by Sabaa Tahir
Aubarit blanches, and her knuckles pale as she clasps her hands together. “This—this cannot be, Banu al-Mauth. You must pass them on. If you do not—”
“What happens?” I lean forward. “You spoke of Mysteries—how did you learn them? Are they written down? Scrolls? Books?”
The Fakira taps her head. “To write down the Mysteries is to rob them of their power. Only the Fakirs and Fakiras learn them, for we are with the dead as they leave the world of the living. We wash them and commune with their spirits so they move easily through the Jaga al-Mauth and to the other side. The Soul Catcher does not see them—she—you—are not meant to.”
Have you ever wondered why there are so few ghosts from the Tribes? Shaeva’s words.
“Do your Mysteries say anything of the Waiting Place’s magic?”
“No, Banu al-Mauth,” Aubarit says. “Though . . .” Her voice drops and takes on the cadence of a long-memorized chant. “If thou seekest the truth in the trees, the Forest will show thee its sly memory.”
“A memory?” I frown—Shaeva said nothing of this. “The trees have seen much, no doubt. But the magic I have doesn’t allow me to speak with them.”
Aubarit shakes her head. “The Mysteries are rarely literal. Forest could mean the trees—or it could be referring to something else entirely.”
Metaphorical talking trees won’t help me. “What of the Bani al-Mauth?” I ask. “Did you ever meet her? Did she speak to you of the magic or how she did her work?”
“I met her once, when Grandfather chose me as his apprentice. She gave me her benediction. I thought . . . I thought she sent you to help us.”
“Help you?” I say sharply. “With the Martials?”
“No, with—” She swallows back the words. “Do not concern yourself with such trifles, Banu al-Mauth. You must move the spirits, and to do that you must remove yourself from the world, not waste your time helping strangers.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” I say. “I can decide whether it concerns me or not.”
Aubarit wrings her hands in indecision, but when I chuff expectantly, she speaks, her voice low. “Our Fakirs and Fakiras,” she says, “they’re dying. A few were killed in Martial attacks. But others . . .” She shakes her head. “My grandfather was found in a pond just a few feet deep. His lungs were filled with water—but he knew how to swim.”
“His heart might have failed.”
“He was strong as a bull and not yet in his sixth decade. That’s only part of it, Banu al-Mauth. I struggled to reach his spirit. You must understand, I have been training as a Fakira since I could speak. I have never fought to commune with a spirit. This time, it felt as if something was blocking me. When I succeeded, Grandfather’s ghost was deeply troubled—it would not speak to me. Something is wrong. I’ve not heard from the other Fakirs—everyone is so concerned with the Martials. But this—this is bigger than that. And I do not know what to do.”
A sharp tug nearly pulls me to my feet. I sense impatience on the other end. Perhaps Mauth doesn’t wish me to learn this information. Perhaps the magic wants me to remain ignorant.
“Get word out to your Fakirs,” I say. “Their wagons should no longer be set apart from the rest of the caravan, by order of the Banu al-Mauth, who has expressed concern for their safety. And tell them to have their wagons repainted to match the others in the Tribe. It will make it more difficult for your enemies to find you—” I stop short. The pull at my core is strong enough that I feel like I might be sick. But I press on, because no one else is going to help Aubarit or the Fakirs.
“Ask the other Fakirs if they are also finding it hard to commune with the spirits,” I say. “And find out if it’s ever happened before.”
“The other Fakirs don’t listen to me.”
“You are new to your power.” I need to go, but I cannot just leave her here, doubting herself, doubting her worth. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t have it. Think of the way your Kehanni wears her strength, like it’s her own skin. That’s who you must be. For your people.”
Mauth pulls me yet again, forcefully enough that, against my will, I stand. “I have to return to the Waiting Place,” I say. “If you need me, come to the border of the Forest. I’ll know you’re there. But do not try to enter.”
Moments later, I’m back out in the heavy rain. Lightning cracks over the Waiting Place, and I feel it hit within my domain: north, near the cabin, and closer, near the river. The awareness feels innate, like knowing I’ve gotten a cut or bite.
