“Why? You don’t want to be reminded of her in the midst of your little . . . tryst?”
I met him, eye for eye, threats bubbling to my lips. Until I remembered who he was, and how I had tried, over and over again—like pinning sand to a board. And the taste of blood and dust, and the sweat of defeat.
I clenched my jaw, saying nothing.
He patted my shoulder and stepped past me, dismissing me.
“The problem with your idea,” he told Breta, “is how pathetically shortsighted it is.”
“Oh?” she said.
“You’ll run away from Shyandar, and do what? Be a wandering exile? A half-starved wastrel, cut loose from everything you know?”
“I’ll be free.”
“A noble desire.” E’tuah nodded. “But meaningless. There is no freedom without power. Do you want to hide from the system? Or do you want to overrule it?”
“You’re talking about rebellion,” she frowned. “Rising against the Circle.”
He shook his head. “No. Not the Circle. Not the Elders, or Shyandar, or anything so small as that. Let me ask you, child. What are you trying to escape?”
Breta was staring at E’tuah with open wonder. It was beginning to sink in for her: this was no ordinary man, no crazed desert exile. I watched, and the churning in my stomach rose. This should never have happened. These two should never have been allowed to meet. But what could I do?
Something. Anything.
“The Avanir,” I said, desperate to shift his attention. “You’re talking about the Avanir, aren’t you?”
E’tuah glanced back at me. “The Avanir is a tool. A power harnessed to control you. But did it send you here? Are you obeying it when you sacrifice your men and women, Chosen for a fate worse than death?”
“Wait.” Breta glanced at me. “He knows? Vanya, you told him about the Chosen?”
“He’s known all along,” I growled. “He’s been waiting for me to figure it out for years.”
Breta shook her head, her wonder growing. “Who are you?” she whispered.
E’tuah chuckled. “Should we tell her, Ishvandu? Should we open her eyes to who you really are?”
I clenched my jaw. “E’tuah, this has gone far enough. Leave her out of it.”
“That should be her choice. Not yours.”
“What?” Breta demanded. “What’s going on? What are you two planning?”
“Nothing,” I said. “We’re planning nothing.”
“I suppose not,” E’tuah replied. “Seeing as Ishvandu here is more likely to fall stumbling on his ass than be capable of anything so forward-thinking as a plan.”
I glared at him. “Petty insults? That’s low. Even for you.”
“I can stoop to the occasion,” he said, smiling. Yl’avah’s might, he was acting for Breta now. This was for her, this new attitude, this flippancy. He thought he already had me, so he would start working on her next. But why? To what end?
“The Chorah’dyn,” Breta said, interrupting us. “She sent us here. She demands the Choosing. She controls Shyandar.”
“Exactly,” E’tuah said. “Well done, my dear. If you want freedom, that is your enemy.”
I snorted. “You’re talking about defying the Great Tree herself. That’s impossible. There’s no power in the Three Realms that could possibly face the Chorah’dyn.”
“No?” E’tuah asked.
“No.”
“And here I thought you were learning, Ishvandu.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “What of the power at the heart of your own city? The power you tremble beneath every Renewing?”
“The Avanir?” I snorted. “That’s her power.”
“Is it?”
I frowned. “Of course it is.”
“Wrong. The Avanir is ancient. As old as the Tree herself. A half-being of Light, with power to act on Seen and Unseen alike.”
“Power to rival hers?”
“Why else would the Tree send you here, unless the power in this place was beyond what she herself could summon? She needs the Avanir.”
“Then she has it.”
“At times.”
I frowned. “At times?”
“Yes. At Renewing, for example. And when it flows. But now? During Kaprash? You’ve seen it, haven’t you, Ishvandu. You’ve seen the hungry power at the heart of Shyandar.”
I shook my head, despite the sudden tingling beneath my spine. “That doesn’t make any sense. How could it be hers, and not hers?”
