“We’ve had another one take ill,” Thorn said. “It doesn’t make sense. Esha was furious.”
“Yes, I’m sure she fell ill to spite him.” The illness that had afflicted several of their company had slowed their progress further. Oddly, it resembled the symptoms of obsidian poisoning, once a common weapon used against the witches by Empire soldiers.
“He was furious because he thinks someone’s working against us.”
“Who?” River gestured at the vast, empty landscape. “Esha’s only grown more paranoid over the years. More likely, they’ve been overusing their magic. I’ve seen shamans sicken from that.”
Thorn leaned back on his hands. He was watching River again. “What’s he like? The emperor.”
“Arrogant. Vain. Given to tormenting his brother with impossible tasks.”
Thorn actually laughed. “I meant Lozong.”
River pulled at another string. “They’re rather alike. Though Lozong’s chief preoccupation these days is his banquets and festivals. I doubt anyone would invite Esha to a banquet. He’d eat the guests.”
“We’re fortunate the empress is no longer alive,” Thorn said. “She was more attentive to the security of the Empire than Lozong, wasn’t she?”
“So they say.” River had never met Empress Iranna—she had died decades ago, having refused to allow her life to be lengthened unnaturally by magic, as the emperor’s had been. By all accounts, she had been a fearsome ruler, with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind, and more than a match for the emperor. It was clearly a quality that appealed to him, for he was said to have been wholly devoted to her. River found it hard to believe, as the only person he had seen inspire devotion in the emperor was himself. Yet it was true that he had never remarried.
“Esha wants to speak with you,” Thorn said, standing. “He’s in a foul mood.”
“Does he have other moods?”
Thorn laughed again and strode off. River found himself wondering idly how it would have been between him and Thorn had it not been for Esha. Sometimes they were almost capable of getting along.
River set the divining strings aside and scrubbed a hand through his hair. The problem wasn’t just the interruption. He had enough difficulty sitting still, let alone fiddling with bits of string.
He pictured Sky hunched over his hands by firelight, plucking at the threads as intricate patterns took shape. He made it seem so effortless—as a child, River had sometimes fallen asleep watching him. Sky would sit beside him, a bulky, comforting presence, explaining the patterns in his calm voice.
Thinking of Sky brought about that hollow feeling again. River shoved his thoughts away. Discarding unpleasant thoughts was easier than it had been before he’d met Azar-at—another reason to be grateful for the fire demon’s companionship.
The wind whispered over the hill, rustling the water of the nearest pool so that the stars seemed to melt together. River reached for the telescope—only to find it gone.
Claws scraped against stone. He turned.
Gazing back at him was Kamzin’s fox, the telescope clutched in its jaws.
For a moment, River could only stare. The fox stared back, green eyes narrowed with what River could have sworn was amusement. The creature scampered down the hill, moving with uncanny speed.
In a blink, River transformed into a black leopard and surged after the fox. But within a few yards, its trail disappeared. He pawed at the snow, perplexed.
Was the rat to blame for all the other things that had gone missing since they’d left the Nightwood? The maps, the compass?
River felt an uncharacteristic prickle of disquiet. For a moment, Kamzin’s presence was almost tangible. He half expected to find her standing behind him, chin tilted and arms crossed in that stubborn posture she so often assumed, her large eyes flashing like starlight. The visions of her had been disquieting, though he’d had none recently. Kamzin had no magic, and in a way, seeing the world through her eyes had felt like stumbling around with his hands tied behind his back. Yet he hadn’t felt weak. He had felt bold, and heedless, and full of a jangling energy.
If he ever figured out who had placed the spell on him, he would kill them.
He found Esha in the shadow of an enormous boulder from which a rare pine grew, jutting out of a crevice like a warning hand. He stood with his arms folded, gazing down at the girl who knelt before him. River thought her name was Ivy. She was thirteen at most, clad in a torn and overlarge chuba that had no doubt been stolen from one of the mountain villages, perhaps by her parents. She had the characteristic raggedness of most witches, her frame too thin and her bird’s-nest hair tangled with leaves.