As I windwalk home, I turn Aubarit’s words over in my head. Shaeva never told me the Fakirs were so deeply connected to her work. She never mentioned that they knew of her existence, let alone that they had built an entire mythology around her. All I knew about the Fakirs was what most Tribespeople know about them—that they handle the dead and that they are to be revered, albeit with more fear than one would revere a Zaldar or a Kehanni.
Maybe if I’d bleeding paid attention, I’d have noticed a connection. The Tribes have always been deeply wary of the Forest. Afya hates being near it, and Tribe Saif never came within fifty leagues of it when I was a child.
As I near the Waiting Place, Mauth’s pull, which by now should have weakened, gets stronger. Does he simply want me to come back? Does he want something more?
The border is finally before me, and the moment I pass through, I am blasted by the howls of the ghosts. Their rage has peaked—transformed into something violent and deranged. How in the ten hells did they get so riled up in the hour that I was gone?
They press close to the border with a strange, single-minded focus. At first, I think that they are all pushing at something close to the wall. A dead animal? A dead body?
But as I shove past them, shuddering at the chills rippling through my body, I realize that they aren’t pressing at something near the wall. They are pushing at the wall itself.
They are trying to get out.
XIII: The Blood Shrike
The southern sky is stained black with smoke when the riverboat finally begins the approach to Navium. The rain that has drenched us for the past two weeks lingers on the horizon, taunting us, refusing to provide any relief. The Empire’s greatest port city burns, and my people burn with it.
Avitas joins me on the wide prow while Dex barks orders at the captain to move faster. Thunder echoes—Navium’s drums issuing coded orders with a frenzy one only ever hears during an attack.
Harper’s silver face is tight, his mouth drawn down in what is almost a frown. He’s spent hours on the road teaching me to close my mind against intrusion, which meant a great deal of time staring into each other’s faces. I’ve gotten to know his well. Whatever news he’s about to deliver, it’s bad.
“Grímarr and his forces attacked at dawn three weeks ago,” he says. “Our spies say the Karkauns have been hit by a famine in the south. Tens of thousands dead. They’ve been raiding the southern coast for months now, but we had outdated information on the fleet they’d amassed. They showed up with more than three hundred ships and struck the merchant harbor first. Of the two hundred fifty merchant vessels at port, two hundred forty-three were destroyed.”
That’s a blow the Mercator Gens won’t soon forget. “Countermeasures?”
“Admiral Lenidas took the fleet out twice. The first time, we took down three Barbarian craft before a squall forced us back to port. The second time, Grímarr pressed the attack and drove us back.”
“Grímarr drove back Admiral Lenidas?” Whoever this skies-forsaken Karkaun is, he’s no fool. Lenidas has commanded the Empire’s navy for the past thirty years. He designed Navium’s military port, the Island: a watchtower with an enormous body of water surrounding it, and a circular, protected port beyond, which houses men, ships, and supplies. He has fought the Barbarians for decades from the Island.
“According to the report, Grímarr c
ountered every trick Lenidas threw at him. After that, the Karkauns choked off the port. The city is effectively under siege. And the death toll is up to a thousand in the Southwest Quarter. That’s where Grímarr is hitting the hardest.”
The Southwest Quarter is almost entirely Plebeian—dockworkers, sailors, fishermen, coopers, blacksmiths, and their families.
“Keris Veturia is orchestrating an operation to rout the next Barbarian attack.”
“Keris shouldn’t be orchestrating anything without Lenidas to temper her,” I say. “Where is he?”
“After his second failure, she executed him,” Avitas says, and from his long pause, I know he’s as disturbed at the news as I am. “For gross dereliction of duty. Two days ago.”
“That old man lived and breathed duty.” I am numb. Lenidas trained me personally for six months when I was a Fiver, just before I got my mask. He was one of the few southern Paters my father trusted. “He fought the Karkauns for fifty years. Knew more about them than anyone alive.”
“Officially, the Commandant felt that he had lost too many men in the attacks and ignored too many of her warnings.”
