All the Wandering Light

by Heather Fawcett

  Mara looked as if I’d struck him. “If you’re implying—”

  “Kamzin.” Tem’s voice was strange. He lifted something out of the snow, where it had been partially submerged.

  Dargye’s bow.

  Silence fell. Tem didn’t seem able to tear his gaze from the weapon. Mara turned slowly on his heel, scanning the terrain with the gaze of a wary animal.

  Lusha broke the spell, marching to Tem’s side and seizing the bow. She kicked at the snow, unearthing a quiver of arrows where it lay a few feet away.

  “We’re going back,” she said. As she strode past, she dumped the bow and arrows in my arms.

  “I don’t know how—”

  “You’re the only one without a weapon,” she said without breaking stride. Mara fell into step behind her. Swallowing hard, I followed, slinging the quiver over my shoulder.

  Clouds thickened around the mountains as we walked, blotting out the sky entirely—at our elevation, the trailing edges swept over the ground, veiling our surroundings in white fleece. Snow swirled, tangling in our hair.

  Mara paused. He gazed around at the suddenly unreadable landscape. Even Lusha looked confused.

  “Camp’s this way,” I said, taking the lead.

  “Are you sure?” Lusha said. She sounded uncharacteristically hesitant.

  “Yes.” I didn’t have the energy to add a retort. Tem was already heading in the direction I had indicated, and Lusha shot him an irritated look. He gave me a small smile that I returned gratefully. After a moment, there came the satisfying crunch of Lusha’s and Mara’s boots behind us.

  One of the kinnika rang out—a sudden, sharp sound that raised the hair on my neck. It took me a moment to realize why. Only one bell sounded like that.

  The black one.

  It chimed again—it wasn’t whispering now. My mind flashed back to the time I had last heard it sound like that. My eyes met Tem’s, and I saw the same realization reflected there.

  “No,” I murmured.

  “What is it?” Lusha said. Even as she spoke, she was lifting an arrow to her bow. Her gaze flicked from my face to Tem’s.

  Neither of us answered. I felt again the storm in Winding Pass, the wind suffocating and sharp with snow. The figures who had loomed out of the mist, surrounding us—

  “How much time do we have?” I asked Tem.

  As if in response, the black bell rang out again, more insistently. Ching. Ching. Ching. The sound was dolorous, and cut through the moan of the wind, the muffling swirl of the snow.

  “I don’t know.” Tem’s voice was uneven. In that moment, he seemed more like the old Tem—unsure, self-conscious. His hand shook as he brushed the bells.

  I pulled an arrow from the quiver, but when I bent it to the bow, it felt ungainly. Father had taught me how to shoot, but the skill had never come naturally. “Can we make it back to camp?”

  “Won’t matter.” Tem stood up straighter, and seemed to pull something into himself. He unclasped one of the bells and handed it to me. “This will be more useful than that bow.”

  I stared at the talisman in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

  “You know the incantation.” He unclasped another bell. “Besides, weapons won’t be any use against them.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Lusha said. She tapped the obsidian point of her arrow.

  “It isn’t witches,” I said. The black bell was sounding constantly now, and I had to raise my voice to be heard. “They don’t travel in storms, Lusha; it’s—”

  In the distance there came a ghastly cry. It sounded like a bird, or rather, it sounded more like a bird than it did anything else. The sound seemed to float on the wind, eddying.

  Lusha whirled. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “With Mother.” I touched her arm. Lusha’s face was paler than I’d ever seen it. Her hand shook slightly on the bow. “The storm in the pass. We were attacked. You remember?”

  She nodded. She looked thirteen again, her age when we accompanied our mother’s expedition in search of a new route through the Arya Mountains. “We never saw them,” she murmured. “We never saw what attacked us.”

  “We’re about to.” I handed the bow and arrow to Mara. “Stay close to Tem. Whatever you do, don’t step beyond his shield.”

  No one spoke. We formed a ragged circle, each facing a different direction. Tem sounded the stout bronze bell that usually hung in the middle of the chain. As he did, I felt a warmth spread over us and radiate out.

