai Tranh-they named you, Riuh. We…resisted.”

“You should have let them have me. I can take care of myself.”

She shrugged, winced. “We won’t lose anyone else, not without a fight.”

“What happened to Selei?” Xinai asked.

“She escaped, with most of the other elders. But we paid for that.”

Xinai forced her nerves aside, tugged off her cloth belt, and began to wrap Phailin’s wounded arm. The cut was deep into the flesh of her upper arm, but she had at least some use of it. The girl’s lips pressed white, but she made no sound.

“We have to get out of here,” Riuh said as soon as Xinai tied off the bandage. He helped his cousin to her feet.

“Where?” Phailin nodded toward Cay Xian. “The soldiers are between us and all our safe houses.”

“Cay Lin,” Xinai said, before she could consider it.

Riuh’s throat worked. “It’s haunted.”

“Better spirits than Khas swords.” Shaiyung had driven away the gangshi, and her own witchcraft was enough to best lesser spirits.

After a heartbeat’s hesitation, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

Zhirin watched the procession ride toward the far gate and swallowed. The Viceroy and Imran al Najid strode across the courtyard and up the steps. There was still time to salvage their plans, and perhaps more.

“I’m going to find Jabbor,” she said to Adam and Vasilios. “Wait for me inside.” Her cheeks warmed as she heard the tone of command in her voice, but Vasilios only smiled and nodded.

She circled past the stables, around the library wing of the hall, but didn’t head for the fig tree by the wall where she often left messages for Jabbor. Instead she waited in the shadow of the building until she saw Faraj and Imran emerge from the eastern hallway. Isyllt and her plans had distracted Zhirin from the mystery of the diamonds, but now she had a chance to investigate.

The two men walked toward the lapidary hall; the Assari mage topped the Viceroy by a head, stiff-spined and square-shouldered. Zhirin followed, keeping to the grass and shadows, a whisper of concealment hanging off her. Not that it could hide her from a mage as strong as Imran, but it made her feel better.

She felt better knowing that Asheris was gone too. Imran was a humorless and disapproving man, but he didn’t make her skin crawl. Lesser spirits fell silent when Asheris passed, the way small animals cowered away from predators. No matter how charming he was, she still shivered when she met his eyes. It was the diamond he wore, she suspected-something fierce and unsettling bound in it.

The two men spoke as they walked, but she couldn’t make out their words over the crunch of gravel. Her own slippers on the grass sounded ridiculously loud and she didn’t dare move closer. She often enjoyed the soporific peace of the grounds, but now it thwarted her.

When they finally stepped inside the lapidary she sped up, slinking around the gray-white trunk of a neem tree and toward the back of the building. She nearly sighed out loud when she found a window open to the breeze. Crouching amid hibiscus bushes, she forced herself to ignore her racing heart and concentrate on sharpening her hearing. After a moment voices came into focus.

“It’s not enough,” Faraj said. Sandals scuffed against tile. “Half our tithe was in that warehouse, or more. The Emperor won’t be pleased.”

“We’ll redouble our efforts in the mines,” Imran replied. “Empty the Khas’s prisons-we need every body available if you wish to collect the tithe on time.”

The Viceroy sighed. “Very well. They’ll be full anyway, after today.” His voice faded as he paced away, loudened again as his circuit brought him near the window; Zhirin held her breath. “But what about the rubies? Not all of them could have been destroyed in that fire. Can you locate them?”

“We can try. If we have some stones cut from the same vein, it will be easier.”

Between their voices, she heard someone else breathing, and the scrape of a chisel. The old lapidary Hyun, she guessed. The man was long deaf-Zhirin had never suspected they kept him on because he couldn’t overhear their plans.

“Tell the overseers-they’ll help however they can.” Faraj paused. “What about the other stones?”

“Again, we can try. Those will be easier, perhaps. There are less of them about to muddle our scrying.”

Faraj sighed. “No wonder people say they’re cursed-the wretched things are more trouble than they’re worth.”

Zhirin drew a sharp breath through her nose. It was true. Pain stung her mouth and she realized she was chewing her lip.

“The Emperor doesn’t agree.”

“The Emperor doesn’t have to manage this operation. Not to mention deal with these insurgents.”

