All the Wandering Light

by Heather Fawcett

  A thought occurred, and I laughed, surprising myself. “What?” Mingma said.

  “I never thought I’d be sitting here with you, having this conversation.”

  He smiled. The wind tossed a lock of hair onto his forehead, and he brushed it back. “Nor did I. When I set out for Raksha, I expected to be back within a month or two, with a few stories to tell. Now I’m heading for the Ash Mountains with some strange girl years after I should have died in my bed, my head full of gray hairs.”

  I glared at him, but the corner of my mouth twitched. “I’m not strange.”

  “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

  I laughed again. I felt oddly refreshed, even after a night of little sleep. It was odd—Mingma had tried to kill me. But the Mingma I had met in the caverns of Raksha seemed an entirely different person—somehow, I knew this was the same Mingma he had been in life, not the bitter creature he had become.

  My eyes drifted. Mingma was right about one thing: I had chosen the path I was on. Everything that I had done had been my choice. Just because I had chosen badly once, given my trust to someone who didn’t deserve it, didn’t mean it always had to be so.

  “Why do you want to be an explorer?” Mingma said.

  I frowned. It was like asking why the sky was blue.

  Mingma smiled at my expression. “I felt the same way once. I grew up in a small village, and I wanted adventure. But there’s more to being an explorer than adventure.”

  “Like what?”

  “One day, your story will be written in the stars,” he said. “It’s up to you to choose what they’ll say. You have the power to reshape the world—for better or for worse.”

  I was quiet. I remembered my mother, hugging me the night before she left on an expedition. She had pointed to the stars winking in the sky and told me that her story was already being written there, and that one day we could look up and read it together. I had been fascinated. I knew that the lives of famous heroes and leaders were written in the stars, and I had felt proud that one day, my mother would join them.

  The best explorers make the night a little brighter, she had said. Not just because they do great things, but because they do good things.

  I watched the bright tapestry wheel slowly across the sky. My mother had died before she had a chance to make her mark on the world. Now here I was, following in her footsteps. But would the world be brighter because of what I had done, or darker?

  “You said before that you had traveled with them,” I said, my voice quiet. “Witches.”

  “Once.” Mingma’s gaze grew distant. “She offered to guide me through Winding Pass—on a whim, I think. Though I had just saved her life.”

  I waited for him to continue, but he only smiled at me. “That’s a long story. Perhaps for another time. But I had dealings with them before that. I mapped the southern half of the Nightwood, after all.”

  “Dealings,” I repeated. “In the stories we’re told in Azmiri, the only ‘dealings’ you can have with a witch don’t end pleasantly.”

  “And who are the storytellers? People who spend their entire lives in one place, never daring to see what lies beyond their borders. You should know better, by now, than to trust such stories.”

  “Then what are you saying?” I felt my anger rise. “That the witches are innocent? They once tried to burn my village to the ground.”

  “What I’m saying is that I’ve had dealings with them,” he said calmly, as if failing to notice my anger. “Some helped me. Most tried to kill me. Make of that what you will.”

  I bit my lip. “So what’s your opinion? The stories say they’re evil, every one.”

  “Well, I don’t find evil to be a very useful word. It’s true they don’t have much of a conscience, on the whole. They think nothing of lying or cheating—or killing—to get what they want. Some are worse than others, in that respect. Those that have spent time among humans often seem to possess a rudimentary understanding of right and wrong, though it’s not what you could properly call a conscience, being more learned than instinctive. But they can also be exceedingly loyal to those they care about. And fairness is important to them.”

  “Fairness?” I said, surprised.

  “Their definition of fairness tends to vary,” he added. “But if you do them a good turn, they’ll return the favor.” His gaze grew distant again. “The opposite is also true.”

  I hadn’t known anyone to speak this way about witches—they were unfeeling and without mercy, in the stories. Darkness in human form. Something inside me shifted ever so slightly as I considered Mingma’s words. “Can they feel love?”

  Mingma was silent. When I glanced up, he was giving me a sympathetic look I wanted no part of.