  For a long while, there was nothing. Just the sweep, sweep of the wind, and our breath rising in clouds that were quickly funneled away.

  They appeared slowly.

  At first, as faint black shapes glimpsed through the snow, shapes that might not have been living at all, but the silhouettes of dead trees. A gust of wind tossed a veil of snow between us, and they were gone. When they appeared again, it was from another direction, closer than before.

  The fiangul came like pillars of dark fog. They did not walk—the wind swept them toward us, hovering over the snow. Their wings were open but motionless, like hawks riding the thermals. All-black eyes fixed upon us, in faces that were half vulture, half human—something grotesquely wrong, but impossible to look away from.

  “Spirits,” Lusha murmured. “The stories are true.” Mara’s eyes were as round as full moons.

  “Kamzin,” Tem said, his head still bent over the kinnika.

  “Sorry.” I loosened my grip on his arm. “Do you see them?”

  “I don’t need to. I can feel them.” He raised his head and shouted a single word in the shamanic language, sounding the bell rapidly before silencing it against his hand.

  A warm breeze played through my hair. I felt, rather than saw, Tem’s shield spread out to surround Lusha and Mara where they stood a few steps away. It shimmered, a gentle flickering that had, the last time we fought the fiangul, reminded me of fireflies, but now made me think of a wall of glass—not fragile, but heavy and thick. The fiangul, only yards from us now, began to shriek. My hands flew to my ears in a vain attempt to block out the sound, which was at once hateful and wretched, a desolation so complete it made my bones shudder. Lusha, with an incoherent shout, loosed an arrow at the closest creature. It passed through Tem’s shield, but missed its mark—the fiangul darted aside with a motion as light as a sparrow’s.

  “Don’t.” Tem’s voice was quiet but commanding. “It weakens the barrier.”

  Lusha shifted position, helplessly craning her head to watch the fiangul circle Tem’s shield. They didn’t attempt to throw themselves at it—they merely prowled its perimeter, black eyes searching for a way in. When their wing tips brushed against the shield, they chittered sharply and fell back as if it pained them.

  “They’re stronger,” Tem murmured. “I can feel it.”

  “Stronger? How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know—could be the binding spell. Maybe they had some connection to it, through the witches. They’re said to be allies.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. “Can you hold them off alone?”

  He met my eyes. The barest hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. “I think so—the spell’s easier than last time. I don’t understand it.”

  I fell silent. Whether it was easier or not, the strain on Tem’s face as he muttered the incantation was obvious. I exchanged a look with Lusha. She seized my hand.

  Time passed. It was difficult to gauge how much. We huddled close together, aching with cold as the snow billowed and the fiangul circled like the contorted specters of a fever dream. I began to feel trapped in a cage. How long would the storm last? Minutes? Hours? Tem’s face grew paler, though his voice never faltered as he chanted the spell. Somehow, impossibly, the spell held. Hope began to blossom inside me. The winds were dropping, and the snow no longer blew sideways.

  “Mara!” Lusha shouted. “What are you doing?”

  I whirled. Mara was outside Tem’s shield, moving with a strange, unsteady gait t
oward the nearest fiangul.

  “Mara, get back here!” I cried. What was wrong with him?

  “I can’t.” Mara’s voice was faint. “They— I can hear—”

  Ignoring Lusha’s shout, I surged forward. Tem’s spell, as I crossed it, brushed against my skin like insect wings—a soft, harmless thing that somehow held back the fiangul with the strength of iron.

  Mara was on his back now, sliding across the snow. I couldn’t make sense of it—then there came a gust of wind, and the snow parted, revealing the grotesquely thin, hunched figure that dragged him roughly by the hem of his chuba.

  “Mara, fight!” The chronicler was barely struggling, though his chuba, as the creature dragged him along, was so taut against his neck that he seemed to be choking. It didn’t make sense.

  In that moment, I was overwhelmed by a cacophony—not the fiangul’s birdlike cries, but voices. Rasping, contorted whispers that filled my ears and crowded out all thought.

  We will guide you safe, they said, a hundred voices repeating the same words, like the drone of bees. Safe. Guide you. You are safe.

