“I don’t want to be like them,” he said.
“You’re not.” My voice was fierce. “You’re nothing like them. Just because you share their magic—that doesn’t mean anything.”
“The magic—” Tem faltered. “I don’t know how I did that.”
“Your powers must have been bound by the emperor’s spell, just like River’s were. At least partly.”
Tem swallowed. “What I did felt—wrong. Is that how Azar-at’s magic feels? Wrong?”
“It’s not the same,” I said. “Your magic isn’t wrong. It’s part of you, and I refuse to believe that any part of you is wrong.”
His expression lightened a shade. “Including my two left feet?”
“Besides that.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant.
“I’ve always wondered who my mother was,” he said. “Was she one of the witches who attacked those soldiers in the Amarin Valley last year? Or set Jangsa on fire? All those people . . .”
There was nothing I could say to that. I just kept my arm around him until he drew a long breath.
“All right,” he said. “I can keep going. But where are we going?”
“The Three Cities,” Lusha said without hesitating. “Kamzin’s original plan is the best we have. We take the star to the emperor. We tell him everything we know about River, about their plans, everything. Hopefully his shamans can use the star to recast the binding spell before the witches attack the Three Cities.”
“But how will we get an audience with him?” Tem said. “I doubt his guards will be eager to listen to us.” It was an understatement. In our torn and dirty clothing, our haggard appearance, we could pass for beggars. My face was chapped and sunburned and frostbitten. My tangles had tangles. We had no fresh clothes, no money. The emperor’s guards wouldn’t let us near the palace.
“I’ll figure something out,” Lusha said. Biter croaked, as if in agreement. Several ravens had settled in the trees around us, perhaps having tired of pecking and clawing at the soldiers. A shiver crawled down my back as I felt their eyes on me.
“Lusha,” I said, “where did you learn that trick with the ravens?”
She blinked at me. “I didn’t. It was Biter.”
“Biter.” The raven croaked again at the sound of his name. He hopped onto Lusha’s shoulder and plucked a twig from her hair. The intelligence in his gaze was eerie—was this the first time I had noticed it? Biter was Lusha’s lifelong familiar, as Ragtooth was mine, his presence as mundane and unquestioned as an old footpath. But what did we really know about familiars and their powers? Very little—Biter had shown that tonight. The myriad dangers we had faced since leaving Azmiri had brought to light more than just Tem’s abilities.
Distant shouts reached my ears. The soldiers had found our trail. Lusha made an impatient gesture, and we ran on.
Twenty-Three
WE ENTERED THE Three Cities under cover of darkness.
The roads climbed and descended, twisted and turned over the hilly ground, nearly causing me to lose my normally unfailing sense of direction. There was only the glow of a passing traveler’s lantern—or dragon, if they could afford one—to illuminate our way, that and the patches of light spilling from mansions and well-kept shops.
We were exhausted. In the two days since we had escaped the Fifth Army, we had barely rested, stopping only occasionally to snatch our sleep in shifts. On the second day, Tem, who looked like a wisp of his former self, had begun to stumble—eventually I had taken his arm in mine and steered him through the forest while he leaned his weight on me.
As Lusha was the only one of us who had visited the Three Cities, she led the way through the winding, hilly streets. I was only too happy to let her—I felt more intimidated by the city than I ever had by the height of a mountain, or the darkest depths of a forest. Every dwelling loomed large, swollen with impossible luxury.
The Three Cities were no longer three—they had, at one time, been separate, gleaming entities, with their tiered temples and palaces of whitewashed stone, nestled among the low hills that surrounded Dawa Lake. Over the centuries, though, the cities had overflowed, with buildings established outside their walls, lining new roads cut into the fertile soil of the hills. As the Empire’s prosperity grew, even the wealthiest nobles built their palaces here, as the old walls no longer seemed like a necessary protection against anything. What did the Three Cities have to fear? The witches had been defeated, and the emperor’s mighty armies were more than a match for any barbarian tribe. The walls remained, but sections were torn down to make way for new thoroughfares. Though they were still manned by soldiers, the gates were now little more than decorative relics. The Empire’s strength was no longer expressed by its walls, but by its armies and shamans.