“His Majesty has more than enough to concern him. But I’m sure we can recoup our loss soon enough. With Asheris’s help-”

“No.” Faraj’s voice hardened. “Asheris is too valuable to me in the city. I need more than geomancers to govern Symir.”

“You rely too much on Asheris.” Disapproval colored Imran’s sonorous voice. “And trust him too much. The man is dangerous-”

“The Emperor appointed him personally, didn’t he-just as he did you? And Asheris has proved more valuable to me than half the members of this hall. If Ta’ashlan cannot part with more inquisitors, then I have no choice but to use the one I have to his fullest capacity.”

Zhirin could imagine the stern lines of Imran’s face in the silence that followed. The soft scratch of chisel on stone continued. “Very well,” he said at last. “We shall make do, I’m sure.”

Their footsteps-Faraj’s sandaled and Imran’s booted-moved away, and a moment later the door opened and shut. Hyun’s chisel kept up its rhythm. Zhirin’s breath left in a rush, loud as thunder to her heightened hearing. She leaned against the wall until her pulse slowed.

And she’d thought the ruby mines were bad enough. She moved out of the shrubbery, scuffing a footprint out of the soft earth of the flower bed. Did Vasilios know, she wondered, and cursed the thought. But what if he did-?

Movement in the corner of her eye distracted her. Turning, she found Jodiya watching her from the far end of the building.

Sweet Mother, had the girl caught her spying? But Jodiya didn’t approach and Zhirin forced herself to keep walking. She didn’t trust her voice if she had to speak, and they weren’t friends, for all they were the same age and the only female apprentices. She’d made a few shy overtures, missing Sia, but Jodiya was too sly, silent most of the time and sharp-tongued the rest. Being Imran’s apprentice was likely a thankless occupation, but it couldn’t entirely explain Jodiya’s coldness. But if she was an Imperial agent as well, that might.

Now that she thought of it, the girl reminded her of Isyllt. Swallowing nervous metallic spit, she glanced over her shoulder; Jodiya had gone. Zhirin rubbed her arms, shivering in the warm sun, and hurried to find Jabbor.

By the time they returned to the Kurun Tam, the sun hung orange and swollen in the western sky and the meeting with Jabbor was hours past. Isyllt wanted only to sink into a bath or a comfortable chair. Instead she rinsed the taste of the road from her mouth and slipped away to find the others in Vasilio’s study.

The old mage squinted over texts while Adam studied maps and Zhirin sat by the window and fidgeted. As Isyllt slipped in, the apprentice sprang to her feet.

“There’s still time,” she whisper-hissed as soon as the door swung shut. “He’ll wait until sunset.”

Isyllt sighed. “All right. Let’s go, then. Where do we meet?”

“Past the fourth ward-post, on the eastern side of the road, there’s a game trail. Follow it a mile and you’ll find a clearing. He’ll be there.” Before Isyllt could turn away, the girl laid a hand on her arm. “Your ring-I didn’t tell them you were a necromancer. They…wouldn’t like it.”

Isyllt nodded and twisted the ring off her finger; a ghost-band remained beneath it, a strip of white on her sun-reddened hand. She slipped the diamond into her pocket, where its weight settled cool against her hip.

Vasilios gathered his things and the four of them made their way back to the courtyard. “I’ll wait for you by the ferry,” Vasilios said as he stepped into the carriage.

The fourth ward-post lay half a league down the hill, the game trail a shadowed gap in the trees. Isyllt and Adam dismounted and let their horses follow the carriage. She tried not to think of her aching feet, or the walk to the ferry.

As they stepped off the road, Isyllt stopped to scoop up a handful of dirt and pebbles. With a word of confusion, she scattered them across the trail. Then she ducked into the green and violet shadows of the jungle.

The last of the sun bled through the canopy when they reached the clearing and she feared they’d missed their chance. Then the trees rustled and Adam’s sword hissed free.

“No need for that,” a voice said. “If you’re who you say you are.” A Sivahri man stepped into the clearing, his face half-hidden by a scarf. “Are you the foreigners who wish to treat with me?”

Adam’s hand brushed her arm, a warning pressure.

“We’re here to treat with Jabbor Lhun.”

“I am he.”

She laughed softly. “Don’t you know better than to lie to a mage? Send out Jabbor.”

He hesitated; Isyllt folded her arms under her chest and waited. A moment later leaves rustled again and another man stepped out. Dark-skinned, his black curls twisted into nubs against his scalp. Adam let go of her arm.