“Think of it this way.” E’tuah raised a finger. “You carry your own power, yes? An ancient blade, bound with ytyri, ever-sharp against the creatures of the Unseen?”
“My keshu,” I said. “Yes.”
“And is it yours?”
I swallowed. Don’t. Don’t speak of that here. Not to Breta. “I swore my blood into it,” I said darkly. “A Guardian’s oath. It’s mine.”
E’tuah nodded.
An instant later, my keshu sang out of its sheath. It stabbed towards Breta, faster than I could cry out, snapping to a halt a breath from her throat. E’tuah held it, poised in a perfect rear-attack stance, eyes still fixed on me.
“No!” I finally choked. “E’tuah, don’t . . . don’t . . . Breta, don’t move. Don’t . . .”
Breta was too stunned to make a sound. She stared, eyes round with fear.
“Is it yours, Ishvandu?” E’tuah asked, as calm as the night around us.
“Wh-what?”
“You said the keshu was yours. Is it? Is it now?”
“Yl’avah’s blasted might, you’re insane! You can’t just . . . just take a Guardian’s sword!”
“Oh?” E’tuah’s eyes had gone dark, hard chips of stone, daring me to disagree with him.
“E’tuah . . .”
“Just answer the question,” he said. “Is it yours now?”
I let out my breath, clutching at the empty sheath. It was happening again. Yl’avah’s might, if he . . . !
“No,” I said. “Not right now.”
E’tuah nodded. The blade swung through the air, a long, lazy arc, expertly balanced. Then it snapped back and poked me in the stomach.
“Do you see?” He raised a brow at me.
I could barely speak. My heart was pounding. My hands pooling sweat.
“I do,” Breta said. She had a hand on her hilt, though she hadn’t drawn, perhaps remembering my warning. “It’s the Avanir, isn’t it? It’s a weapon.”
E’tuah smiled. “I do like her.”
“You’re saying it can be used by the Chorah’dyn—or against her,” she replied.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He looked at me. “See, Ishvandu? Was that so difficult?”
I didn’t dare move, the blade still sharp against my stomach. Then he laughed, flipped it around, and slapped the hilt into my hand.
“Think about it.”
He spun to face Breta. He had his back to me, and the sword stuck out from my hand, a mere breath from his body. All I had to do was lean forward, to thrust it in front of me.
I clenched my jaw, hating my fear, hating him.
The keshu slipped meekly back into its sheath, though I gripped the handle in desperation, clutching at the last shreds of my dignity.
“There’s your answer, child,” E’tuah said. “Freedom. Power. A weapon of immense capability. You have the drive for it, I can tell. And Ishvandu has the means.” His head tilted towards me. “Don’t you, Traveller-Between?”
I hissed. How did he know that name? Did he speak with Sumadi too now? Of course he did. That presence, that force. He practically lived in the Unseen.
“What’s your point?” I snapped. “What do you care about any of this?”
“I told you, Ishvandu. The Breaking has already begun, and no number of Chosen, no number of souls, twisted into Sumadi, can heal that rift. You think I’m your enemy? The truth is, the task of the sons of Kyrada lies unfinished, and until one faces the truth, unbowed, there will be no restitu
tion. Do you have the courage, Ishvandu? Can you pick up the shreds of your pathetic honour and make something of yourself? Or will you let them drive your nose into the dust like a slave? She knows what has to be done.” E’tuah nodded towards Breta. “She sees the truth. The answer lies not in fixing your wretched city, but understanding the power at its heart.”
He wrapped his hand around mine, where it still gripped the hilt of my keshu.
“Look to it,” he said. Then he strode off into shadow.
Slowly, his presence lifted, pulling back from us, and the tightness around my lungs relaxed. I took a few steadying breaths.
“Yl’avah’s might,” Breta whispered. “Ishvandu, who was that?”
“A madman.”
“He sounded well-spoken to me.” She glanced around, then moved closer. “Is it true? What he said about the Avanir? About the Avanir being a weapon?”
