I chewed my lip. I was annoyed at both of them now. After a second’s thought, I called out, “Dargye.”
The man looked up, glowering. A small flame flickered among the moss he cupped between his hands. “What?”
I walked up to the fire calmly, and then, just as calmly, snuffed out the flame with my bare foot—one quick stomp. The large man almost fell over backward in surprise.
“The fire,” I said, “will go over there.”
Then I walked away. When I snuck a glance some moments later, Dargye was hunched by the patch of earth I had indicated, rebuilding the fire.
I allowed myself a smile of triumph while surreptitiously pressing my foot into the cold sand of the streambank. It didn’t hurt—much. My soles were as tough as leather after so many summer evenings spent roaming the mountainside barefoot.
Aimo was watching me from behind the yak. I wondered if she would be angry at me, for her brother’s sake, but there was a quiet amusement in her eyes.
“Is he always like that?” I muttered.
Her smile grew. “Yes,” she said in her typical matter-of-fact tone.
I laughed. She did too, a pleasant, rumbling sound.
“I wonder why he decided to join this expedition, as he hates taking direction,” I said, helping Aimo untie one of the satchels.
The woman smiled again, rolling her eyes slightly. “For me,” she said. “He wants to protect me.”
“To protect you?” I repeated. “Then it was your idea?” I had assumed, when Dargye volunteered to join the expedition, offering his sister as an additional assistant, that it had been the other way around.
Aimo nodded, bending her head over our supplies.
“Why?”
Her eyes drifted away, and she flushed slightly. Tem reappeared at my side then, and began noisily unloading the layers of oilcloth and wooden stakes that would serve as our tents. Dargye called to his sister, and she moved away.
The dragons soared toward us, skimming the pool of water before coming to rest on the bank. We had brought five. All day they had alternated between sleeping among the yak’s satchels and flying above us. A plump one nosed up to me, pawing my leg with its front feet. I winced at the pinch of its talons. Fortunately, Tem distracted it with a handful of dried chickpeas from his pocket.
“Ouch!” He laughed as the dragon devoured the snack. “That was my finger.”
I laughed along with him, relieved to feel some of the tension drain away. Tem and I had not spoken since morning. Once the dragon finished the snack, though, Tem went to help Norbu with his satchels. I felt a pang as I watched him go. There was still a distance between us, and I didn’t know how to close it.
Dinner was a plain meal of rice and mung beans. We ate seated on the grass around the fire, enjoying the warmth it brought to the cooling twilight air. Aimo caught fish from the pool, but they were so small that they only amounted to a mouthful or two for each of us. I eyed the water moodily as my stomach gave a growl, wondering why I had thought the rations I’d brought would be sufficient. Tem often teased me about my appetite, claiming I could devour as much as fifty dragons in a single sitting. He probably wasn’t far off.
Everyone else seemed content with their meals, however. Norbu selected a talisman from the tangled mass he wore around his neck, closed his eyes, and began muttering to himself. Dargye and Aimo murmured together on the other side of the fire—or, rather, Dargye murmured; Aimo listened with a long-suffering expression on her face. River sprawled across the grass, watching the stars appear and chatting easily with Tem about the geological differences between the Arya and the Drakkar Mountains. River was certainly not the haughty, ill-tempered explorer his reputation suggested—he had talked so much through the day that I wondered how he had enough breath to keep up with us—but unlike Mara, little of his conversation involved bragging. When one of his famous exploits came up—his expedition into barbarian territory, for example, where he’d spent weeks spying undetected on their rough camps, or the time he’d rescued twelve soldiers patrolling the northern reaches of the Empire from an avalanche—he shrugged it off, as if bored by the subject. I found myself biting my tongue to keep from asking questions about the deeds he referred to so casually, many of which had already become legend. For some reason, I didn’t want him to know I was listening.
Despite the growing chill, River seemed comfortable in his shirtsleeves, and used his magnificent chuba as a pillow. I had to suppress an urge to yank the garment out from beneath his head. If the emperor ever honored me with a tahrskin chuba, I told myself, I would never treat it with such disrespect.