She was shaking. River wondered how long she had been there, and what she had done to displease Esha. He had a contemplative look that always foreshadowed something unpleasant.
“Brother,” Esha said without turning, “what have you found?”
Ivy’s eyes swung to him. She wore a hopeless expression that only deepened River’s sense of foreboding.
“I’ve narrowed the search area to three mountains,” River said. “We should be able to locate the star within a day or two, if the skies stay clear.”
He had no idea if this was true. But given the mood Esha was in, River felt no inclination toward honesty.
“A day or two,” Esha repeated. “That was your estimate yesterday, I recall.”
“Oh, was it?” River abandoned any hope of quickly extricating himself from the conversation. Esha’s tone was calm and deliberate. It was a bad sign. It was how he had spoken before he had driven a boar’s tusk through River’s shoulder when he was five years old, after they had quarreled over a game. Sky had nearly killed Esha for that, and afterward, Esha had been careful not to injure River in ways that left obvious marks. River knew that Esha had enjoyed tormenting him in part because he was Sky’s favorite, and though Esha felt little warmth toward Sky, his resentful temperament made him view Sky’s allegiance to their youngest brother as a personal affront.
“It’s difficult to travel quickly, with so many ill,” River said. “Whatever it is, it’s almost as bad as obsidian poisoning—”
“It is obsidian poisoning,” Esha said. “A scout found traces of it at the edge of the last stream. Any ideas how it ended up there?”
River’s thoughts flashed to Kamzin’s fox. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?
His head was beginning to ache. “Why are you asking me?”
“Why am I asking you? Was that your customary response when you faced a challenge as Royal Explorer?”
“No one tried to poison me before I took up with you, Esha.”
Esha smiled. “Tell me about the sky city.”
River blinked. “What?”
“The city you found on Raksha. Tell me about it.”
“I already did.” He had recounted his last expedition to Esha and Thorn. Why was Esha bringing this up now? His labyrinthine mind was as much a mystery to River as it had been when they were children.
“A city of shadow, you said.” Esha rubbed absently at one red-rimmed eye. “Towers made of darkness that disappeared when the light touched them. But what did you feel when you were there? Did it feel alive?”
River didn’t want to think about the sky city. It had been a haunted place, tucked into the wind-scoured summit. He still found it difficult to believe that anyone had ever lived there—not because it was impossible, but because it was so unpleasant, the sky close and confining. He had felt little connection to those long-ago witches who had abandoned it. Yet he had felt something when he stood there. A watchfulness that seemed to seep from the ruins themselves.
“I suppose so,” he said. “Why?”
Esha didn’t reply. He merely stood there with his arms crossed, gazing thoughtfully at the girl who still crouched before him on her knees, shaking.
“One of our scouts found her halfway back to the Nightwood,” Esha said finally. “What would you do, River? I’ve heard stories about what the Ro
yal Explorer would do.”
River regarded Ivy, who seemed as frightened of him as she was of Esha. He had indeed encountered deserters in his service to the emperor. Some people were simply incapable of dealing with the hardships that accompanied his expeditions. Though River, as Royal Explorer, had acquired a reputation for executing deserters, the truth was that he generally let them flee. In the harsh wilderness, revenge was a luxury. But this girl wasn’t some shirking assistant—she was just a child. No doubt Esha had chosen her for the mission on the basis of her shape-shifting ability.
“I would let her go,” River said.
Esha considered him. River wished that he would rant and pace, unpleasant as that was. Esha’s calm was like the coiled tension of a viper—you knew that when he did lash out, it would be brutal and without warning.
“Apparently, she planned to rejoin her sister beyond the Nightwood,” Esha said, turning back to Ivy. “She wasn’t content to serve her emperor.”
