by Wagner, Raye
Dostane held my hand tight as she advanced, slowing my progress, but if she let go, would my arm be forever stuck in stone? My next step backward was smaller, and I waited for Dostane to get closer to the surface before taking another one.
But my head was completely free, so I peeked back and studied the clearing. Smoke still filled the area. Though the cloud of death was thinner, the haze hiding the details, it did nothing to obscure the destruction. I closed my eyes and, as Dostane released my hand, crumpled to the ground, curling in on myself with a wail.
Dozens of bodies lay scattered—pieces of bodies—broken and… I retched, heaving from deep within as I tried to clear the rotten taste of brutal death from my mouth. Sour bile burned my throat, and I spit the yellow fluid onto the gray granite. Tears and snot ran as I sobbed for the awful, pointless, destruction. Hours must’ve passed while we were in the rock, for not a single soul remained, but time didn’t lesson the horror.
Why? Why would anyone do this?
“Dîsa?”
“It smells so bad. I-I can taste it,” I said, trying to explain my extreme reaction.
Dostane touched my shoulder, but I kept my eyes and mouth closed, not wanting to feel any more of the weight of the mass murder.
“We should go and see who else is still alive,” she whispered, now standing behind me. The warmth of her body radiated as she crouched, and she continued, “There may be other survivors.”
I stood and scrubbed the tears from my face and wiped my nose. The two women started toward the rubble that had been their home, and my heart ached for them and all of Heza. Tears stung my eyes, burning them with the emotion I fought to hold within. Dostane was right: mourning the dead would do little at this point. And my guilt was held in check, barely, knowing that even if I had been out here, I couldn’t have stopped this level of carnage.
Clearing my throat as I followed after them, I choked out the single word question running through my mind, “Why?”
The next inhalation turned my stomach, and I frowned as I studied the ground. Here, the stone was gray normal granite, and the scraggly trees we’d run through were still intact, a few of the leaves singed but not blackened or burned to the ground. But the bodies—and bits—were all scorched and blistered with the heat of fire. I widened my eyes in shock and snatched Dostane’s arm, tugging her to a stop. Doli stilled next to her mother, and both women turned as I held my finger to my lips.
A loud crack rent the silence, and someone screamed in the distance. Sucking in a breath, I tasted the fresh death wafting on the air.
“They’re still here,” I whispered.
Both Dostane and Doli nodded, their eyes growing bigger as realization and fear sunk in. Dostane pointed at the rock face, and I shuddered with the thought. But worse than the thought of hiding in the granite mountainside was the niggling sense that the Serîk were here… for me.
Doli shook her head. “I’m better, Mama. I can hold a shield now.”
My attention jerked to the young magî I’d been living with—one I’d assumed held minimal, worthless magîk. “A shield?”
Dostane smiled, a sad, pitying look directed at me, and I wondered if she’d known my hasty assessment of them.
“I can make us invisible,” Doli said, her eyes narrowing into a fierce expression. “We can get close enough and see what’s happening.”
My gaze bounced to Dostane, and the older woman frowned.
“But if you lose your focus, we would all be in jeopardy. I don’t think it’s a good idea…”
“I can do it,” Doli insisted, clenching her hands at her sides. “I won’t lose my focus.” She huffed several short breaths and added, “What if Mar is still out there? Don’t you want to know? What if we can save him?”
Dostane tilted her head to the side and gave her daughter the same pitying smile I’d received.
“Of course I want to know. But I don’t want to lose”—she pointed at her daughter with a meaningful look—“you.” Taking a deep breath, Dostane squared her shoulders and focused on me. “Is your magîk… Can you… Can your magîk be used as a weapon?”
I shook my head, frustrated that there was nothing defensive about my power. But even if the two of them decided they wanted to go back into the rock, I wouldn’t join them. I needed to know what was going on. Why had the Serîk come, and what did they want? Or was this finally Zîvrünê taking over? My heart jumped with the thought, but I immediately dismissed it. Zîvrünê wouldn’t attack an outpost.