“And unofficially she wanted to take control.” Damn her to the hells. “Why did the Illustrian Paters allow it? She’s not a deity. They could have stopped her.”
“You know how Lenidas was, Shrike,” Avitas says. “He didn’t take bribes, and he didn’t let the Paters tell him what to do. He treated Illustrians and Mercators and Plebeians alike. The way they saw it, he let the merchant harbor burn.”
“And now Keris is in command of Navium.”
“She’s summoned us,” Avitas says. “We’ve been informed that an escort will bring us to her. She is at the Island.”
Hag. She is already attempting to wrest control from me before I’ve even entered the city. I meant to go to the Island first. But now if I do, I will appear the supplicant, seeking approval from my betters.
“Curse her summons.”
A commotion at the docks catches my attention. The chuffing screams of horses split the air, and I spot the black-and-red armor of a Black Guard. The soldier curses as he attempts to keep hold of the beasts, but they buck and jerk away from him.
Then, as suddenly as they began to panic, the beasts calm, dropping their heads, as if drugged. Every man on the dock steps back.
A figure in black comes into view.
“Bleeding hells,” Avitas murmurs from beside me.
The Nightbringer’s eerie, bright eyes fix on me. But I am not surprised. I expected Keris to keep that jinn monster close. She knows I’m trying to kill her. She knows that if she can use her supernatural pet to get into my head, I’ll never succeed.
I think back to the hours spent with Avitas, learning to shield my mind. Hours listening to his calm voice explain how to imagine my innermost thoughts as gems locked in a chest, hidden in a shipwreck at the bottom of a forgotten sea. Harper doesn’t know about Livia’s pregnancy. I spoke of it to no one. But he knows the Empire’s future depends on destroying the Commandant. He was an exacting instructor.
But he could not test my skill. I hope to the skies that my preparation was enough. If Keris learns Livvy is pregnant, she’ll have assassins descending within days.
But as we dock, my thoughts are scattered. Pull yourself together, Shrike. Livvy’s life depends on it. The Empire depends on it.
When I step onto the gangplank, I do not look into the Nightbringer’s eyes. I made that mistake once before, months ago, when I met him back in Serra. Now I know that his eyes showed my future. I saw the deaths of my family that day. I didn’t understand it at the time—I assumed my own fear had gotten the best of me.
“Welcome, Blood Shrike.” I cannot hide my shudder at the way the Nightbringer’s voice scrapes against my ear. He beckons me closer. I am Mater of Gens Aquilla. I am a Mask. I am a Black Guard. I am the Blood Shrike, right hand to the Emperor of the Martials. I order my body to remain still while I stare him down with all the power of my rank.
My body betrays me.
The sounds of the river docks fade. No water slapping against the hulls of ships. No stevedores calling out to each other. No masts creaking, and no distant boom of sails or roar of the sea. The silence that cloaks the jinn is complete, an aura that nothing can penetrate. Everything falls away as I close the distance between us.
Maintain control, Shrike. Give him nothing.
“Ah,” the Nightbringer says quietly, when I stand before him. “Felicitations, Blood Shrike. I see you are to be an aunt.”
XIV: Laia
The Mariner prison is spare, cold, and eerily silent. As I pace my poorly lit cell, I place a hand against the stone wall. It is so thick that I could scream and scream and Darin, across the hall from me, might never know.
He must be going mad. I imagine him clenching and unclenching his fists, boots scraping against the floor, wondering when we will escape. If we will escape. This place might not be Kauf, but it is still a prison. And my brother’s demons will not let him forget it.
Which means I must stay levelheaded for the both of us and find a way out of here.
The night creeps by, dawn breaks, and it’s not until the late afternoon that the lock on my door clanks and three figures backlit by lamplight step into my cell. I recognize one as the captain who arrested us and a second as one of her soldiers. But it is the third woman, tall and heavily cloaked, who catches my attention.
Because she is surrounded by ghuls.
They gather like hungry crows at her feet, hissing and pawing at her. I know, instantly, that she cannot see them.