As we drew deeper into the city’s heart, more guards appeared, posted at corners and in squares. We slowed when we approached them, but they stared at us anyway. It was the middle of the night, and there weren’t enough people around to make our presence inconspicuous. Surely that was all it was. I met the gaze of a burly guard, who narrowed his eyes at the three of us.
When we rounded a corner, and the palace came into view, I wasn’t ready for it.
The emperor’s seat was perched on the tallest hill in the Three Cities, nestled against the peak with the earth pressing into its back. It was whiter than bone, its star-silvered windows and splashes of green or blue dragonlight the only contrasts to the purity of the façade. A series of staircases zigzagged their way up the hill on three sides, also made of whitewashed stone, and patrolled by guards visible only by the dragons that strolled at their sides. Yet they seemed tiny—insect-like specks against the enormity of the gleaming palace complex.
River would have climbed those stairs countless times. I swallowed. I had been trying not to think of River. I shouldn’t be haunted by the memory of him hunched over the snow, given all that he had done. But the grief wouldn’t lift. I would never have the chance to reconcile the River I had glimpsed in my visions—the boy desperate for his brother’s approval, the teenager willing to sacrifice his soul to lift the curse on his family—with the witch who had left me on Raksha’s summit.
“How are we going to get inside?” Tem said.
Lusha was frowning. “We should find somewhere to stay for the night. In the morning, we’ll send word to Amvar, one of the emperor’s seers. He should be able to get us an audience with the emperor. I met him during my visit with Father—I think he’ll remember me.”
“You think?” I repeated. “Lusha, we have to take the star to the emperor now. He has to recast the binding spell—”
“We can’t just stroll into the palace.” Lusha glowered at me. “The guards won’t let us near the emperor. To them, we’re no one. Do you have a better plan?”
I didn’t. Lusha turned right at the next square. We paused outside an inn lit by so many lanterns it illuminated the entire street. I thought yearningly of the baths and hearty meals within those walls that awaited travelers with sufficient coin.
“So many guards,” Lusha muttered. “There weren’t nearly this many when I came here with Father.”
This struck me as ominous. “With all the attacks on the villages, the emperor must have put the city on alert.”
And indeed, when I thought about it, the city did seem on edge. The few residents we passed eyed us furtively, as if suspicious of our presence but not wanting us to know it. Many of the shops boasted gates wrought of iron that gleamed with newness.
Tem touched my arm. “Kamzin.”
I turned. Two men were coming toward us. I recognized one as the burly guard I had briefly locked eyes with. That had been blocks ago. His companion had his sword unsheathed.
I felt a chill. What was going on? We had done nothing but walk through the city.
“This way,” Lusha said, motioning us down a narrow lane. Once we were out of sight of the guards, we broke into a run.
“I don’t und
erstand,” Tem said. “They followed us—why?”
Lusha shook her head once, sharply. The guards had rounded the corner behind us—and now they were running too.
Lusha turned down another street. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep going on so little food and sleep. But she led us to the first doors that presented themselves, framed with a golden awning. The enormous handles were hung with long, beaded tassels.
“Lusha, this is—”
“Open them,” she said to Tem.
Tem was so exhausted it seemed to take his eyes a moment to focus. He lifted one of the kinnika, pressing his hand against the wood.
The door cracked in half.
“Tem!” I cried.
“I don’t know how to unlock doors, Kamzin,” he said wearily.
“Never mind that.” Lusha pressed against one half of the broken door until it opened wide enough to squeeze through. She shoved the two of us through, then followed quickly after, pressing the door shut.
