Even the Darkest Stars

by Heather Fawcett

  Suddenly, we were moving very fast. Tem had drawn me into orbit around the masked dancers at the bonfire. He spun me around, drew me close, and then spun me away, the movements almost too intricate for me to see. I felt like a leaf caught in a storm.

  “Tem!” I gasped, reaching out to grasp his shoulders. “What are you—?”

  The question died on my lips. River gazed back at me, a smile on his face.

  I stared at him. I hadn’t even felt Tem pull away from me. “How did you—?”

  My question dissolved into a yelp as River spun us around so swiftly that the fire seemed to be surrounding us on all sides.

  “Stop that,” I said, half gasping and half laughing. “Where’s Tem?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” River drew me close, so close I could feel the warmth of his body against mine, and spoke in my ear. “I thought you could use a break from being stepped on.”

  “You saw that?” I felt my irritation return, even as my heart thudded at his nearness. “I thought your attention was somewhere else.”

  River laughed softly. “Well, I’ve learned to see past the obvious—to the details others miss.”

  I flushed as I recognized Tem’s words. To take the focus off me, I said, “Are you calling that girl obvious?”

  “I guess so—I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “No, why would you?” I grumbled. “I’m sure wherever you go, beautiful girls are throwing themselves at you.”

  “Yes, and it’s a terrible burden.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. River drew back, his eyes sparkling. Shadow played across the planes of his handsome face. “Watch this,” he said.

  I shrieked as River lifted me into the air and spun me around, simultaneously drawing us deeper into the ring of masked dancers. They swirled around us—the swish of their chubas and the whistle of their swords through the air made me shudder. Behind their masks, the dancers’ eyes were wild.

  “They say the people of Jangsa have witch blood,” I said. “I’m starting to believe it.”

  “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “Of course not,” I lied. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you hated crowds.”

  “I do. But I like dancing.” We spun in a circle, so fast that I shrieked again, gripping River’s arms with all my strength. He laughed. My eyes were shut tight—I was certain we would collide with the other dancers, or their swords, or trip and stumble into the fire. But somehow, River darted expertly through the crowd, finding gaps that looked too narrow to fit through, barely brushing even the other dancers’ chubas. He could have been a ghost himself. As he pulled me close again, I wrapped my arms around his neck to steady myself. I could feel his breath against my ear, warm and soft.

  “How does that work, anyway?” I said, trying to conceal the pounding of my heart. I was certain River could hear it. “You can’t very well avoid crowds in the Three Cities.”

  He seemed to think for a moment. “I didn’t grow up in the Three Cities. The Shara estate is deep in the countryside to the south. It’s a beautiful land—high, grassy plains dotted with countless rivers and turquoise lakes—but isolated. My family rarely ventured as far as the emperor’s court. The feasting, the parades, the endless parties—I didn’t have any of it as a child. It was a different life.”

  I considered this. “Do you miss them?” I said. “Your family, I mean.”

  He was quiet. “Yes,” he said finally.

  “Me too,” I murmured. A sword slashed past my head, but I barely heard it. I was thinking of Father. He would be making his customary nighttime rounds now, striding through the dragonlit village with his long chuba trailing behind him, on the lookout for intruders both animal and human. Unlike some village elders, Father took his responsibilities as protector of his people seriously. Sometimes too seriously. I could remember many nights when I had stayed up late, hoping he would come to my room to tell one of his stories, only to fall asleep disappointed. Sometimes, when we weren’t fighting, I would curl up with Lusha in her bed, and she would open her window and tell me the story of whatever constellation was framed between the shutters. I still did sometimes, though the times when we weren’t fighting were much fewer and further between.

  If I became one of the emperor’s explorers, I would spend long periods away from Lusha and Father—and Azmiri. The thought brought with it a stab of sadness—but little regret. As much as I loved Azmiri, I didn’t fit there. I never had. Life in the village was small and quiet and contained, while I craved noise and excitement and wide-open spaces stretched out before me like a blank scroll upon which I could write my own stories.

  Perhaps the Elder of Jangsa had been right. After what I had just been through—the grueling trek, the storm, the fiangul—I should have been desperate to return home. But I wasn’t. My thoughts were already racing ahead to the next part of our journey, to Raksha. If I could prove myself to River, I wouldn’t have to worry about my life back in Azmiri. I could have the life I had always dreamed of but never knew how to achieve.