  I stopped, wondering suddenly why I was worrying about Mara. The fiangul hovered calmly, their black eyes fixed on me. Did they truly mean to harm us? Or were they here to guide us through the storm?

  Safe now. Come, we guide you.

  “Kamzin, don’t listen to them!” Tem shouted. Somehow, he was maintaining the spell, even as he gripped Lusha by the arm. A dozen yards separated us—enough that the swirling snow blurred his outline. If I had gone any farther, I wouldn’t have been able to see him at all.

  His voice cut through the din of the fiangul’s murmurs, returning me to my senses. I reeled, and saw Mara react in the same moment—he gave a hoarse shout and struggled against the creature’s grip. The whispers surged again, but Mara’s steady stream of bellowed threats drowned them out. I dashed toward him. As I neared, I saw something spill from the folds of the creature’s torn chuba.

  Talismans. Worn around the fiangul’s neck, they winked in the faint light—some made of gold, others encrusted with gems. A sickening realization overwhelmed me.

  “Norbu!” I screamed. “Norbu, stop, please—”

  At the sound of my voice, the creature faltered. It turned briefly to gaze at me. It was Norbu, the abstracted Three Cities shaman who had traveled with River during his time as Royal Explorer, and been part of our expedition to Raksha. After attacking us at base camp, he had vanished with the other fiangul.

  Mara slammed his arm into Norbu’s, breaking his hold. I reached his side and helped him to his feet as he gasped and coughed, and together we staggered back to the protection of Tem’s shield. He expanded it to embrace us as two fiangul swooped down.

  “I could tell they were stronger.” Tem’s voice was grave. “But this is new.”

  The whispers rose again. It was as if they were pounding against my skull, seeking a way in. Tem grabbed me, shouting my name. Somehow, I had lurched forward again, almost to the edge of his shield.

  “Can’t you hear them?” I stared at him, dazed, as the whispers wormed through my thoughts. Guide you. Safe, safe.

  “I can hear,” Tem said. “But it doesn’t affect me. Perhaps the kinnika—”

  Mara shouted. It was Lusha who was in danger now—she had staggered just beyond the shield. Mara hauled her back as one of the fiangul reached its taloned hand toward her billowing hair.

  “Lusha!” I yelled. All my former anger was forgotten in an instant—I wrapped my arms around her, pinning her in place with all my strength. She continued to struggle, but I only tightened my grip, grateful for my stockier frame. I wasn’t going to let her go anywhere.

  “Azar-at,” I whispered. “Where are you?”

  I am here.

  I looked around. I thought I caught a flash of ember-colored eyes, somewhere just beyond Tem’s shield.

  “I need your help,” I said into the storm.

  Yes, Kamzin. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought its tone was almost dry.

  I swallowed. “Wait until I give the word.”

  “It’s weakening,” Tem said. Despite the cold, sweat stood out on his brow. “The spell—I can’t hold it.”

  “Drop the barrier, then,” Mara said. His hair was tangled with snow, and a bruise darkened the side of his face. He strung an arrow to Dargye’s bow and took aim at one of the fiangul. “Let’s fight—I’m sick of this cowering.”

  “We’d lose,” I snapped. “They’ll order us to lay down our weapons, and we’ll do it. Tem—what about that snow spell of River’s? It worked on them last time.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t—I don’t think I have the power to cast something like that.”

  But I do. I bit my lip and tasted blood. Tem needed me. His spell wouldn’t hold much longer. I remembered the torment I had experienced after healing Ragtooth—yet it wasn’t that which gave me pause. How much would it cost me to drive the fiangul away? Terror twisted my stomach into a knot. Yet the wind was still dropping—the storm was beginning to lift. Could Tem hold on?

  Suddenly, one of the fiangul dove toward Tem’s shield with a ghastly cry, wings folded. It struck the barrier and hovered there, writhing, while Tem shouted a new incantation. The air shuddered—and then the creature fell through the shield, sending up a spray of snow as it landed. Lusha buried an arrow in its chest before it could rise again. Crimson blood spilled onto the snow—a jarringly human color.