“He’s crazy, and we’re not discussing this. Now let’s finish our job and get back.”
“But what if he’s right? He said you had the means. What’s he talking about? The means to what?”
I bent to grab one of the nearby water sacks. They were heavy now. We would have to make more than one trip, dragging the water like pack camels.
“The night won’t last forever, Breta. We still have work to do.”
She laughed incredulously. “Are you really going to pretend that didn’t just happen? That? Are you going to—?”
“Yes,” I snapped.
“But that man—”
I stepped swiftly towards her. “Breta, you will never speak of him again, not to me, not to anyone.”
“Or what?” She planted her hands on her hips.
She tilted her face up towards me, challenging, inviting, mocking. And Yl’avah’s might, in spite of everything, I remembered the touch of her lips—
I growled and pulled myself away. Stupid girl. I couldn’t think of it. She had just gone and made my life a hundred times more difficult than it already was. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”
She sighed, and for a moment, I saw a flash of her earlier indignation, the raw emotion, the pain, the hatred of so much around her. Then she threw it all away with a flip of her chin.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ishvandu ab’Admundi
We staggered in with the dawn. We were tired and cold and sore. But we were dragging a train of water sacks behind us, and the effect was everything I could have hoped for.
Adar already had his diggers at work while Baraaba was setting up building supplies in one of the tents. Koryn was ordering people around, and Mani was counting rations with the help of Arkaya, Lidyana, and the youngest of our Labourers, a boy barely out of his Tasking. There was activity, but over all hung a listless despair, as if the crew shared a silent forbidden understanding that each of us was going to die.
And then Breta and I arrived.
At first, everyone just stared. They watched us limp into camp and dump the sacks with the other rations. And then they began to glance between each other, checking to see if they were already going sun-mad.
It was Adar ab’Dara who broke the silence. “Well,” he called. “I suppose the young blade keeps his promises after all. Did you call water up from the sands themselves?”
People began to gather, whisper, heads bent together.
“You’re shitting me,” Koryn said as he stomped over.
I laughed—a little forced after our harrowing experience in Gitaia.
“I know,” I said loudly. “After that storm, I wasn’t sure if we’d find the water supplies we’d hidden last time, but Breta and I tracked them down.”
Koryn eyed me, but thankfully took the hint. The less suspicion we aroused the better. And there was no way I was going back to that place. Ever.
“Good work,” he said.
I waited until everyone had gathered, then began passing around one of the skins.
I watched their eyes brighten as they took a sip, hope returning to their faces, looking at one another, gazing at me in wonder. I stood up straighter. I was doing it. I could lead these people. I could.
“That earns you louts another day or two,” I said, “but that’s it. You hear? There’s no more where that came from. Just what we saved from our last trip. So if you want water, you’ll have to work to get more. And you still go through Mani to take advantage of these rations. Got it?”
Heads bobbed in agreement. Mani had already acquired a reputation for being fair. No one would get more or less than their due.
“Now I expect you all to work double hard. The sooner we get our well built, the sooner we all go home heroes. Right?”
A chorus of agreement went up, and I felt my chest swell.
Then I noticed Tala. She was standing off by the main tent. Arms crossed. What must she be thinking? Breta and I running off alone together in the night? Sands, what we had done! What we had nearly done!
Light and all, I had to talk to her.
“Come on, you slouches, you heard him!” Adar shouted and bustled his Labourers back to work. They moved off, a new energy to their steps. Daring to hope.
All but the youngest of the crew, a boy. He was holding the water skin, the last to taste it, trying desperately to eke a drop from its bottom. Then he noticed me watching and scrambled to hide his disappointment. He handed back the empty skin, saying nothing before hurrying away.
“Hold on there,” I said.
The boy stopped and looked back, confused. “M-me?”
“Yes, you. What’s your name?”
“Karta. Er . . . ab’Akkalsi. I mean my full name is—”
“Fine. Karta. Did you get your fair turn of water?”
