by Rena Barron
Father peers around the room, his face hard. “Why did you summon me here, Rudjek?”
I cut my eyes in Re’Mec’s direction, but he’s conveniently disappeared. I clear my throat. “We have a bigger problem than the demons in Tamar,” I tell my father and catch him up on the news about Shezmu. “I need your resources to help determine where the demons intend to open the gate.”
“You seem to have resources of your own already, to have uncovered so much about the demons.” Father smiles, his eyes narrowing as he meets my gaze again. “You are coming into your own, son, as I knew you would.”
It’s the first bit of praise my father’s given me in a long time. I don’t know how to take it, so I do what he expects and ignore it. “I need detailed maps of every city and town across Zöran and reports on any clusters of unusual activity.”
“It will be done,” Father agrees without hesitation. “I have eyes everywhere.”
“One more thing,” I say, and my father raises his eyebrows. “I need an army.”
Moonlight pours through the curtains in the dead of night. The palace is peaceful, but it’ll never feel like our villa. I can’t get used to the curves of the ceilings, the cold drafts, and the way these sheets smell as I try and fail to fall asleep. It’s nothing like the comfort of home—no memories to grasp on to.
My father had been more agreeable than I expected. He’d understood the demon threat all too well, and given me the army I asked for—five hundred soldiers. I’ve trained for this all my life, but I’d never thought I’d be commanding troops before my eighteenth birth day. Now we just need to figure out where Shezmu will open the gate. It still bothers me that we have no clue how to find him. He might not even be in our world if he’s still searching for Koré’s box. Either way, he’ll be back. Arrah’s here, and she’s the only one who can free his master. He’ll come for her soon enough if I don’t find a way to stop him first.
I roll onto my back and cross my arms behind my head. I wonder where Arrah is now, what she’s doing. Is she okay? I have to believe that if something were wrong, I’d know, but it’s only wishful thinking. When I finally fall asleep, I dream about touching her, kissing her—doing more than kissing her.
I’m having the most delightfully inappropriate dream when something pricks at my awareness. I open my eyes. The room is pitch-dark and ice-cold. Another warning tingles at the back of my neck. Danger. Move. Go. I force myself to stay completely still. I can’t act—not without understanding the situation. I squint against the bleeding darkness. There’s no sound, not even the whisper of wind wafting in from the antechamber, yet I know I’m not alone.
I blink once, and my vision adjusts to the dark. Shadows blacker than night slither on the walls and the floor. Are those the wayward shadows—the Familiars that Arrah has talked about? She called them bad omens. Wherever they went, death soon followed. But no one without magic could see them, and they couldn’t interact with our world. How is it possible that they’re visible to me now, and why are they in my bedchamber?
I bolt up in bed, and sharp pain shoots up my legs. One of the wayward shadows is burning through my sheet. They can’t do that—this shouldn’t be possible. I throw off the sheet and reach for my scabbard as another shadow lands on my arm. It sears through my skin like butter sizzling in a hot pan. I snatch my arm back, shocked. Mangled, burned flesh and angry welts run from my shoulder down to my wrist.
“You little piece of—” I bite back a curse.
I can already feel my legs start to heal. The pain lessens with each moment. I rip off the part of the sheet that hasn’t burned and wrap it around my hand. As the Familiars close in around me, I leap from the bed and hit the floor hard.
I go for my scabbard again. “I could use some help here!”
Cradling my burned arm against my side, I pull a shotel from the scabbard and slice at one of the shadows. I don’t expect it to work, but when the sword cuts through it, the Familiar falls to the floor in two pieces. It slows down for a mere moment as the two halves melt back together and attack again.
I slice through another and another until one lands on my back and brings me to my knees. I scream at the same time someone bursts into my bedchamber. Two human-shaped shadows rush through the door, screeching and cutting. Fadyi and Jahla. Fadyi rips the wayward shadow off my back, and with it, my skin. I fall forward on my face.