With that, River understood. While most witches had rallied to Esha’s cause, eager to strike at the Empire, some had slipped quietly away once their powers were restored. They had left the Nightwood behind, journeying east or south to unknown lands. Not everyone was eager for revenge—nor did everyone wish to be ruled. Though their numbers had been small, their departure had inspired a fury in Esha that River had never seen before.
“Is that true?” Esha asked the girl, his voice almost gentle.
Ivy was biting her lip hard enough to cut it. Yet even in her terror, she gazed at Esha with something close to awe. It wasn’t the first time River had seen that look. Even standing there, motionless, there was something about Esha that drew the eye, something fiery, larger than life. Emperor Lozong had the same quality, an aura of predestination. Yet Esha hadn’t been destined to rule—Sky had.
“Yes, my lord,” Ivy whispered. “It’s true.”
Esha turned back to River. “I’ve been thinking of what you said the other day, about what you called my impatience to find the star. You recall our conversation?”
“Vaguely.” It had ended when Esha summoned a gust of wind that had flung River against a tree, hard enough to topple it.
“Your lack of respect is troubling. I am your emperor now, after all. The Crown is said to increase wisdom.”
“I wonder how that works,” River said, “if the bearer is starting from a deficit?”
He regretted it instantly. The corner of Esha’s mouth quirked in that expression that was not a smile. River braced himself for an onslaught of unpleasantness. He thought that if worse came to worse, he could become an owl and escape. Despite the powers bestowed on him by the Crown, Esha was oddly clumsy when it came to shape-shifting.
“Perhaps you need motivating,” Esha said. And he turned and struck Ivy across the face. It was not a slap, or a punch—it was something that snapped her head back, her neck bent at an odd angle. She fell onto her back and moved no more.
River was still. He felt as if his breath had turned to ice inside him.
“There,” Esha said, absently rubbing the side of his hand, which was bloodied, perhaps where it had caught on the girl’s teeth. “Does that inspire you? Don’t think that because you’re my brother I won’t deal with you harshly if you disappoint me.”
“She was a child.” River’s voice was quiet. He didn’t know why he said it. But it was the only thing that rose to his lips.
“And?” Esha’s blank look wasn’t feigned. He had known how River would react to this, though he didn’t understand the reason. “There will be more deaths like hers—you should get used to it. The Empire sees us as monsters, and we will give them every reason to do so—fear is, after all, our most potent weapon. When we step out of the shadows, we mustn’t disappoint expectations.”
River had no doubt that Esha was a monster. He wasn’t sure about himself. He stared at the girl sprawled across the snow, a single smudge of red upon her mouth.
Esha touched River’s face, his fingers cool and dry against his cheek. He seemed pleased with himself, and with River’s reaction. “Happy hunting, brother,” he said, and strode away.
Snow speckled Ivy’s body—it wouldn’t be long before it covered it. River shook himself. He changed shape as effortlessly as shedding a cloak, lifting off the hill as an owl with pale wings that dissolved against the landscape. Then he soared into the sky—neither knowing nor caring his direction, desiring only to be away.
Twelve
I ROSE QUIETLY the next morning and pulled on my boots. Lusha slept beside me, her breathing shallow. She had been late to bed again, having stayed up talking to Mingma by the fire, and I doubted I would wake her if I shouted. Tem, on my other side, was snoring.
The air was frigid, even in the tent. Not thinking much, I invoked the same spell I had used on my hands last night, creating a small cloud of warmth around my chilled feet. I gritted my teeth until the pain faded. I then wrestled one of the dragons out from the blankets—the creature kept trying to burrow down among the folds—and stumbled into the dark. Beyond the shadows of the boulders, the snowy landscape was silvered and still.
Ragtooth, sleeping on a blanket next to the embers of the fire, stirred at the sound of my boots. He made a querying sound, then rose with a stretch and followed me.
I took the bow, because I needed a reason to be up if Tem or Lusha woke. There was little game here, apart from the odd pika or snow quail, and neither made for much of a meal. But our rations were meager, and if I saw an opportunity, I would take it.
“Can’t sleep?” said a voice behind me.