  “I think so,” he said. “In their way.”

  My thoughts were a tangle. I needed to move, to leave the heat of the fire, which now felt suffocating. And I was suddenly very aware of the darkness, and the thought of the witches prowling the mountains, drawing ever nearer to the star. I stood. “I’m going to look around—we don’t have any time to waste. Can you keep watch here?”

  Mingma nodded. He leaned back, looking for all the world as if he were relaxing on a shaded bench in the emperor’s gardens, not sheltered on a precarious slope high in the sky.

  I moved cautiously over the uneven ground, glancing up at the sky to orient myself. Few constellations were familiar here, though I found one, the ancient hero Khana-rok, her bow drawn to slay the ice demon. I followed the direction of the bow, which always pointed west.

  I didn’t know what to make of what Mingma had told me. I had thought—foolishly, it turned out—that River had been the only witch to have any contact with the Empire. Were there other explorers besides Mingma who had dealt with them? Who had been shown something other than cruelty? I thought of the way Mingma’s gaze had clouded as he spoke of the witch who had guided him. Something in his face, a trace of longing, had stopped me from questioning him about her.

  I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, the flicker of glowing eyes, but when I turned, there was nothing there. I wondered, not for the first time, if Azar-at would be able to locate the star. I suspected so—the creature’s powers weren’t constrained by any limits that I could see.

  Azar-at hadn’t shown itself since our encounter by the lake. At first I had appreciated this, but now I found myself wishing I knew precisely where the creature was. The notion that I might turn my head at any moment and find its ember eyes fixed on me produced a faint but constant dread.

  My thoughts drifted. Now that we had reached the Ashes, the temptation to use Azar-at’s magic had been strong. I knew that it could lead me to the star—but I also knew that it would be big magic, bigger than warming my hands or repairing a tear in my chuba.

  And yet.

  I had only to put my will behind the thought, and Azar-at could lift the star from whatever valley or snowbank concealed it, and place it in my hand. I could tell the others I had stumbled upon it. Why wouldn’t they believe me?

  But would Azar-at even give me what I wanted? I thought of the jarring visions of River’s memories. But if I phrased it clearly enough, and left no room for interpretation—

  Snow crunched behind me. Tem staggered into view, clutching his ax in one hand and a sleepy-looking dragon in the other.

  “Tem, what are you doing?” I grabbed his arm as soon as he was in reach—the ground wasn’t stable.

  “Pairs, remember?” He frowned. “You’re not going off on your own, are you?”

  “I thought I’d have a look beyond that ridge.”

  “I’ll come along,” Tem said. He lifted the kinnika by way of explanation.

  I refrained from pointing out that Tem was likelier to need magic to save himself than me. By coming along, he was giving me an additional variable to worry about. The thought surprised me, and brought about a twinge of guilt. I nodded, and we set off.

  “Are you sure you should be using those
so often?” I said, gesturing to the kinnika. “Remember what happened last time. You wore yourself out.”

  “I’m fine,” Tem said.

  I gave him an assessing look. His face was pale, but he was clearly in better shape than he had been on Raksha—and he had used his magic more often, on the journey to the Ashes. “The magic doesn’t seem to tire you the way it used to.”

  “No.”

  “What do you think that means?”

  Tem gave a weary shrug. I could tell from his expression that it was a question he had asked himself, likely more than once.

  Once we made it to the ridge, the wind dropped. I tapped my ax against the ice, considering. The ridge was almost sheer, but I knew I could climb it easily, and hopefully find a vantage point. I examined the jagged silhouette of the mountain. If Lusha’s calculations were off even slightly, we could be a great distance from the star.

  “Don’t move while I’m gone,” I warned. The snow beneath our feet was solid ice.

  Tem nodded. I readied my ax and began to climb. As I went higher, the wind quieted to a whisper. I glanced down at Tem, who had his head bent, murmuring to the kinnika.