Absently, I rubbed my shoulders, which burned from the chafing straps of my pack. As River spoke, his face became animated. I had seen explorers who had been marred by their profession—noses lost to frostbite, cheeks carved with deep furrows by the elements. River was nothing like them. Everything about him was sharp and beautiful—an unexpected sort of beauty. It wasn’t just the strangeness of his eyes, it was how he held himself, with a loping, lazy grace that put me in mind of a leopard or lynx more than a boy my own age. All the boys I knew were like Tem—awkward and gangly, all bony limbs and overlarge feet that always seemed to be in the way of each other.
But why was I comparing him to Tem? River’s gaze met mine, and a smile flickered on his face. I looked away so quickly my neck hurt.
I unrolled Mingma’s map of the Northern Aryas, tucking one edge beneath the tail of a sleeping dragon. The explorer had been an accomplished artist—though the mountains were drawn with quick, almost careless strokes, they were more accurate than most other maps I had seen. Raksha—featured among the Arya range and then, in a series of separate panels, by itself—was particularly vivid. I could almost feel the chill of the wind that roared across its slopes, the great and terrible shadow it cast.
I traced the lines of it, picturing Mingma’s pen flying gracefully over the canvas, his head bent over his work. He had been young when he died, I knew. I wondered again what had happened to him.
Gathering my chuba around my legs, I let my gaze drift to the mountains. Their white peaks were knife-sharp against the darkening sky. Though the western slopes of the Aryas were less treacherous than the east, given the risk of witches, places like this were far from safe. The red-toothed bears of Bengarek Forest were aggressive, and there were also snow leopards and wolf packs to contend with. We would have to cast our warding spells carefully every night, and assign a lookout during the day.
While part of me made note of these things carefully, another, larger part could hardly believe my situation. I was really here. Marching into the wilderness with the Royal Explorer, staring down unknown dangers. My hated lessons with Chirri, the weight of my family’s disappointment—it was all gone. And if I did well on the expedition, well enough to impress River, it could be gone forever.
A shiver of excitement traced its way down my spine.
I wondered if we would come across any evidence of Lusha and Mara tomorrow. We had passed the remains of a small campfire a few miles back, but there was no way to be certain it was theirs. Hunting parties from Azmiri sometimes ventured this far afield.
I gazed at the rising moon—Lusha could be looking at it too, also with a pile of maps unfurled before her. She couldn’t be far away. We would catch up to her—I knew we would.
Suddenly, something was on my shoulder, digging sharp claws into my skin. Something hairy, with a cold, wet nose that brushed against my cheek. I yelped.
“Kamzin, what—” Tem stopped. He let out a disbelieving laugh. “What is he doing here?”
I yanked Ragtooth off me. “You little rat! I told you not to follow me!”
Ragtooth bared his teeth, looking all too pleased with himself. When I released him, he gave a large yawn, stretched his back, and began to groom himself, as if he were settling into his customary place by the hearth back home. I couldn’t help laughing.
“What is that?” River said. He was propped up
on his elbows, staring.
“He’s Kamzin’s familiar,” Tem said.
“I gathered that. I mean, what is he?”
“What do you think he is?” I lifted Ragtooth around his pudgy belly and transferred him to my lap. “A fox.”
“Are you sure? Looks more like a hairball with teeth.”
“He has some mange,” I said with dignity. “There’s no need to be rude about it.”
River and Norbu exchanged a look. The shaman appeared baffled. “Is it some form of weasel?”
“How many weasels have fangs like that?” River said.
“Stop it,” I said. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Don’t get her started,” Tem said to River. “She won’t listen to reason about that creature. He’s been hovering around her since she was a baby. Her father tried chasing him away, but he came back every time. He gives everybody the creeps.”
River looked bemused. “Why couldn’t you have ravens, Kamzin, like your sister? Much more useful than—well, whatever that is.”
“Still,” Norbu said somewhat dubiously, “it is interesting that the girl should have a familiar. I understand it’s a rare honor.”
“It is,” Tem said, while I stewed. “Some say they’re sent by the spirit world to watch over those they favor.”