I notice, then, that the Familiars don’t attack my guardians. They keep coming for me, but Fadyi is ready for them. His shadow form grows until he blankets the entire chamber. He sprouts hundreds of tentacles and lashes out at the Familiars. He shreds them into ribbons, but the Familiars don’t die from that, either. He does make them think twice, though, for they slither through the gaps in the door and flee into the night.
“They’re gone,” Jahla says, out of breath, from behind me.
I wince, trying and failing to get to my feet. “They shouldn’t be able to attack people.”
“Well, they attacked you.” She kneels at my side and presses her hand against my back. The pain dulls as she pours her anti-magic into me. It feels like cool water washing over my skin.
“Thank you,” I say as she and Fadyi help me to my feet.
“This is our fault.” Fadyi lowers his eyes. “We’ve been so preoccupied with the demons that we haven’t been training you. You’re only part craven, Rudjek, which means you’re more susceptible to attacks. Once you fully understand your anti-magic, you’ll be able to anticipate the enemy.”
“It’s not your fault that I couldn’t heal myself fast enough.” I drop onto the bed. “And it’s not like I was expecting to be set on fire tonight.”
“No, but it is our fault that you haven’t been able to shift your form,” Fadyi says. “If you could, you would’ve avoided being burned to start with.”
I look back and forth between Fadyi and Jahla, surprised that they haven’t figured it out already. I would laugh if I weren’t still in pain. “Don’t you see? Re’Mec said that the demons called their endoyan cousins their familiars. That’s what these wayward shadows are—and somehow with the demons back they’ve gained the ability to interact with our world.” I pause, staring at the charred sheets. “The demons must’ve sent the Familiars to attack because we’re onto something, and they’re scared.”
I leave out the other little thing I noticed. The demons seem particularly interested in killing me.
Sixteen
Arrah
We reach Ejun, a town in the foothills of the Barat Mountains, at sunset. It’s a welcome sight after three days of riding through farmlands and manured fields. People fill the streets, and we dismount near the center of town. Sukar almost falls face-first in the mud and dung, and Essnai and I barely do better. My thighs and back hurt from riding, and my legs wobble. We thought it would be faster to take horses, but I’m second-guessing that decision now.
“Heka, mother and father,” Sukar moans, “spare me the antics of this wretched beast sent to torture me to the end of my days.”
“What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath right now,” Essnai says.
I breathe in the fresh mountain air as we pass buildings with mud-brick walls and thatched roofs. We come upon a crowd standing around an elevated platform where a man holds up a caged hen. People shout bids at him as I dig through my saddlebag to retrieve the blood medicine.
Even though I’ve only heard the Demon King’s voice when conjuring more complex magic, it’s best not to tempt fate. I haven’t used my magic since the palace, but I won’t be able to avoid it when we’re closer to Tribe Zu. I’ll need it to pick up the survivors’ trail. I hope that the bone charm, along with the daily dose of blood medicine, will be enough to keep him out. I can’t forget how the sachet of herbs had turned to ashes in the palm of my hand. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what I’ll do.
The jug of blood medicine is too awkward to turn up to my mouth, so I keep my nightly dose in a small flask. I grimace when the medicine hits
my tongue. It tastes metallic, underscored by a rot that nearly makes me gag. It burns on the way down, but as long as it keeps the Demon King out of my mind, I’ll endure it for the rest of my life.
“Tell me you brought some herbs to ease our troubles,” Sukar begs as we head toward a tavern with rooms for rent. It’s so decrepit that it looks like it’ll fall over in a strong wind. “Please.”
“Nothing a little sleep can’t cure,” I say as two drunk men stumble across our path.
Smoke wafts into our faces as we step inside the dimly lit tavern. Patrons sit at low tables, their faces shrouded in shadows while dancers sway their hips to the music. Four musicians play a high-spirited melody on the bala, djembe, shekere, and udu. The floor hums under our feet to the beat, while cheers and laughter spill from every corner. The energy in the tavern reminds me of the excitement on the first night of the Blood Moon Festival.
“What’s that I smell in the air?” Sukar says, breaking the spell. “Beer, sweat, and vomit.”