  River spun me around again, interrupting my thoughts. We passed between two masked dancers as one drew his sword back and the other slashed his down behind us, through the air we had just occupied.

  I laughed. River lifted me into the air, then took my hand and whirled me in a series of intricate circles, so many that I lost count. Finally I grabbed him, laughing and breathless. He laughed too, his eyes alight, and for one breathless moment, I was certain he was going to kiss me. Only then did I notice that the musicians had fallen silent—had perhaps been silent for a while.

  I looked around. River and I were the only ones standing by the fire. The others had fallen back and stared at us from the edge of the square. Even the masked dancers had stopped, and stood with their swords at their side. Some had removed their masks, revealing flushed faces. Tem stood with the girl who had been dancing with River, gaping at me. The girl was staring too, her forehead creased with a frown.

  River nodded to me, then turned and melted into the shadows. I stood there a moment longer, blinking back at the staring faces. Then I all but ran from the square.

  I didn’t return to the elder’s house—instead, I fled away from the crowd, along a road I didn’t recall passing when we first entered Jangsa. It was little more than a footpath, hugging the mountainside over terrain that undulated and twisted. A lantern floated past, but I ignored it.

  I stopped suddenly. The road had ended—before me was another ruin, dark against the night sky. A shrine.

  A long row of stone steps, cracked with age and patchy with moss, led to a jumble of broken stone. Only one of the columns still stood; the other three lay on their sides, together with what little remained of the roof. Tall statues leaned sideways, human figures—former elders? I wondered—who were now faceless and handless, their arms stretched out toward a world they could neither see nor touch. A family of birds had made a nest in one, in the crook between neck and shoulder.

  I sat down on the steps, letting myself catch my breath at last. It was as if the dizziness I should have felt during my dance with River had finally caught up to me—I felt almost nauseous, and too hot. I gazed out over the village as the lanterns drifted into the sky. Most caught fire and fell, but there was one that survived, pulled up and along the mountainside by the wind. I watched until it grew so small it seemed to disappear.

  “Kamzin? Is everything all right?” a voice asked.

  I started. But it was only the elder, who had come silently up the road behind me. He held a spirit mask in his hand.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “The music is lovely, but I just needed to get away.”

  The man nodded. “I understand. Our customs can be . . . unnerving for outsiders.”

  He took a seat on the steps, and though he left several feet of space between us, I still felt like moving farther away. It wasn’t just the way he looked at me with that odd smile—as if he already had the measure of me, and it was a measure
that amused him. It was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on.

  “The emperor set River Shara a cruel task,” he said. “Even if you succeed in climbing Raksha, you may meet with any number of dangers at the summit. The witches may have abandoned the place, but their presence lingers.”

  I stared at him. “You spoke to River.”

  “No.” He smiled. “You think we don’t know about the sky city? It’s said that a great many magical objects were left behind when the witches abandoned it. It only makes sense that the emperor would seek them.”

  I thought this over. “Has anyone ever seen it?”

  “Oh no. No human has set foot there. The witches are shape-shifters—or at least they were, before they lost their powers. They can make their homes anywhere. The canopy of a forest, a cave deep beneath the earth. The summit of the highest mountain, which even the birds fear to fly over. We mortals are not so fortunate.”

  I peered at him through the darkness. “Are you a seer?”

  “No.” He motioned absently at the sky, as if to pay his respect. “There are those to whom the stars reveal their secrets, but I am not one of them. I have never had the talent for hearing their voices.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “I was hoping you could tell me whether we’ll succeed.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I don’t need the stars to answer that. I believe you will succeed, Kamzin, because that’s who you are. Though I wonder if it will be in the way you expect.”

  The elder’s gaze was mellow but unwavering. He had not looked away from me since he sat down, not even to glance at the lanterns that floated by.

  “What did you mean before?” I said suddenly. “You said the fiangul are growing stronger every year, and that other dark creatures are stirring. Did you mean the witches?”

  His gaze, for the first time, flickered from mine. “I would not be the first to draw a connection between the two.”