I whirled. Mingma perched on a pitted boulder that had definitely been vacant a moment ago, his eye pressed against a telescope. My heart thudded. “You startled me.”
“Sorry,” the ghost said, lowering the telescope. “I believe I saw a burrow by the spring to the south. Would you like some company?”
“No,” I said a little too quickly. “That’s all right, I’m— I won’t go far.”
He sat with one leg crossed over the other, entirely at ease. His immaculate tahrskin chuba was open, one side rippling in the breeze. “I’d avoid the hills. Rockslides are inconvenient things to encounter alone,” he said in his dry way.
I nodded. Mingma looked down at the map in his lap—it was one he had drawn fifty years ago, when he was still alive. A little uncanny shiver went down my spine.
“He’s back, I see,” the ghost said, motioning to Ragtooth. “He disappeared for hours today.”
“He does that.”
“If it were my expedition, I wouldn’t travel with a creature like that,” Mingma said. He adjusted the telescope thoughtfully. “Traveling with those who have their own agendas introduces complications.”
I glanced down at Ragtooth. The fox’s familiar eyes glittered in the darkness. His fur was matted and unkempt, and he needed a bath worse than I did. I couldn’t imagine what sort of agenda Mingma thought he had, but I knew some people didn’t trust familiars.
“I doubt that,” I said. “In any case, it isn’t your expedition.”
A sharpness must have entered my voice at that, for Mingma glanced at me. “No,” he agreed, his tone mild. I turned to go.
“Kamzin?”
I paused. In the starlight, Mingma’s hair was the gray of cobwebs.
“Keep an eye out for witches,” he said.
“Oh.” I gave a slight shrug. “The kinnika haven’t made a sound all day.”
“You should stay on your guard,” Mingma said. “When they come upon you, it will be without warning—don’t ever forget that. Take it from someone who’s traveled with them.”
That stopped me in my tracks. “You traveled with them?”
He lifted the telescope, pointing it toward the mountains. “Happy hunting, Kamzin.”
He gave no hint he was aware of the curiosity his casual statement had roused—yet I had the strong suspicion that it was an act, and that, judging by the tightness of his lips, as if he were sup
pressing a smile, he was fully aware that I was standing there with my mouth open.
Well, I wasn’t going to take whatever bait he was offering me. I wondered briefly what Mingma thought he knew about me, from our brief encounter on Raksha. I headed toward the spring, Ragtooth trailing behind. Once I reached it, I walked along its bank until I was out of sight of the tent. I settled on the ground, crossing my legs.
The spring was like others we had passed—the water was hot, almost scalding, and misted in the chill air. The moisture settled on my cheeks, warming them. The mist undulated over the water like wisps of cloud.
Ragtooth huffed at the water, clearly unimpressed. I let the dragon loose, and it skimmed over the pool, delighting in the feeling of warm mist against its scales. Its light ghosted off the surface.
I drew a deep breath. “Azar-at?” I said quietly.
Yes, Kamzin.
The fire demon stepped forward, as if it had been behind me all along. The creature’s eyes glowed in the darkness, while its smokelike form was a smudge, barely visible.
Ragtooth didn’t start at Azar-at’s presence, as I had—he seemed, for the most part, to ignore the creature, as if Azar-at was beneath his notice. Of course, Ragtooth responded that way to almost everyone.
“I’ve seen River’s thoughts twice now,” I said. “I want to see them again. Can you tell me how?”
The fire demon’s tail swished over the snow. It seemed to consider.
It is a strange connection, Azar-at said. Unexpected. I have never seen it before.
“I’m sure you would have warned me if you had,” I muttered.
There is no “how,” Kamzin. It will happen again, if you wait.
“That isn’t good enough,” I said. “I can’t afford to wait—I need to know where he is. What he’s planning. I need to be a step ahead of him when we reach the Ashes.”
The fire demon gazed at me. I do not control these visions. They are a result, not a deed.
I was becoming impatient. “But surely you know how they work. How I can—I don’t know, turn them on and off?”
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