“Bring in the brother, Captain Eleiba.” The woman’s Serran is husky and musical. She could be a Kehanni with a voice like that. She looks to be around Afya’s age or perhaps a bit older, with light brown skin and thick, straight black hair pulled up in a knot. Her back is poker straight, and she walks gracefully, as if balancing a book on her head. “Sit, child,” she says, and though her voice is pleasant enough, an underlying malice raises my hackles. Are the ghuls influencing her? I did not know they had such power. They feed off sorrow and sadness and the stink of blood. Spiro Teluman spoke those words to me long ago. What sorrow plagues this woman?
Darin soon joins me, slowing when he enters, eyes wide. He sees the ghuls too. When he takes a seat on my cot beside me, I reach for his hand and squeeze. They cannot hold us. I will not let them.
The woman observes me for a long moment before smiling. “You,” she says to me, “look nothing like the Lioness. And you”—she glances at Darin—“are her spitting image. Clever of her to keep you hidden. I expect it’s why you’re still alive.”
The ghuls slither up the woman’s cloak, hissing into her ear. Her lips curve into a sneer. “But then, my father tells me that Mirra always enjoyed her little secrets. I wonder, are you like her in other ways? Looking always to fight instead of fix, to break instead of build, to—”
“You shut it about my mother.” My face grows hot. “How dare you—”
“You will please address Crown Princess Nikla of Marinn as Princess or Your Highness,” Eleiba says. “And you will speak with respect for one of her station.”
This woman, infested with ghuls who are influencing her mind, will one day rule Marinn? I want to frighten the fey creatures away from her, but I cannot manage it without looking as if I’m attacking her. Mariners are less skeptical than Scholars when it comes to the fey, but something tells me she still won’t believe me if I tell her what I see.
“Don’t bother, Eleiba.” Nikla snorts. “I should have known she’d have the same lack of subtlety the Lioness did. Now, girl, let us discuss why you are here.”
“Please.” I speak through gritted teeth, knowing that my life is in Nikla’s hands. “My brother and I are here to—”
“Make Serric steel weaponry,” Nikla says. “Supply the Scholar re
fugees flooding the city. Instigate an uprising. Challenge the Mariners, despite all we have done for your people since the Empire uprooted them hundreds of years ago.”
I am so flabbergasted that I almost cannot speak. “No,” I sputter. “No, Princess, you have it wrong. We’re not here to make weaponry, we—”
Do I tell her of the Nightbringer? Of Shaeva? I think of the stories of fey violence whispered along the road, stories I’ve been hearing for months. The ghuls may tell her that I lie. But I must warn her. “A threat approaches, Princess. A great threat. You have no doubt heard the tales of Mariner ships sinking in calm seas, of children disappearing in the dead of night.”
Beside Nikla, Eleiba stiffens, her eyes jerking toward mine, filled with recognition. She knows! But Nikla holds up a hand. The ghuls chuckle nastily, slitted red eyes fixed on me.
“You sent your allies ahead of you to spread such lies among the Scholar population,” she says. “Tales of monsters out of legend. Yes, your little friends did your work well.”
Araj. The Skiritae. I sigh. Elias warned me that the Skiritae leader would spread word of my exploits far and wide. I hadn’t given it much thought.
“They seeded your reputation among the newly arrived Scholars, a downtrodden and easily manipulated population. And then you arrived with your brother, your mother’s legacy, and promises of Serric steel, safety, and security. All insurgents tell the same tale, girl. It just changes a bit with the telling.”
“We don’t want trouble.” My trepidation rises, but I channel my grandfather, Pop, thinking of the time he delivered twins and I panicked. It was my first delivery, and with a few words, his serenity soothed me until my hands no longer shook. “We just want to—”
“Don’t patronize me. My people have done everything for yours.” Nikla paces the small cell, the ghuls following her like a pack of loyal dogs. “We have taken them into our city and integrated them into the fabric of Mariner culture. But our generosity is not without limits. Here in Marinn, we are not sadists, like the Martials. But we do not take kindly to rabble-rousers. Know that if you do not cooperate with me, I will have Captain Eleiba put you both on the next ship down to the Tribal lands—as we did your friends.”