“Hello, Jabbor. Did Zhirin tell you why I’m here?”

“She did. Come with us, Lady Iskaldur, and we’ll speak further.” He gestured toward the southern slope. “The jungle is no place to linger at night.”

Isyllt blessed her mage-trained senses as she followed Jabbor’s masked companion through the trees; without them she’d have killed herself falling over rocks and roots. Even Adam moved with less silence than usual. Others slipped through the shadows beside them-at least four.

Night had settled thick and black by the time they reached the village, a tiny collection of clay-and-thatch buildings gathered around a river. Not the Mir, but some smaller tributary. Isyllt waved aside a thick cloud of gnats.

“Here,” Jabbor said, pointing to a building that rose on stilts at the water’s edge. A tavern, from the smell.

A few people sat quietly inside; when they saw Jabbor they either vanished quickly or drew closer. They claimed a table in the back and Isyllt sat gratefully. A girl brought them a pitcher of beer and clay mugs and left without a word. Half a dozen other men and women sat down around them.

“Now, Lady Iskaldur,” Jabbor said, filling their cups. “Tell me what it is you propose.”

Her cup was empty by the time she finished, and her mouth was dry again. Silence settled over the table, broken only by the pop and sizzle of a gnat flying too near a lamp.

“She isn’t lying,” one of the women said at last.

A murmur circled the table and died. Jabbor frowned, full lips twisting. She couldn’t read his slanting dark eyes.

“You want our blood to buy your freedom.”

Isyllt shrugged. “If you’re going to bleed anyway…” Someone muttered behind her; Adam tensed. “You wear a yoke. We can help you remove it. If you want idealistic fervor instead of practicality, then I’m sorry-I have none. But I do have gold.”

After a moment, Jabbor nodded. “Fair enough.”

Isyllt reached for the pitcher, refilled her cup. “Zhirin says you don’t want bloodshed.”

Someone laughed, but a glance from Jabbor silenced him. “Zhirin has all the idealism you lack. And of course we don’t want bloodshed-we’re not madmen like the Dai Tranh. But we want our freedom, or at the very least the equality the Empire claims to offer to all its citizens. And if that takes a war, then so be it.”

She sipped enough spiced beer to wet her tongue. “The Dai Tranh. Those responsible for the attack in the market?”

“Yes. The Khas calls us all radicals and murderers, but only the Dai Tranh goes to such extremes.”

“You don’t ally yourselves with them?”

“They wouldn’t have me.” He raised one dark hand. “I’m not pure enough for their cause. Though my father was Isethi, and that country has forgotten more Assari oppression than Sivahra has ever known.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t approve of the Dai Tranh’s methods.”

“Do we have an arrangement, then?”

Jabbor looked around the room-none of his people spoke. “It seems we do.”

She held out a hand to Adam, who pulled a purse from inside his shirt. The bag chimed and rattled softly as she took it. “A gesture of good faith. More will follow.”

Jabbor opened the pouch, poured coins and gems carefully into his hand. Unstamped gold and silver, garnets and amethysts-not mage stones, but still expensive.

“I could only carry so much, but I can have a ship sent. Gold, weapons, medicines-tell me what you need and I can arrange it.”

“Good luck,” he said with a humorless snort. “Perhaps you noticed the new port tariffs? Only foreign goods,” he went on when she nodded, “because everything we need we can get from Assar. It’s also a convenient excuse to search foreign ships, or the ships of merchants who don’t toe the Khas’s line.”

She nodded. “I understand. Let me worry about that.”

“And what happens if you’re discovered? Zhirin says you’ve already drawn the attention of the Emperor’s pet mage.”

Isyllt smiled. “If the Empire captures me, my master will disavow me and I’ll be left to the mercies of the Khas’s soldiers. It would be some time before he could send another agent, if at all.”

“Then I’ll give you advice, since you’re worth more to us alive. Walk carefully around that mage, no matter how charming he seems. And stay away from the Dai Tranh. They have no love for foreigners, even ones bearing gifts.”

She nodded. “We will.”

Jabbor stood, ending the meeting. Chairs scraped the floor as the other Tigers rose as well. “Follow the river-it joins the Mir by the ferry dock.” He offered her a hand to clasp. “We’ll speak again soon, Lady Iskaldur.”

