It doesn’t mean anything, I lectured myself. Just nerves. In the morning light, this was somewhat easier to accept.
Even more unpleasant than the dream had been saying good-bye to Father. I had found him sitting by the fire in his reception room before sunrise, his head in his hands. The doors of his shrine were ajar, and a stick of incense burned in the censer, as if he had recently prayed. The scent of jasmine and chani leaves filled the air, cloying in the close little room, which was sparsely furnished with a few woven mats for visiting villagers to sit on. A silk scroll took up an entire wall, depicting the generations of elders who had come before him.
“Papa?”
He started. “Kamzin. I didn’t hear you come in.”
I went to his side and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “It’s time for me to go. Won’t you come and see us off?”
“No—I don’t think so.”
I could see he had been crying. I went back to the door, closed it, then returned to his side. Father’s reputation was as a stern but fair leader, a wise arbiter of disputes who put reason before emotion when coming to decisions. But in truth, he was the most soft-hearted person I knew, more likely to cry at a wedding or birth ceremony than even my great-aunt Yema. He doted on his daughters—Lusha in particular—even more since my mother had died.
“Lusha will be all right,” I said, kneeling beside him and taking his hand. “And so will I.”
“Kamzin—”
“You don’t have to say it,” I interrupted. “I know you don’t want me to go. But I have to do this.”
He let out a sigh, his beard fluttering. It was mostly white now—despite his straight back and keen gaze, Father was not a young man. He had been twice my mother’s age when they married, and was now older than some grandfathers.
“When River Shara first wrote to Lusha,” he said, gazing into the embers of the fire, “I told her no. But, as Lusha said, how could we deny the Royal Explorer? I’m a village elder, and he’s one of the most powerful men in the Empire. And yet I wish with all my heart that Lusha had listened to me. There is a terrible darkness surrounding that mountain.”
“That’s just superstition, Papa.”
“That’s what your sister said.” He picked up a poker and stirred the embers, releasing a few lurking flames. “Now she’s gone. Somehow I can’t help feeling that it’s my fault.”
I touched his shoulder. “Of course it isn’t.”
He gave the embers another stir, then set the poker aside. “If your mother were here . . .”
My throat clenched. Father used those words often. In serious moments, when a storm or early thaw threatened the village, it was an invocation. Other times, when Lusha and I argued about who would travel with him to the spring markets, it was almost a joke. He never finished his thought. He didn’t need to.
If my mother were here, everything would be different.
My mother had rarely taken the dangers she faced seriously, dismissing them with her booming, infectious laugh. She had been big—not merely in terms of size, but everything about her. She had always seemed like the sort of person no amount of space could contain. In the end, though, it had been a small thing that had taken her. A fever that hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary—little more than an inconvenience—until it suddenly took a turn for the worse. In the space of a night, she was simply gone.
“Kamzin.” Father took my hand and drew me in front of him, so that I was looking down into his lined eyes. “You must promise me that you will turn around at the first sign of danger. Don’t let River convince you to do something that doesn’t feel right. I don’t care who he is—your life is more important than the emperor’s displeasure.”
“Papa, I—”
“No.” He was gripping my hands so tightly that I felt my bones creak. “Promise me.”
I swallowed. “I promise.”
I had felt guilty as I said it. Now, in the cold light of the morning, I felt even worse. Because I didn’t think I could keep my promise.
I didn’t think I wanted to.
I gazed over the valley and the misty landscape beyond, the towering mountains and sweeping expanses. I felt a familiar pull—to dive into the wilderness, digging my boots into soil no one else had touched. Now, for the first time, I didn’t have to ignore that pull. I could let it take me.
The two assistants I had hired, Dargye and Aimo, waited patiently by our yak. They had already proven their competence that morning—the yak was loaded comfortably but securely with the bulk of our gear, and they had consulted the maps I had brought and provided sound suggestions. Dargye was a heavy man with moody eyes beneath a single brow. He was a low-ranking member of the village council, and his size and strength had made him an obvious asset for an expedition this dangerous. Rumor had it he could fell mountain birches without the help of an ax. Looking at the enormous biceps battling the seams of his shirtsleeves, I didn’t doubt it.