Some patrons take notice of us as we search for an empty table. A man with an ashy face in a tattered tunic grabs at Essnai, and she smacks him on his knuckles with her staff. He draws back his hand, holding it close to his chest. “Feisty one, aren’t you?” He smiles, his greedy eyes roaming where they should not. “So pretty.”
“Next time,” Essnai growls, “I’ll break every bone in your hand.”
“And when she’s done,” Sukar adds, “I’ll break every bone in your face.”
The man looks at the three of us and doubles over laughing. “And you, little Mulani girl”—he turns to me—“what part will you break? I’m dying to know.”
I take one step closer to him, the blood boiling in my veins. The chieftains tell me how I could hurt him, but there’s a dismissive edge to their voices. This man isn’t worth my time. Still, I can’t stop myself from answering, “I’ll break everything else for good measure.”
The man laughs again as we push past him. Sukar spots a table, and we take it before someone else does. It reeks of unwashed skin, and the pillows on the floor are damp. An attendant comes to greet us—a girl no older than we are, wearing a brown apron over a dark cotton sheath. “What’s your pleasure?” Her eyes are on Sukar, who gives her a polite smile and turns his attention to the dancers.
“We’d like hot meals, and a room for the night,” I answer as a fight breaks out at another table.
“Eighteen bronze coins for three meals,” she says, seemingly oblivious to the ruckus. “A silver coin for a room.”
I root around in the money pouch, and my fingers bump into something else before I count out the coins to pay. The attendant smiles and disappears into the crowd. The music slows as the beats stretch into a long tempo, low and steady.
The dancers gather in a corner, with their backs to us. Patrons catcall, begging for them to dance again, while some jeer at the interruption, yelling obscenities. The tavern descends into a chorus of complaints until they back away from their corner, rolling their hips and shoulders as they do a slow turn. The dancers shimmer in the half-light and ease into a rhythm to match the music.
The attendant returns with our meals and mugs of beer, and a key for a room. Essnai and Sukar dig into their stew, but my appetite fades as I catch a whiff of gamey meat in the broth. It’s hard to tell with the tomato and chili and peanuts, but it could be goat. I push the bowl aside.
“It tastes better than it smells.” Essnai takes another bite.
Sukar scoffs and sniffs his beer. “That’s not saying much.”
A man at a table cheers when a dancer drops into his lap. He leans against the woman and whispers in her ear as he runs a hand up her leg. There’s an exchange of coins.
“Move along,” someone shouts at another table across the room. There’s a frantic, familiar edge to the voice.
My heart leaps at the sight of Second Son Tyrek, drowning himself in drink. He waves off a man who asks to share his table. It’s been days since Essnai and I saw him at the palace, and his face looks no less gaunt. Beneath the bruises, he has his mother’s ethereal beauty, broad nose, and large eyes. His intent expression reminds me of when he watched the debates at the assembly with keen interest.
“Eefu kawa,” Essnai curses in Aatiri. Son of a coward. “What’s he doing here?”
Sukar eases one hand toward his sickle, his attention on the disgraced prince.
I don’t have a drop of sympathy for what happened to Jerek Sukkara. He should’ve stood up for Arti all those years ago. He was her ama, but he let Suran Omari give her over to the depravity of Ka-Priest Ren Eké. But I do feel sorry for what happened to Tyrek and his brother, and all the people who died by my sister’s hand. “We don’t have to like him”—I put aside my untouched stew—“but he is innocent.”
“So he says,” Sukar grumbles, his eyes cold.
“So I say,” I insist. “Is my word not enough?”
Sukar’s jaw twitches in annoyance. “Of course your word is enough, but I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I,” says Essnai.
Tyrek climbs to his feet and spills beer on a patron at the table next to him. The man curses, but instead of apologizing, Tyrek only laughs and stumbles away. He’s halfway across the tavern, heading in our direction, when the patron grabs him by the shoulder.
“You owe me an apology,” the man spits, his words slurred by drink. “Didn’t your owahyat of a mama teach you any matters?”