When they finally reached Vasilios’s house, Isyllt indulged in a long bath, but not yet in sleep. Instead she pulled on a robe and combed her wet hair, then removed the shroud of black silk from the tall mirror in her chambers. An old one-the tarnished silver backing mottled her reflection, made her a wraith by shadows and candlelight.

The night was late in Erisín as well, though not quite so late as here, but she doubted Kiril would be asleep. She hesitated for a moment, then laid her left palm against the glass and whispered his name.

The mirror clouded, darkened till it matched her diamond, and she fought not to sway as the spell leeched strength from her. Perhaps she should have waited for morning after all; the distance made it difficult, and the vast salt-thick ocean between them didn’t help. But she tightened her jaw and held on.

At last the mist cleared, revealing a room she knew as well as her own. Lamplight and gloom, a worn brocade chair and a desk cluttered with books and quills and empty teacups. Atop a stack of papers lay a pair of spectacles that would never leave the room-magecraft could hone the senses keen as a beast’s for a short while, but couldn’t undo time. No matter how much anyone prayed otherwise.

“Kiril.”

A moment later he appeared, sinking into the chair and turning to face the glass. “Isyllt.” Heartbeats slipped by as they watched each other. “You look well,” he finally said.

“You look tired. You should rest.” His hair had been streaked with gray as long as she’d known him, but now it was paler still, and white peppered his auburn-black beard. The shadows beneath his dark eyes had become permanent in the last year, the seams around his mouth starker.

He smiled, spiderweb wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “Maybe later.” An old argument, more a joke by now. Isyllt swallowed. “But how are you? How goes the trip?”

“I’ve spoken to the people I needed to, and made arrangements.”

“Wonderful. I knew you would.”

She admonished herself for the warm rush of pride in her chest. “Vasilios and Adam send their regards.”

“How are they?”

“Well. Adam’s upset that he hasn’t got to kill anything yet.”

Kiril chuckled. “Likely better if he doesn’t. I’ll find him bloodier work when you get back. How long do you plan to stay?”

“We need to make arrangements for supplies, and a fast ship with a clever captain. I’ll stay until the ship arrives. I’ll contact you when I know where it should put in to port.”

He nodded. One long, ink-stained hand twitched, as though he meant to raise it to the glass. “Just be sure to bring yourself safely home.”

She swallowed all the things she might have said, only nodded instead. Before she could change her mind, she pulled her hand away and let the vision fade. The glass showed her own face again, pale and stiff as a mask. She draped the mirror and turned away, praying for a dreamless night.

The night was full of ghosts and spirits. Xinai leaned against the crumbling doorway and listened to their fluting whispers and soft animal noises. She had no salt, but the firelight kept them away for now. Or perhaps they were afraid of Shaiyung; her mother lingered in the shadows of the room, watching with sunken eyes.

Not their family’s house-Xinai hadn’t the heart to find it yet-but another small clay building, one that had best survived the years and the banyan tree’s stretching roots. Phailin dozed by the fire, her breath rough with pain.

Xinai wasn’t sure how long it had been since Riuh had gone; it seemed hours, but she couldn’t see the stars. She turned away from the night, leaned against the wall and watched the fire instead.

Heat and jungle noises lulled her. She woke with a start and berated herself for drowsing. Phailin still slept, but the spirits had quieted. Xinai drew her daggers and listened through broken shutters. Footsteps, stealthy through the brush. Then Riuh whistled their all-clear signal, and she sighed.

He stepped into the light, Selei and a handful of warriors with him. Xinai sheathed her blades.

“I feared-” She paused, and Selei smiled.

“You feared I’d be no match for soldiers.” The woman knelt beside the fire and kindled a lantern. “Don’t worry, child, I’m neither toothless nor helpless quite yet.” She drew Xinai aside as Phailin’s relatives entered the room. “Let them tend her. I need to speak with you.” Her milky eye flickered toward Shaiyung. “Both of you.”

They followed Selei into the thicket of the banyan tree, and the light cast their shadows wild and writhing amid the branches. Shaiyung stood close to Xinai, a line of cold down her left side.

“You can see her?”

Selei snorted. “I’ve been speaking to ghosts since before your mother first propositioned your father, girl.”

“You knew she was here.”