I didn’t know much about Aimo, a young woman in her early twenties. A year ago, her daughter had escaped her grandparents’ care, tottering down the mountain and into the Nightwood. Aimo’s husband had followed in search of her. Neither had returned, and no one doubted that they had met a grisly end. It was said that the witches devoured human souls, leaving behind empty bodies that they kept as slaves, or drained of blood for their mysterious spells. After the period of mourning, Aimo had carried on running the family’s large farm by herself. With her stoic temperament and reputation for generosity toward her poorer neighbors, she was widely respected in Azmiri.
“Thank you,” I said as she repositioned one of my satchels on the animal’s back. She nodded, her smile transforming her plain face. It was no wonder, I thought, that she had received three marriage proposals since her husband’s death.
“Is everyone ready?” It was Norbu. With him was a slim, handsome boy with a large pack slung over his shoulders.
“We are,” I said as they moved to check the yak’s load. “Where’s River?”
The boy looked up from the strap he was examining. He wore a slight smile that seemed familiar. “Honestly, Kamzin, will I need to introduce myself each time we see each other?”
My jaw dropped. Tem made a low noise that sounded like woo. River laughed.
“Come now,” he said, making a sweeping motion with his arm. “Surely I don’t look that different.”
But he did. The young man standing before me was as far as possible from the elegant noble I had met at the banquet. His hair was an ordinary dark brown, and while still bird’s-nest messy, was cropped shorter than it had been, and no longer woven with expensive charms. The rings and jewels were gone, as were the fine clothes—his trousers and tunic were a plain gray in a weave suited to walking, and his scuffed leather boots looked as if they had traveled many miles in their lifetime. His eyes were the same, though, unsettlingly mismatched in a way that was even more apparent in the morning light, and full of laughter.
“I, um—” I came to a stuttering halt, uncertain how I should address this unfamiliar person. River took little notice. He shook out the chuba folded over his arm, then swept it over his shoulders. I had to suppress a gasp. It was the finest tahrskin chuba I had ever seen, far finer than my mother’s, though made in the customary way—two-sided, one dark and one pale. River’s somehow made him seem taller, more sharply defined, and it fit as if it had been made for him. The short black fur gleamed in the sunlight.
“Dyonpo, we should make haste,” Norbu said. He scanned the horizon, where a line of clouds was gathering. “We should be off the mountain before the rain reaches us.”
“I can help with that,” Tem piped up. He looked immediately regretful when all eyes trained upon him, but he pushed on. “I’ve been studying weather spells. I think I could delay the rain, at least for a while.”
Norbu stared at him blankly, as if Tem were a species of animal he had never seen before. River grimaced. “What is he doing here?”
I bristled at his tone
but managed to keep my temper. “He asked to join the expedition as Norbu’s assistant, if that’s all right with you. He has a talent for shamanism.”
“Does he?” River gave Tem a skeptical look. “I’ve observed his talent for falling off things, which doesn’t exactly recommend him for an expedition like this. And he’ll be a nuisance to Norbu.”
“I wouldn’t mind, dyonpo,” Norbu said. “I’ve been missing my assistant.”
I held my breath, but River only shrugged. “Kamzin, the map?”
I started. Feeling unexpectedly nervous, I fumbled around in my pack until I extricated the map of the Samyar Plains.
I had sketched out the route to Raksha in charcoal, carefully calculating distances and noting streams and potential campsites. It would take a traveler of average abilities a month or more to reach the mountain from Azmiri—but in a month, summer would be over and the weather on the highest peaks would be unpredictable. My goal, therefore, was to reach it within fifteen days.
I didn’t know if it was possible. But we would have to try.
“We can make it to Winding Pass in five days, Riv—um, dyonpo,” I said, holding the map open so he could see the route. “If we keep up a good pace.”