  Tem sounded the kinnika furiously. But the fiangul now seemed barely hindered by the spell—one flew toward us, its wings beating rapidly as if approaching through a fierce headwind. Another lunged at Lusha. Tem grasped a different bell, and a blast of wind knocked the fiangul on its back. Mara slashed his dagger across the creature’s throat, and the snow bloomed redder still.

  It had taken only seconds. Tem’s shield had fallen.

  Lusha grabbed my arm and shoved me between her and Mara. “Back-to-back!” she shouted.

  That’s not back-to-back. My mind seemed to be working in slow motion. The fiangul glided toward us like a dark tide. Norbu was among them, but there was no hesitation in him now—his eyes, black and staring, could have been fixed on any one of us, or none.

  “All right,” I whispered. “I’m ready.”

  You must picture the spell in your thoughts. Azar-at’s voice was as calm as always, even as Lusha loosed another arrow, and another. Give form to the magic.

  Give form to the magic. My mind went blank. Chirri had never taught me any defensive spells—which, in her caustic opinion, were too dangerous for someone of my abilities, more likely to kill me than my target.

  You must decide, Kamzin.

  Lusha screamed. One of the creatures had seized hold of her hair as it was tossed by the wind. Mara slashed at the fiangul with his blade, and the creature retreated, black strands tangled in its fingers.

  Tem rang another bell once, sharply, shouting a different incantation. It seemed to knock the fiangul back like a physical blow.

  An idea struck me.

  “Tem,” I said, “try River’s spell. The one he used on the fiangul in the pass.”

  He blinked, struggling to focus on me. “I told you, I—”

  “Just try,” I urged. “You can re-create it, can’t you?”

  “Kamzin—”

  “Please, Tem.” I gripped his shoulder, squeezing until he flinched. “Trust me.”

  He swayed, seeming on the edge of unconsciousness. Lusha’s bow twanged. A glimmer of recklessness dawned in his eyes. I could see what he was thinking—what did it matter? If we were about to die, why not die fighting with every ounce of strength we had?

  “All right,” he said.

  He ran his hand over the kinnika almost absently, his fingers hovering over two bells—one small and bright and intricately carved, the other larger, tarnished, and bent. He began to sound them in unison. He spoke the incantation quietly, which gave me a little start. Some spells were cast this way;
that wasn’t what surprised me. It was that Tem, who had never cast such a spell before, would sense its characteristics instinctively.

  “Azar-at,” I whispered, “get ready.”

  The winds shifted. I realized that Tem had chosen not the spell River had cast in the pass, but the second, more frightening spell. A funnel cloud formed above us, snatching at the fiangul’s feathers and spiraling the snow.

  The fiangul screamed. But just as it seemed the cloud was gathering momentum, it faltered and dissolved. Tem’s forehead beaded with sweat.

  “Now, Azar-at.” I stepped forward and pressed my hands into Tem’s chest. I pictured Azar-at’s magic flowing through my arms and into Tem—into the spell he was casting.

  Tem made a quiet sound of surprise. For a moment, I thought it wasn’t working—I couldn’t feel anything. Then my hands began to tingle, a sensation that radiated up my arms and into my chest.

  The wind rose again. The funnel roared to life, reaching down to the ground, where it caught at the snow and flung it into the air. Lusha ducked as an enormous sliver of compacted ice soared past. The fiangul were screaming again. The creatures nearest to the funnel tried to flee, spreading their wings and darting with uncanny speed toward the mountains.

  But another funnel was there, spilling to the earth like water. It wrapped the fiangul in its cloud of displaced snow, and drew them in. The first funnel whipped around us, barely stirring my hair, devouring the remaining creatures. It spun once around the second funnel, and then they collided with such force that the ground shook. The fiangul had gone silent. Slowly, the enormous cloud lifted off the ground, and then it was sinking back into the sky. The clouds, once dark and menacing, began to thin and break apart.

  It was over. But I had no time to feel relief. The agony overwhelmed me, and I fell forward with a cry. Tem caught me in time, gathering me in his arms.

  And then the pain was gone. It had been briefer than last time, but just as intense. I felt off balance, unsteady, as if I had drunk a barrel of raksi.