“Yes. We’ve talked, Shai and I.” She smiled at the ghost. “She’s been waiting for you.”

“I’ll do the rites, if you’ll teach me. I’ll sing her on-”

Shaiyung shook her head, twisting the gash in her throat wider. “No,” she hissed.

“That isn’t what she’s been waiting for.”

Xinai crossed her arms against the chill. “What, then?”

“She’s been waiting for you to come and free her, so she can join our cause.”

Shaiyung nodded.

“A ghost?”

“She’s not the only one in these woods.” Selei brushed dry fingertips over Xinai’s eyes. “Do you see?”

And there, pale in the darkness, stood half a dozen ghosts, lurking among the tree roots. Xinai sucked a breath through her teeth. Most looked more substantial than her mother, but still gray and hollow-eyed, bearing the marks of their deaths.

“You haven’t sung them on?”

“And lose allies? This is their war too, and they’ve already paid a higher price than any of us.”

“But they should rest.”

“We’ll rest when the land is free again,” one of the ghosts whispered, nearly lost beneath the distant song of crickets.

Shaiyung nodded again. “There aren’t many us of us,” she whispered. “It’s hard, hard to stay awake, to stay sane in the Night Forest. So many have faded or wandered on, or been trapped in their bones.”

“You’re a good omen,” Selei said. “The last Lin child returned. Hope for the clan again. Maybe other clans might live again too.”

Xinai didn’t know what to say to that-bad enough when the living pinned their hopes to her, let alone the dead. “Does everyone know of this? Riuh and Phailin and the rest?”

“Phailin does,” Selei said. “But not everyone knows of the Ki Dai.”

The White Hand. Xinai’s eyes widened. “Rebel ghosts.”

“Ghosts and witches, yes. Not all our warriors can see or hear the dead, and some wouldn’t understand why we don’t sing them on. The Dai Tranh works in the land of the living-the Ki Dai works in the twilight lands as well.”

“So Deilin Xian-”

“Was one of us, yes. We tried to keep her away from that child, but the madness took her.” Selei’s eyes narrowed. “You know what happened, then? What your companions did to her?”

She nodded. “I heard.”

“Can we free her?”

Xinai heard the rest of the question and swallowed. “I don’t know. But the necromancer wants to treat with you, with the Dai Tranh.”

“We fight for a free Sivahra, not to trade one master for another. We won’t be snared in webs of foreign gold. Nor can we barter for Deilin like a fish in a market. She would understand.”

Xinai’s shoulders sagged. “So it was all for nothing.”

Selei clucked her tongue. “We won’t treat with foreigners, girl. You’re kin. If you want to fight with us, we welcome you.”

She glanced from Selei to Shaiyung. The ghost nodded. “Stay,” she whispered.

“What about my partner? He’s saved my life more times than I can count. We’re…close.”

Selei shook her head. “He may be a good man, but he has no place with us. If you care, send him away. Will you stay?”

Her chest felt too tight. Years of partnership, of friendship. It would hurt him. But she only hesitated a moment; she was home.

“I will.”

“There’s one thing I must ask of you first.”

Xinai waited; there was always a test, a cost.

“Shaiyung is bound to this place, to the tree. You’re the only one who can set her free.”

She swallowed. “What do I need to do?”

“Bleed. Shed Lin blood for the tree and take a piece of its wood in return. Shaiyung will be able to leave the walls, and to find you if you’re ever in need.”

“All right.” Xinai drew her knife, tested the edge with her thumb; it wanted honing but would serve for the moment. She touched a young tendril that hadn’t reached the ground and glanced a question at Selei. The old woman nodded.

“That will do.”

She pushed back her sleeve and nicked the smaller vein running down her left thumb-the first mercenary witch she’d met in the north had laughed her out of the habit of taking blood from her palm. Pressure, then the flash of pain, then beads of blood welling black in the darkness. She tilted her arm, let the drops trace a dark rivulet into her palm.

Harder to pierce the tree’s skin, and by the time she’d sawed through the tendril tip the last of the edge was gone from her blade. Sap smeared sticky on steel. She pressed her palm against the root, mingling her blood with the tree’s.

Shaiyung sighed like wind in the reeds.

“Is that all?” Xinai’s bloody hand tightened around the sliver of banyan root.

Selei smiled. “Welcome to the Ki Dai, child.”