Inside, it was dark and perfectly silent. The smell of juniper incense was overwhelming—I had to suppress a sneeze. Thick wooden pillars supported a shadowy ceiling painted in vivid, geometric patterns. At the far end of the long room was a shrine, empty now, on which could be placed statues of different spirits. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting ancient heroes and emperors, who could also be prayed to by visitors kneeling on the stone floor. The only illumination came from a few candles burning on low tables along the walls.
We had just broken into a temple.
“Now what?” My voice echoed through the large, empty space. “Not only do we have no way into the palace, but the emperor’s guards seem to think we’re criminals.”
Lusha’s hand went to her pack, where the star nestled inside a spare tunic. “We’ll make for Amvar’s house.”
Tem coughed. Lusha put her finger to her lips, but he didn’t seem able to stop—the incense was too much for him. Lusha beckoned, and we hurried after her. I shivered as we passed beneath a lurid tapestry depicting a hero with a hideous scowl—her eyes seemed to follow us, as if her spirit inhabited the woven threads.
We came to a small room with tables laden with food offerings—a pitcher of souring milk; khir; spiced lamb; a bowl of soft cheese. I knew that in large temples like this, food was often left out for the spirits at all times—though from the smell, these offerings hadn’t been freshened lately. A small door led off the room.
Lusha hurried forward, her hand going to the handle, when suddenly it opened, swinging inward. She started back, knocking me against the table of offerings. The milk overturned, spattering all three of us, and my elbow landed in a bowl of rice.
The young man who had entered seemed equally startled, staring at us with round eyes. He was clad in the black robes of a temple attendant. We stared at each other for a heartbeat, and then the man’s eyes narrowed. He turned his head as if to call to someone.
“Go,” Lusha said. Tem and I were already moving—back through the temple, past the enraged hero. We reached the doors, and I thoughtlessly wrenched the handle on the broken side.
“Watch out!” Lusha shouted as the heavy block of wood fell backward with a creak. Tem yanked me out of the way, and the door slammed into the stone floor, the sound reverberating.
I groaned. Any spirits that may have been slumbering in the temple—along with any living neighbors—were not likely to be asleep anymore.
We darted back onto the street. Fortunately, there was no sign of the guards.
“Do you actually know where you’re going?” I asked Lusha.
As if in response, she stopped short. She had seen something around the corner of the next street.
“Guards,” she said, stepping back. “Headed this way. They must be sweeping the neighborhood.”
There was no time to run. Lusha motioned to a wall over which the boughs of fragrant fruit trees leaned—a garden. Tem gave Lusha a boost while I easily hauled myself up. Then the two of us helped Tem scale the wall—he was so exhausted his feet kept slipping. The three of us landed atop a prickly bush just as the sound of pounding feet reached us. The guards continued past the garden at a rapid pace. We lay unmoving until the sound faded.
“Where are we?” Tem said.
“The merchants’ quarter,” Lusha replied. She glanced around us. “In someone’s goji patch, by the looks of it.”
I extricated myself from the vines, cursing as they caught at my chuba. The reddish stains from the crushed berries did not exactly enhance my bedraggled appearance—nor did the sweet rice tangled in my hair. Dragonlight flickered through one of the shuttered windows of the house looming over the garden, and I fell silent.
“We can’t stay here,” Tem said.
“We’re safer here than on the streets.” Lusha rubbed her brow. “I don’t understand how he sent word so quickly.”
It took me a moment to grasp what she meant. Dread settled in my chest.
“Elin,” I murmured.
Lusha nodded. “Three witches escaping the Fifth Army is not exactly a common occurrence. He must have sent a messenger to the Three Cities with our description, and a warning that we were at large.”
We froze as another set of footfalls stampeded along the lane. But they too continued past the garden without pause.
“What are we going to do?” I whispered.
Lusha made no reply. For the first time I could remember, she seemed defeated. She slumped against the wall, her chuba slipping off one shoulder.