“Five days to the pass?” River said. “Is that the best we can do? I want to close as much distance as possible between us and Mara. He and Lusha have a full day’s head start.”
“I know this part of the Aryas like I know my own hands,” I said. “The other routes may be faster, but they’re more dangerous, which could slow us down in unexpected ways.”
River nodded as I spoke, peering down at the map. A strand of unkempt hair fell across his forehead. “All right. What are you thinking?”
“We’ll travel through the Azmiri foothills. Avoid Bengarek Forest, given how dense the undergrowth can be in summer. It’s a thirty-mile hike to Mount Imja—we’ll camp beneath it tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll push on across the plains toward Winding Pass. I expect we’ll catch up to Lusha and Mara there, if not before. They’re carrying all their supplies on their backs, after all, and won’t be able to move as quickly as us.” I unrolled Mingma’s map. “It isn’t safe to linger in the pass, so we’ll have to avoid getting stuck there after dark. Once we’re through, we’ll be in the Nightwood—the borderlands, anyway.” I tried to keep my voice even, as if traveling through the witch lands was something sane people did regularly. “From there, we’ll hike north to Raksha.”
Dargye, standing behind me, made a small noise.
“Yes?” River glanced at him. “Did you have something to say, ah—”
“Dargye, dyonpo,” he said. He too seemed nervous, being addressed by River directly. “I can’t help wondering why we would avoid Bengarek Forest. The undergrowth isn’t as bad as she says, and it’s flat ground, unlike the foothills.”
“And unlike the foothills, we would have a good chance of being attacked by red-toothed bears,” I said, glaring at Dargye. He had agreed to my plan before, when River wasn’t there. “Bengarek Forest is infested with them.”
Dargye barely seemed to be listening to me. He addressed River again, more confidently this time. “I believe the forest is the wisest choice, dyonpo.”
River furrowed his brow. “Kamzin, you didn’t tell me that Dargye knew the way to Raksha.”
“What?” I said. “He doesn’t.”
“I see.” He handed the map back to me, and dumped his pack unceremoniously in Dargye’s arms. “All right, everyone, let’s make for the foothills.”
I couldn’t suppress a smile of triumph. Dargye glowered. I thought I saw River wink at me, but he turned away quickly, and I couldn’t be certain.
The road that led from the village down to the valley sliced back and forth along the flank of the mountain, following the edge of the terraces. The sun wouldn’t touch us for an hour at least, and despite the exertion I was shivering in the chill breeze. It was a crisp, clear day, with only the faintest mist hovering among the forest far below. Despite the early hour, I was full of energy. My feet wanted to move more quickly, and I had to remind myself to take measured steps, to conserve my strength for the long road before me.
River and Norbu walked ahead, their voices occasionally floating back to us, garbled by the wind. I found myself examining River—the profile of his face, as he gestured at something; the stirring of his chuba as he strode easily along the path. I still found it hard to reconcile the young man in front of me with my image of River Shara, the man who, in the three short years he had held the title of Royal Explorer, had mapped half the Empire and established himself as one of the emperor’s closest confidants. Who fought and killed savage barbarian lords and doomed those who betrayed him to slow, lonely deaths in the wilderness.
I recalled how he had seemed to change suddenly, out on the spur, his capricious manner subsumed by something cold, calculating. I shook my head, feeling oddly out of my depth. I was used to the plain-spoken villagers of Azmiri, whose desires were simple and whose lives were small. River was as different from what I knew as a hawk from a sparrow.
Tem and I walked in the middle of the company, followed by Dargye and Aimo with the yak. Tem was fiddling with a strange talisman—a leather cord strung with bells of different shapes and sizes.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Oh—Chirri gave them to me.” He blushed. “They’re kinnika—they help ward off misfortune. This one”—he pointed to a small, black bell—“will alert me to the presence of any creature who means to harm us. It won’t sound for any other reason. See?” He shook the bell. It made no noise whatsoever. “These two will keep a dark spirit at bay while I speak the incantation. This one—” His brow creased as he gazed at the largest bell, bronze with a reddish patina. “I don’t remember what it’s for. I wrote it down, though.”