Next to me, the two magî continued their argument while I thought of the best way to sneak closer to the market square. How many buildings remained? And while the layer of jungle growth was far thinner here than in the lower elevations, on the far side of the square, nearest the entrance to Heza, the foliage was dense enough to hide in.
“We’re just too vulnerable. If you lose your focus for even one second—”
“I can do it,” Doli snapped, pulling away from her mother with a glower. The young magî turned to me and asked, “Do you want to come?”
I’d already made up my mind to try, so the decision was easy. I nodded and said, “If we skirt the edges of the perimeter road, we can get to the jungle and then assess the square.”
“How do you know they’re in the square?” Doli asked.
“It’s the best place to gather everyone,” Dostane answered, her lips forming a thin line. Her previous pity disappeared, and she regarded me with an intense look before slinging her arm around her daughter. “I’m coming. And just so you know, I know you can. I’m just scared.”
Doli hugged her mother, and a moment after she pulled away, the air shimmered and wavered, the scene around us fractionating into uneven pieces. We joined hands, and Doli explained that while we wouldn’t be visible, any sound would still carry.
We crossed the clearing quickly, and I tried to ignore the message of dead bodies. Had the Serîk known where we were hiding, or had they known we’d come back to this area?
My trepidation grew with each step as we passed through the trampled garden and then circled the inn on the left side. I blinked in shock at the walls—the jagged, broken pieces biting into the air in vicious retaliation. The baked-brick buildings surrounding Dostane’s home, likewise mutilated and singed, emptied of their previous residents, no longer able to provide any measure of protection.
5
Three Years Ago
Our pace up the mountain path slowed, but my heart thundered against my ribs, racing with the excitement and anticipation of maybe. Had I misunderstood Zîvrünê’s attention? Did his lingering touch and wink mean something more? Sure, I’d wanted it, coveted it—truly. But I wasn’t her, powerful and beautiful, so I’d assumed he was courting Zîyanâ and tolerating me. Assumed. But I’d never asked, never dared to find out the truth. Was I wrong?
“If you could do anything, what would you want most?” he asked, oblivious to my internal conversation. His vibrant-blue eyes were lit with interest, and he stood taller, straighter, like a weight was off his shoulders.
How had I not noticed the weight on his shoulders?
“Do?” I parroted and then rushed to clarify. “Do you mean fly like a raptor, or weightier things, like change the law about trading magîk?”
He walked much closer to me now, and every few steps we bumped shoulders, hips, or hands. Each time, fire licked my skin and infused my body with warmth. My nerves tuned to his proximity, and the anticipation for the next touch grew until he was my whole world.
“Either. Both.” He laughed, all the darkness from earlier now gone. “If you could do anything with your magîk, what would you want to do with it?”
The easy answer was to say fly because it would mean I’d overcome my fear of heights and had total freedom. But my thoughts went to Qralî, because even though Zîvrünê was right about outposts managing themselves, if the kümdâr did more, Qralî could be so much more. I grimaced, thinking about what Qralî needed most and what I could do w
ith my magîk. I watched the path, my gaze dropping lower the longer I tried to fit my ability into satisfying anything our world needed.
“I wish I could stop the bûyî.” I heaved a sigh and stated the obvious, most perplexing problem our realm faced. “Not that I have any ability to do that, but if I could do anything, that’s what I would want to do. No one else should have to lose loved ones to the death-bog.”
Zîvrünê’s expression sobered, and he nodded.
Six months after my parents disappeared, reports started coming into Yândarî of a magîk-mire. The bog appeared suddenly with its gaping maw and swallowed magî and any animal where it materialized before vanishing just as fast. After two years, the number of reports grew sufficient that the kümdâr sent out a team of magî to investigate—including Zîyanâ’s mentor, Brî.