I felt that now-familiar tug—the urge to use Azar-at’s magic. But where before I had seen it as a harmless thing, now it frightened me. The fire demon would be near, crouched somewhere out of sight. Naturally, the harder I pushed away my thoughts of magic, the more they filled my mind.
I thought of the girl with my face, staring at me from the darkness. I shuddered. If those hallucinations were connected to Azar-at—the beginnings of the madness that afflicted all shamans who used a fire demon’s power—they would only worsen if I cast another spell.
An hour crept by. Tem’s head slumped forward, and he barely murmured when I shook him. In the end, I let him sleep. Biter alighted briefly in the fragrant pear tree, then flew off, disappearing into the night on quiet wings. I felt a twinge of envy.
I started awake at the feeling of someone tugging at my hair. At some point, I had nodded off, my head falling onto Lusha’s shoulder. She was removing leaves from my hair with gentle fingers.
“This is familiar,” she said. “How many times did Father scold you for coming home with leaves and pinecones tangled in your hair?”
“Not since I was twelve,” I replied in a dignified voice. But I let her pluck the foliage, feeling surprisingly soothed.
“‘You can’t just wander in to dinner looking like some forest beast,’” Lusha said, mimicking Father’s tone precisely.
I laughed. She tugged at another tangle, her expression growing thoughtful. “We should split up. They’re looking for three travelers—we’re too easy to pick out.”
This struck me as a bad—even ominous—idea. “The guards have seen us. Splitting up won’t change that. We should stick together and make for the seer’s house as quickly as possible.”
Lusha was already shaking her head. “His house is in the next quarter—there are too many guards between here and there.”
Her tone carried a familiar note of finality that never failed to annoy me. I opened my mouth to argue, and then, slowly, closed it. I felt almost disappointed—after everything Lusha and I had been through, we were still arguing?
I let out my breath. Lusha would never stop infuriating me—expecting otherwise was unrealistic. We were flint and steel—we would always spark when we were together. It didn’t mean anything. I would still lay down my life for her, or follow her to the edge of the world, even if we spent the entire journey arguing.
“All right,” I said. “You go with Tem, and I’ll follow.”
Lusha blinked.
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and I returned her gaze blandly. I felt lofty and high-minded for letting go of the argument, though there was a part of me that also enjoyed Lusha’s confusion.
“Right,” she said, regaining her authoritative composure, “we’ll wait to see if they come this way again. Then we run.”
I nodded. “I’ll go first.”
“You’re not going by yourself.” It was Tem—I hadn’t realized he was awake. “If anything, it should be you and Lusha. I have the kinnika—I can protect myself.”
Tem, to my eyes, didn’t seem to be in a state to protect anyone. The bruise from the blow the soldiers had dealt him had darkened, and his face was lined with fatigue.
“Tem—”
“I don’t want you to go off alone again, Kamzin. It was hard enough last time, when you went after him.” There was a pleading note in Tem’s voice. It took me a moment to realize that he was talking about Raksha, when I had left Tem and Lusha in the cave to chase River to the summit. Tem had been asleep when I left. It had been cruel not to say good-bye, given that I had been facing almost certain death, but I had known he would only plead with me to stay.
I pressed his hand and gave a short nod. Lusha and I clambered back over the wall, leaving Tem to follow.
“I don’t like this,” I said. Lusha’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Fortunately, the stars were fading, and more people were about—people with carts and yaks and horses. Despite myself, I began to relax. It was true that no one looked as disheveled as us—our appearance drew stares from several passersby—but we would be more difficult to find in a crowd.
“Almost there,” she murmured as we turned a corner. From one of the rooftops, a raven gave a cry.
I didn’t have time to react. I was wrenched from behind, Lusha’s arm torn from mine. She yelled, and the raven seemed to echo her, a mournful sound. I struggled instinctively, but two guards had me in a grip like stone. Lusha was also held by two captors, and before us stood a man with his sword out.
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