He hesitated. “Thank you. I got a taste. I mean, I . . . yes. I suppose.”
“Is that the honest truth, Karta? You’ve no more need of a sip?”
Karta was staring at me, then staring at my side, hesitant and fearful, yet with a bitter longing I knew all too well. My keshu. He thinks I’m a Guardian. He thinks I’m something to be admired.
Fresh shame pricked at my mind. Lies.
“Well?” I snapped. “Did you get enough or not?”
The boy took a step back. “It was just a sip. The last. I . . .”
“Yes or no? Out with it!”
“N-no.”
“Thank Yl’avah, he can give a straight answer! Here.” I snatched a fresh skin from the ground and tossed it to the boy. He was so startled he almost dropped it, but then clung to it like treasure.
“For m-me?”
“Yes. All of it. You think because you’re young, you don’t deserve your fair share? Or because you’re a Labourer, you shouldn’t speak up? You say what you mean. You look out for yourself. Got it?”
He nodded.
“Now back to work.”
“Yes, right away. I will. I . . .”
“Well? Go on!”
He swallowed and nodded, still clutching the water. Light and all, why was he staring at me like that? I turned away, only to see Koryn and Breta and Mani all staring at me. And Tala. Tala was definitely watching.
“Don’t get too proud of yourself,” Koryn snorted. “You’re still an idiot kid who has to answer to me when this is over.”
Breta laughed. “When this is over, I bet there’ll be a new head of the third.” Then she sauntered off towards the tent.
Tala and her exchanged looks, and Breta had the nerve to hold her gaze—just a little too long, a little too hot with challenge.
I groaned. That was the last thing I needed. I had to settle this. Now.
I swallowed, dreading the confrontation, but if I turned away, things would only get worse. I frowned, gathered myself, then strode towards Tala. She saw, and in silent understanding, she turned and slipped out of camp.
I caught up to her near the cliffs, but stayed a few steps away, keeping a respectful distance.
“We . . . we found Gitaia,” I said.
<
br /> She nodded. “I can see.”
“I didn’t ask Breta to come.” It came out sounding defensive. I cursed and shook my head. “What I meant is . . .”
“I know what you meant.”
“But it looks like . . .”
“I don’t care what it looks like. I only care what it is. Do you understand me?”
There was no anger in her voice, but still that coldness. That stiff formality.
I frowned and looked at my feet. “I’m sorry, Tala. I’m sorry for my anger. The things I said. I shouldn’t have . . . I just wanted things to be better between us, and you . . .”
I bit back the accusation, but Tala heard my unspoken words. “You think I’m ashamed of you. You think I’d prefer your death to your defeat? Is that truly what you think?”
“No.” I swallowed. “Maybe.”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
Her arms snapped open, fists clenching. “That man,” she hissed, “is a sack of lies. You know what he said to me? Watch, he said. Watch, and Ishvandu ab’Admundi will fail you. He never said her name, but he didn’t have to. The other woman.”
“Tala—”
“And do you know what? I don’t believe it. I won’t. Even though I see you together on the wall. Touching. Even though you run off into the night together. Even though she looks at you, and you at her. You know why?”
I swallowed, unable to speak.
“Because he said it. He wants me to believe it, and so it’s a lie. I know it. I know it, Ishvandu ab’Admundi, and I refuse to think otherwise, so don’t you dare stand here and accuse me of wanting you dead. All I want is the truth. I want to know what happened that day you faced him, everything, even the parts you’re ashamed of, because blast it all, I love you, and if we’re together then you have to trust me.”
She was breathing hard, a finger brandished against earth and sky, eyes blazing.
And I had kissed her, the “other woman.” I had let it happen. Yl’avah’s might, I had even enjoyed it.
I shut my eyes. E’tuah was right about me, and Tala was wrong. It was as simple as that.
“What is it?” Tala demanded.
“I saw him.”
“What, here?”
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