A year ago, Brî returned—the only one of the six to come back. She’d seen the bûyî, said they’d lost two magî to it, and the others ran away and refused to return to Yândarî. With more questions regarding the unpredictable horror than answers, Kümdâr Zêvn sent Brî out with another group, this time his trusted Serîk. By then every outpost had sent reports of the mysterious bog, some of them multiple times, but no one had answers as to what was causing it, let alone how to fix it. The second group still hadn’t returned.
“I’m sorry,” Zîvrünê said somberly. He briefly squeezed my shoulder and then continued, “I wish there was some way to make sense of it.” Frowning, he muttered, “Without knowing what it is, I fear we will continue to struggle with stopping it. My only hope is the other magî will return with answers.”
Tilting my head, I asked, “You don’t believe Zîyanâ can heal it? I thought Brî said Zîyanâ was the key?”
I’d listened to Kümdâr Zêvn praise her as the answer when she’d surpassed the other magî training her. I thought that was why the kümdâr wanted Zîvrünê to bond with her. She was the most powerful female magî in all of Yândarî, probably all of Qralî.
“I don’t know that,” he answered, meeting my intense scrutiny with an open expression. “I would love for that to be true, but what if it’s not something wrong with the land? What if it’s something else?”
“What else could it be?” I asked.
According to Zîyanâ, this was the obvious answer: the problem was in the land as evidenced by the ground sucking up magî.
I bit my tongue, refusing to give in to my instinct to blame his brother. Zerôn might give Zîyanâ clothes, but it was so she would look appealing to him. He bought food and gave her the leftovers—if there were any. He and Zîyanâ had been together before my parents died, but he never stopped his nightly visits—which were probably not for tutoring sessions. And when we were younger, Zerôn would threaten me when no one was looking. When I said something, I was called a liar. I had dozens of memories of him tripping or pinching or smacking me, and if I told anyone, somehow I’d get in trouble. He was a snake. And even though I didn’t say it, I would forever think Zerôn was at the root of everything evil and bad in Qralî.
“I think it’s ironic that Zîyanâ can heal the land and Zerôn can heal the body—any body—and yet those two don’t find joy in helping others, right?”
“Oh, sure they do,” he countered. “If there’s something in it for them.”
I laughed even though it wasn’t really funny. The truth rarely is.
“That’s not really fair, though,” Zîvrünê said, discrediting his previous statement. “Perhaps when they were younger, they struggled to see outside themselves. But that’s true of most youth… even if it’s never been true for you.”
He winked and then bumped my shoulder, making me blush.
“Both of them are well aware of the struggles of the realm, and you might be surprised with some of their insights.”
Probably not. Zîyanâ came home and told me exactly what she thought of what was happening in Qralî. Not that she was selfish—if she’d been selfish, she never would’ve kept me. But she definitely bought into the caste system and thought the value of a magî’s abilities should be rewarded accordingly, like her marrying the heir.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, despite my thoughts. “You do see them much more often than I do.” I bumped him back, enjoying the physical contact, despite the subject of our conversation. I hated Zerôn. The only reason I was willing to suffer his presence now was because Zîvrünê was here. Did he really not see what was staring us both in the face? I pushed away the memory of Zerôn and Zîyanâ locked in an embrace last week. Ugh. They weren’t even nearby. How could Rünê not see?
“Fetid rot,” Zîvrünê swore. “You already know about them?”
I was about to protest, but the lie stuck. He’d probably picked up on it when I bumped him. Humiliation stained my cheeks, but the wide-eyed expression of surprise spreading over Rünê’s face morphed to a smile, stopping my apology.
“Bîcav,” he yelled. “Come here!”
The tall guard strode around the bend just ahead of where we stood, a tentative smile on his lips. He nodded once at Zîvrünê who then sprinted ahead.
“What?” My attention went from Zîvrünê’s back to Bîcav. “What’s going on?”
“You know I can’t tell you if he didn’t,” Bîcav said, shaking his head, the smile falling from his face.