“That was good of Chirri,” I said. “Something tells me we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
Tem looked guilty. “She should have given them to you. You’re her apprentice.”
“Tsh. You know me. I would have lost them already, or mixed them up so badly I’d be trying to put out a fire with the bell for banishing ghosts. Chirri chose right.”
I had visited Chirri yesterday, to tell her I was leaving. She would have known already, but I had felt it was only right to say good-bye. The old woman’s hut, I had been pleased to discover, was still overrun with baby dragons, which had swarmed me like bees when I entered. Chirri herself had seemed irritated by my visit, muttering something about being woken from a particularly sound nap. Her only comment about the expedition was that I should have left long ago, which made little sense. Rather than leaving her hut with words of wisdom or a useful talisman, I had been unceremoniously shooed out with one of the teething dragons, who now perched on the yak’s neck, gnawing at her lead.
“I’m glad she trusted you,” I added. “I didn’t think she knew—about how powerful you are, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t put it like that.” Tem was the color of an apple now.
“Father would be angry, if he found out she was favoring you,” I said, sighing. “He still thinks I’m going to take over from Chirri when she dies. I suppose if I die first, I won’t have to worry about it. That’s something.”
Tem was quiet for a long moment. “Don’t joke about that, Kamzin.”
“All right, all right.” I gave him a playful shove. “Lighten up. I never said I’d die tomorrow. And you know Chirri’s going to make it to two hundred, at least.”
Tem didn’t reply. He stopped to remove a rock in his boot. But he didn’t catch up to me again.
When the sunlight oozed over the peak of Azmiri, it grew hot. I removed my chuba and looped it through the straps of my pack. The frost on the grasses and rhododendrons was melting fast, a steady drip-drip-drip that mingled with the honks of the bar-headed geese passing overhead and the whistling wind. Small creatures stirred among the foliage—warblers searching out their breakfast, or foxes on their way
to the village to spy on the chicken coops. I tried to focus on these sounds, and the steady rhythm of my boots against the path, but found it impossible. We caught occasional glimpses of Imja, its snowy, pinnacled summit painted orange by the rising sun. Beyond it, far beyond, was Mount Raksha.
I shivered with mingled excitement and fear. It was as if I could feel the mountain out there in the mingled shadow and sunlight of the morning. Now that my feet were set firmly on the path, and moving toward my destination, I realized just how mad my decision was. I had never climbed Mount Raksha.
No one had.
I forced my attention back to my feet. One step at a time. That was all this was: a series of steps. I beat the anxious voice back to a dark corner of my mind, and prayed it would stay there—at least for now.
We stopped that night in the shadow of Mount Imja, at a spring that bubbled from between two enormous boulders crowned with juniper trees. The spray from the water as it tumbled down the rock was cool against my face. I removed my boots and waded into the spring, crouching to cup the icy water in my hands and splash it across my sweaty brow.
I surveyed the terrain, pleased with myself. We had reached our destination with time to spare—there was still an hour of daylight to make camp. I couldn’t help gloating at Dargye, who seemed to be avoiding my eyes.
“Let’s set up the tents here,” I said to Aimo, gesturing. “Dargye, build the fire against that rock.”
“It’s too wet,” the man said shortly, barely breaking his stride. He dropped an armful of firewood on the ground, too close to the tents for my liking. The wind would surely blow the smoke into our shelters as we slept.
I opened my mouth to protest, but Dargye began noisily breaking the scraps of wood into smaller pieces with his bare hands, his enormous muscles straining. Muttering, I turned away.
“Don’t let him do that,” Tem said quietly.
I sighed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a campfire.”
“I don’t think so.” Tem turned back to his pack. “You’re in charge, Kamzin.”
Even the Darkest Stars Page 7