“Then these familiars have special abilities?” Norbu said.
“Well, not exactly,” Tem said, with an apologetic glance at me. “They’re ordinary animals, though the bond they share with their master can be quite useful.”
“It’s said that the shaman Bansi had a hawk.” The look on Norbu’s face indicated how I ranked in comparison to the shaman Bansi. I smothered a sigh. Most people reacted with disbelief when they discovered I had a familiar—I was used to it by now. Lusha and I were the only ones in Azmiri to have them, though the elder of a neighboring village had a monkey. Familiars were common among shamans and great heroes, the kinds of people that stories were written about—people like Lusha. Not like me. Clearly, as I had often said to Tem, even the spirits could make mistakes.
Ragtooth bared his teeth at Norbu, and the shaman inched away.
“Drop it,” I muttered, poking him. The fox snapped at my finger.
River shook his head. “The spirits have an interesting sense of humor, don’t they?”
“Ragtooth and I are going to bed,” I said, raising my chin. As obnoxious as the fox could be, I would not sit there and let them insult him. “Good night.”
Lifting the beast by the scruff of the neck, I walked over to my tent and pulled the flaps securely shut behind us.
“Don’t listen to them,” I whispered. “You can’t help it if you were born a little different.”
The fox gazed at me with his green eyes, which gleamed like polished jade. I tossed my boots on the ground, then—after glancing at Tem’s neatly arranged belongings—picked them up again guiltily and tucked them into the corner of the tent. I settled into my blankets, shivering at their cold touch, and Ragtooth curled his body into a pillow of warmth against my head.
I must have slept for two hours, maybe three—when I woke, it was deep night, a darkness that could only exist in the valleys between great mountains. Tem snored on the other side of the tent.
I shifted restlessly. Something had woken me, I was sure of it. As I lay there, listening, the noise came again.
A skittering, snuffling sound.
It was coming from somewhere outside the tent. It seemed to rise and fall, as if whatever was making the noise was moving closer, then away, then closer again.
“Ragtooth?” I whispered. I looked around the tent and met the fox’s glittering gaze. Ragtooth’s ears were pricked, and though he didn’t appear fearful, there was a watchfulness about him.
I lifted myself up onto my elbows. I could see no blue glow through the walls of the tent, and in any case, it didn’t sound like a dragon. It was too large.
My heart began to pound, and my mind leaped to an image of a snow leopard, creeping through the darkness on enormous paws, drawn by the scent of human flesh.
The skittering grew louder. Again I heard something breathing in rough, animal pants. It seemed to be right outside the tent now. Terror froze me in place. Behind me, Ragtooth was equally motionless. We waited, barely breathing, until the thing moved away. The noises grew fainter and fainter, and then they were gone.
I fell back against my blankets, cold sweat bathing my brow. Tem gave a snort and rolled onto his side.
“Some comfort you are,” I muttered. Ragtooth nosed up to me and licked my forehead. I pulled him to my chest. His heartbeat was faint but steady, and he still gave no sign of fear, though his ears remained pricked long after the sounds died away.
I lay awake for another hour at least, straining to hear. But all was still and quiet, apart from the trickle of the spring and the wind brushing through the trees. Finally, I fell asleep, the fox a warm, soft weight against my chest.
EIGHT
I WOKE AT first light. A crow was squawking somewhere in the distance, fracturing the peace of the morning. I had been dreaming of one of Chirri’s lessons—I was hunched over an enormous basket, separating ripe winterberries from green ones. The task would have been easier had I been able to master the spell Chirri had given me—the ripe berries should have risen to the top of the basket, but instead, they flew up and pelted me in the face. While I wiped the stinging juice from my eyes, Chirri harangued me for my incompetence, her voice growing sharper and sharper until it made my ears ache.
As my eyes adjusted to my surroundings, I remembered that Chirri was miles away, and I had no lessons to attend. Muttering a prayer of thankfulness, I staggered to my feet, stripping off my old clothes and swapping them for clean ones from my pack. I moved as quickly and quietly as I could, trying to ignore the feeling of awkwardness. I was used to having Tem nearby when I slept—during his father’s drinking bouts, he would often spend the night on a pile of mats in my bedroom. But sharing a small shelter in the wilderness, with no privacy to be sought anywhere, was an entirely different experience, and I found myself wishing we had been able to bring separate tents.