  It didn’t take me long to reach the top—without Tem to worry about, I moved as easily as a shadow. Treading carefully, I moved to the lip of the ridge, hoping against hope that I would see a sign—any sign—of the star.

  My heart sank.

  The moon peeked out from behind one of the neighboring mountains, providing enough light for my starved eyes to see clearly. The mountain descended steeply beyond where I stood in a series of cliffs and buttresses, all the way to the basin of the glacier far below. Another mountain reared up to the north, separated by a narrow col, but it was in silhouette, dark and unknowable. What I could see was empty. A vast series of snowy slopes, unmarked and unblemished.

  I took out the unusual pocket-sized telescope I had rescued yesterday from Ragtooth’s jaws. It was expensive-looking, and emblazoned with the emperor’s symbol—I could only assume that the fox had stolen it from Mara’s pack, as I had never seen it before. I held it to my eye, sweeping the landscape.

  A cry pierced the night.

  Instantly, I was running—back the way I’d come, abandoning caution. My heart stopped as I saw that the narrow ledge where I’d left Tem was empty. Then I spotted the tip of an ice ax wedged into the snow. Tem had slipped, but somehow managed to swing the ax into the ledge.

  I didn’t think. I just leaped.

  The drop was at least thirty feet, but I managed to slide half the way in a breathless glissade and end the descent in a crouch, not a sprawl.

  “Tem!” I cried. Below me, he looked up, his face the color of the snow. With one hand, he clutched at his ax; with the other, he fumbled desperately at the kinnika.

  “Kamzin—” His hand slipped, and he was falling.

  I did the only thing that made sense. I dove forward, driving my ax with all my strength through the fabric of Tem’s chuba, anchoring him to the mountainside. Unfortunately, I also drove it through a piece of his arm.

  Tem shouted. He reached for the blade, trying instinctively to lift his weight off it. I had his ax in my hand now, and managed to anchor myself to the ice while I pulled him back onto the ledge. We collapsed against the mountain, breathing hard.

  “Sorry,” I murmured, examining his wound. Fortunately, it was only a deep scratch.

  “It’s all right.” He pressed his hand to his arm, wincing. Awe flickered in his eyes. “You’re fast, Kamzin. I didn’t even get through half an incantation in the time it took you to reach me.”

  “Magic’s too slow for some things. Maybe that’s why I never had any patience with it.”

  He let out the ghost of a laugh, his eyes drifting shut. We leaned against each other. One of the kinnika whispered in the wind, and Tem absently stilled it with his hand. I frowned at the talismans. I hadn’t been joking—magic often was too slow, in a place like this, where the line between life and death was as thin as a hair. I remembered how River had nearly fallen from the ice wall on Raksha—River, who had more power than any of us. But incantations and spells were useless when death came for you faster than you could think. Only instinct could save you then.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Tem said.

  “Here?” It took me a moment to realize that he didn’t just mean the mountain. “Why?”

  He drew a breath that caught, making him cough, and gave me a weary smile. “Have you ever seen someone more poorly suited to an expedition like this?”

  I felt another stab of guilt—Tem was echoing my earlier thoughts. “That’s ridiculous,” I said in a cajoling voice. As if I could cajole him as I had when we were little and I wanted him to join in one of my ill-planned adventures—hunting for spotted pheasants in Bengarek Forest, or a race to the highest ridge of Mount Biru. “Tem. Our firewood would be gone by now if it weren’t for you. Lusha would never have found the map she misplaced at our last camp, and Mara would have lost his ear to frostbite.”

  “Everything you just described could be accomplished by a halfway competent shaman,” Tem said.

  “If you’re going to pretend you’re only a halfway competent shaman, I don’t know what to say to you,” I snapped.

  Tem was quiet. He leaned his head back against the ice.

  “Would you rather be back in Azmiri?” I said. “Helping your father with the herds?”

  Though spoken without rancor, the words themselves held a sharpness that I hadn’t intended. Tem flinched. I thought of what he had said about the Three Cities, and the Trials, and felt a wave of guilt.

  “No,” he said. There was a weariness in his voice that matched his expression.