It’s meant as an insult, but Tyrek only smiles at the man’s slight. “Friend, are you sure it’s an apology you want, or something else?” He takes another gulp from his beer, swaying on his feet. “Perhaps you should come up to my room later.”
The patron jabs a knee into Tyrek’s belly, which makes him double over and vomit on the floor. Some of it splashes on the men at the nearest table. I cringe as people laugh, but the men at the table take offense. They jump to their feet in outrage and pull their daggers. “You’re going to regret that,” one growls. “I ought to gut you where you stand.”
“Should we do something?” I ask, but Essnai and Sukar both shake their heads. It would be a mistake for me to use magic if not absolutely necessary, so I don’t move, either.
“Do you intend to use those knives or stand there looking like fools?” Tyrek taunts the men. “I don’t have all night for you to decide.”
“Your mouth is too smart for your own good, pretty boy,” says the man who kneed him in the stomach. “This might be the night it gets you killed.”
“That’s the idea,” Tyrek says, his voice bored. The man catches him with a hard punch across the jaw. The prince falls flat on his back in his own vomit. The tavern bursts into laughter, and the men with the daggers return to their table.
“So, does this mean I’ll see you later?” Tyrek groans, but the patron slips back into the shadows.
“It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving royal brat,” Sukar snorts.
I sink back against the wall as Tyrek drags himself to his feet, vomit smeared on his elara. He tugs at the bottom of his tunic, as if straightening it will make him look less a fool. He blows a kiss to the man who punched him and bows to the two who threatened to gut him. Then he turns on his heel and heads for our table. Predictably, Sukar reaches for his sickles. I put a hand on my friend’s arm—feeling the tattoo there wiggle on his skin in anticipation of a fight. He lets out a groan as he picks up his mug of beer instead.
“Ar-rah,” Tyrek stutters over my name as he gives me a crooked smile. “Some interesting gossip made it to my ears while I was still at the palace.”
I tense. He can’t know my secret. “Why are you here, Second Son Tyrek?”
He presses his fingers to his lips. “Just Tyrek now. I don’t deserve titles.”
“You mean you were stripped of your titles,” Sukar murmurs.
“That, too.” Tyrek shrugs. “May I have a word with you, Arrah?”
I’m reluctant to say yes, but I don’t think he�
�ll go away if I say no. When I nod, he squats beside me. He smells atrocious, and I clench my stomach to keep from being sick. “I have many friends in the palace.” He pitches his voice low. “One such friend overheard a conversation between you and the new Crown Prince in the gardens.”
So he does know. Fine. I swallow my nerves. Had he sought to reveal my secret to Suran Omari, I’d be rotting in prison already or worse off, dead. I turn my back to Sukar and Essnai to keep our conversation private. “What do you want?”
“To help.” Tyrek flourishes his hand like it should be obvious. “I know what it’s like to act against one’s will—to do another’s bidding.” He pauses for a moment, his gaze flitting away. “I’m the only one who knows what you’re going through right now.”
My friends might see a drunk, fallen prince covered in vomit, but I see the longing in his eyes, the sorrow. He’s lost everything—his friends, his family, and now his country.
“If the Demon King is as powerful as Efiya, he’ll get what he wants sooner or later,” Tyrek says. “Your magic won’t protect you.” His eyes are sad and resolute, like I’m already a lost soul. “Let me help you.”
“How can you help me?” I ask, a bitter edge to my voice.
“I thought that death was the only way to break free of Efiya’s control,” Tyrek says. “Then I found out that she could change her appearance, so even if I died, she could continue to torment my people in my name if she so chose.” He leans a little closer, his breath on my ear. His next words are slippery, eager. “You have an advantage over me. The Demon King is still in his prison, and he needs your magic to free him. That is his greatest weapon against you, and it’s also your greatest weapon against him.”
I hate that he’s summed up my predicament so completely. If not for my magic, I wouldn’t have the Demon King in my head—yet it’s my magic I must rely on to keep him out. A shudder racks my body. The blood medicine and charm will work—they have to. “What are you proposing?”