Ragtooth was gone, which didn’t surprise me. He always appeared and disappeared at will. He would no doubt follow us when he felt like it, though I half hoped, for his sake, that he had gone home to Azmiri.
There were no sounds of movement from the others. I breathed a small sigh of relief—I wanted to be the first to rise. I had decided that I would make every effort, every day, to impress River with my skill and determination. I would be the first to wake and the last to bed. I would not complain, even if my shoulders burned from the weight of my pack and my feet felt ready to fall off. I would be the image of a daring explorer. I would be formidable.
My head nodded as I bent over my boots. Cursing, I forced myself to stand, dashing the sleep from my eyes. This part of my plan would take some getting used to. I was not accustomed to getting up early.
My hair was hopelessly knotted again, but I didn’t bother to wrestle with it. Tossing my chuba over my shoulders, I stepped out into the chill morning air.
There I froze. In the faint light of dawn, I could make out a line of tracks leading from the scraggly brush at the base of Mount Imja past my tent.
I bent down, brushing my fingers over the markings. They were like nothing I had seen before. It was as if their maker had half stepped, half glided through our camp. My heart in my throat, I followed the trail past Norbu’s tent, and over a little rise in the ground, where it stopped.
Directly outside River’s tent.
“River?” I called quietly. No response. “River!”
The tent parted, and River poked his head out. His hair stuck up like an angry cat’s. “What?”
I let out a sigh of relief. “I thought the bear had eaten you.”
“What bear?” Dargye shuffled out of his tent, looking nervous. “When did you see a bear?”
“I heard it, last night.�
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“Don’t worry, Dargye,” River said. “There was no bear. Norbu cast his warding spells carefully.”
“I certainly did.” Norbu emerged from his own tent. He was still tying his chuba, but was otherwise fully dressed. “I have never before allowed such a creature to enter our camp. Any bear that came within smelling distance of us would have become disoriented and turned around.”
“Then it was something else,” I persisted. “What do you make of these tracks?”
Norbu and Dargye bent to examine them. River had disappeared back into his tent.
“Curious.” The lines in Norbu’s brow deepened. “It looks like the trail of a snake.”
“It was definitely not a snake. I heard it.”
“River and I have encountered beasts of all shapes and sizes in our travels,” Norbu said. “As the personal shaman of the Royal Explorer, I have some experience—”
“I heard it snuffling,” I said slowly. “Was it a snake with a cold?”
The shaman shrugged, seeming to lose interest. His gaze wandered to the fire Aimo was waking from the embers. “As I said, my warding spells have never failed. I’m sure it was nothing to worry about.” He moved away, Dargye trailing in his wake. I stared after him, speechless.
River emerged, running a hand through his hair. The green of his tunic made his gold-brown eye gleam, while the other seemed blacker by comparison.
“I have all my toes,” he announced. “I counted. Nothing took a nibble in the night.”
“Is Norbu really the greatest shaman in the Three Cities?” I said.
“Well . . .” River paused. “Why do you ask?”
“For one, Tem said he was having trouble with a basic wayfinding spell yesterday. And those talismans he wears are ridiculous. Gilded monkey teeth? Polished emeralds? They’re useless.”
River was gazing up at the sky, hands in his pockets, as if checking the weather. “Are they?”
“Yes.” My voice hardened. “Chirri taught me that much.” Shamanic magic required talismans, which channeled the shaman’s power into spells. Most shamans brought a supply of talismans wherever they went, as different talismans were conducive to different spells. Bone talismans tended to suit healing spells, while copper and iron were for warding or protective spells. Talismans carved from wood could influence or even control the elements—some could summon fire, for example. Not all talismans were equal in strength, though, and all weakened with age. Some were fakes—sold by unscrupulous merchants to wealthy villagers for appearances rather than power. These were usually made of gold or precious stones, which seemed to make up the bulk of Norbu’s supply.
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