My shoulders dropped, and I rolled my eyes. “I’m not asking you to tell me what’s going on in his head. Well, maybe I am, but still. He just”—I waved my hand after the prince—“took off. He asked if I already knew… about Zerôn and Zîyanâ. Why?”
Bîcav surveyed the area, probably ignoring me on purpose, and I huffed in frustration, although the real emotion fluttering through my chest was eager anticipation. I stepped forward on the path, intent to follow Zîvrünê—we were only another dozen yards or so from the outlook—but Bîcav tapped my shoulder.
He pointed at a relatively flat rock and said, “Let’s sit and wait here.”
“What?” No way was I going to sit here and wait.
“It’s why he called me back here,” Bîcav said, tapping his head. “He wants to talk with them, privately.”
Right. And I’m being an idiot.
“No,” Bîcav said. Then he scrunched up his face in a comical, ridiculous expression. “Well, maybe. Yes, you are.” He tugged me back to the rock and tapped it with his foot. “Sit.”
“Fine. But only because you asked nicely.” I stuck my tongue out but pulled it right back in. Sitting down next to him on the large stone, I gave him a cheeky grin. No reason to add more evidence of my idiocy.
He sat next to me and asked, “What do you think the bûyî is?”
The darkest, most evil rot of the magîs’ soul. “No idea, but I’m sure it’s Zerôn’s fault.”
Bîcav barked a laugh but reined it in quickly. “You might not want to repeat that.”
“I’m sure you’re right…” I heard a shriek and cocked my head to the side, listening, uncertain if the noise was magî or beast. Of course the rain picked up, and the fat drops pattering on the leaves competed with a nearby stream and its chorus of frogs. I heard something again, over the cacophony of the cloud forest, and the sound was like… “Is someone yelling?”
Bîcav’s smile slipped, and his face paled, both in a fraction of a second. “Stay here,” he shouted as he ran up the trail. “Stay here until I get back.”
Not a chance.
I bolted off the rock and chased after him. Three paces later, I slipped on the wet mud and bounced my knees against the stony ground. The pain barely registered as my heart thrummed with urgency, and I leapt up and clambered to the top of the path. The argument grew in volume, and I could decipher individual words singeing the air: liar, hate, betrayal.
Rounding the corner, my rising concern morphed into panic as the scene unfolded. I blinked, repeatedly, trying desperately to clear the horrific scene, and my breathing cut to shallow gasping as dread coated my skin in a bitter, cold flash of persp
iration.
No…
Bîcav was closest to me, clutching his wide-eyed brother’s arms, but if my friend was restraining Basvîk at one point, that was no longer true. The two blond males both stood slack-jawed, staring at the other magî.
Zîvrünê stood several paces away from everyone else, skin blanched and eyes dilated—his attention riveted on my sister. His lips parted and chest swelled as he sucked in a breath.
Zerôn held my sister’s arm—her right forearm, just above her zeta bands—and the two of them struggled near the edge of the cliff… Too close.
He strained with the force of fighting my sister, my beautiful sister, who writhed and screamed in the most disturbing display of vitriolic anger I’d ever witnessed.
Zîyanâ’s face was twisted into an expression I’d never seen before—not in all of my fifteen years. Her golden hair whipped in the air as she flailed, beads and feathers smacking Zerôn in the face, and the pale-pink sarong she wore was torn almost up to her thigh. The rage rolled off her, as she twisted and fought against Zerôn’s hold.
“You think you can just take it back?” Zîyanâ screeched. She thrashed harder, swinging her free hand at the younger prince. “How dare you—”
Time seemed to stop—the very jungle silenced with the gasp of terror—as Zîyanâ broke Zerôn’s hold. My heart seized, and panic wrenched the air from my lungs, but I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t… anything.
For a single blink, it appeared as though the empty air wrapped Zîyanâ in its embrace and held her—cocooned and safe—suspended, just off the edge of the cliff. But even in Qralî, where air was heavy and thick with moisture, gravity existed, and Zîyanâ fell.