  “You’ve forgotten the fiangul,” I added quickly, recognizing that I had gone wrong. “You saved our lives twice. Could a halfway competent shaman have done that?”

  “Maybe not.” He gave me another smile, but it felt false, as if he was agreeing for the sake of ending the argument.

  “I need you,” I said, my voice quiet. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “Do you? Sometimes I get the impression that you don’t need anyone.”

  His tone wasn’t angry, but it held an odd mixture of admiration and sadness that was somehow worse.

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “You only think that because . . .” My voice trailed off. Because why? Because Tem didn’t understand me? Tem had always understood me. And yet it felt true. A distance had been growing between me and Tem since Raksha—perhaps even since we left Azmiri—and I didn’t know how to close it. Sometimes it felt as if Tem was receding beyond a horizon like daylight, even when he sat beside me, warm and close.

  Tem was watching me. We were close, our heads together. For a moment, he seemed about to lean toward me—but then he drew away, flushing.

  “We don’t have to talk about this now.” He seemed to force a smile. “What did you see?”

  I shook my head. Tem didn’t need to ask what I meant—my expression said it clearly enough. Nothing.

  Something nagged at me. “Where’s the dragon?”

  Tem gave a start. “She was asleep on my shoulder when I fell.”

  In unison, we scrambled to the edge. Far below and to the west, a light gleamed against the slope of the mountain.

  No. Not one light—two.

  I squinted. One of the lights was pale blue and seemed to be hovering in midair, fluttering back and forth. The other was a tiny gleam. I would have mistaken it for the moon glinting off the snow, but the quality of this light was different. It had an almost yellowish tone that put me in mind of an animal’s eyes glowing in the dark. It seemed to rest on a narrow terrace of ice.

  “Do you see that?” I said.

  “I think so.” He stopped. “Wait—could that—”

  We stared at each other.

  My heart pounded frantically against my ribs. The light pulsed slightly, so faint that it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to see if
the brighter light of the dragon hadn’t drawn my attention to that precise spot. I watched it for a moment, then turned my attention to the surrounding terrain, mapping every rock and feature in my mind in order to commit them to memory. It was a trick I knew well—if bad weather struck, and I had to navigate my way back through limited visibility, I wouldn’t get lost.

  I whistled. The dragon, who had been fluttering around the light as if fascinated, began to move toward us.

  “We have to tell Lusha,” I said, standing so quickly I almost pitched over the side. “We can’t reach it from here. We’ll have to rappel down the ridge, then climb back up—”

  Tem’s grip on my arm pulled me back down. “Are you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  “Well, if that’s the star . . .” Tem swallowed. “Then where’s River? I thought he might have found it already.”

  A chill ran through me. I pictured River leaping from the precipice—how far away had he been? The Ashes stretched over many miles.

  I thought back. River had told me once that he had no use for astronomy—that meant that, unlike us, he wouldn’t know where to look, even if he was capable of traveling more quickly.

  “Lusha led us right to it,” I said. I felt triumph stir. River would come to this place and find it empty. All his searching would be for nothing. We would take the star to the Three Cities, and there the emperor’s shamans would bind his powers once again.

  The dragon reached us. I stuffed her into the hood of Tem’s chuba, smothering the light. Suddenly it was much too bright.

  “From now on, we keep the dragons covered,” I said. “We get the star, and we leave. I don’t want River to even know we were here.”

  Fifteen

  Mara

  HE CLAMBERED OFF his sweating horse, wincing as his muscles protested. He hated horses. But when the Elder of Jangsa had offered him one of their few surviving beasts, it had been impossible to refuse. The animal had been of little use to him east of the Aryas, but once he made it through Winding Pass, the terrain opened up, glacial boulders and frost-painted pebbles giving way to grassy meadows. He had traveled straight through Bengarek Forest, finding the old trail created decades ago by the emperor, which was now little maintained but still preferable to scrabbling around in the underbrush. He had ridden hard, pushing his horse to the breaking point. He had no time to waste.