  “What do you mean? Are they allies?”

  “No,” he said, “and yes. In Jangsa, there is a tale that tells of how the witches created the fiangul. That once, many generations ago, there was a village in Winding Pass whose inhabitants offended the witches. As punishment, they lay a curse upon them, which transformed them into the creatures you met in the storm.”

  “I’ve never heard that.”

  “It’s a very old story,” the elder said. “Possibly much twisted with time. There certainly was a village—many of the foundations remain, great stone slabs hidden beneath the drifts. But why it was destroyed, and what became of its people, that is anyone’s guess.”

  I swallowed. “Then if the witches were to regain their powers—the fiangul would only grow stronger. Wouldn’t they?”

  “The world is a dark place,” the elder said, as if this were an answer. “It has always been such.”

  I suppressed a shiver. Again I saw the black eyes of the fiangul, boring into mine, felt the brush of air stirred by their wingbeats. I didn’t want to be there anymore, pinned under the elder’s gaze and contemplating such terrifying possibilities.

  “I should get some sleep,” I said, rising. “We’re leaving in the morning, if Norbu is better.”

  “I’m sure he will be,” the elder said placidly. “Good night, Thaken’s daughter.”

  I forced a smile and walked away. I had taken only a few steps when the elder called, “Kamzin?”

  I turned.

  “You are always welcome here.” Another lantern drifted past, briefly illuminating the broken shrine. “It’s something I would say to few outsiders.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  He smiled. “You remind me of your father in some ways, and I’ve always respected him. He has an unusual way of looking at the world. He does not divide everything into tidy halves the way most people do. Right and wrong, good and evil—he sees beyond absolutes, like all great leaders.”

  I opened and then closed my mouth. The elder seemed to take no notice of my confusion, and finally turned to gaze out over the village. Murmuring a good night, I walked hastily away, and even though I knew he was no longer looking at me, I felt his gaze burning into the back of my head.

  TWELVE

  “I WON’T FORGET that any time soon,” Tem said.

  We were setting up our tent for the night, having traveled through the day after leaving Jangsa at first light. Norbu seemed stronger for the healer’s ministrations, and barely lagged at all, though I noticed he still glanced over his shoulder sometimes, a puzzled frown on his face. River, anxious to close the distance with Mara, stopped often to hurry us. The delay seemed to have put him on edge; he looked repeatedly at the sun as its movement counted down the hours of daylight.

  But if River was eager to be moving again, so was I. We found no new evidence of Lusha and Mara—had they taken a different route, or were they now so far ahead that the elements had erased the telltale signs of their presence? I found myself stamping out my own frustration whenever Tem fell behind. After a punishing hike of fifty miles, we were all relieved to have stopped by a grove of chir trees as dusk neared. The light from the campfire and the gamboling dragons played against their trunks.

  “Won’t forget what?” I said innocently. “Jangsa? Or dancing with that girl?”

  Tem’s cheeks turned sunset pink. “I didn’t—I mean, that wasn’t my idea. I don’t know how River did it, but—”

  “But you didn’t mind, did you?” I said as Tem flushed even deeper. “And neither did she, I bet. You probably had to tear yourself away from her at the end of the night. Or did you? Come to think of it, Tem, I didn’t hear you return to your room—”

  “Stop it, Kamzin.”

  I chortled to myself.

  Later, though, as we both settled into our blankets, trying to get comfortable on the uneven ground, Tem said, “You really wouldn’t care?”

  I dragged my eyes open. I was so tired I felt as if I were weighted to the earth. “What?”

  He coughed. “If I was interested in someone. It wouldn’t bother you?”

  I was quiet for a moment. “Are you?”

  “No.”

  I shifted restlessly. “Well, what does it matter, then?”

  “You didn’t seem to mind dancing with River.”

  “I don’t mind being able to walk today.”

  “It was more than that, though,” Tem persisted. “The way you looked together—”

  “Listening to you talk about dancing is like listening to a fish talk about fire-building.” I rolled onto my side. “It was just a dance. Can we drop it?”

  “I just mean—”

  “Tem, if you need me to say it, I’ll say it. I wouldn’t mind if you were interested in someone. The two of us haven’t been together that way in over a year. So I don’t mind. All right?”

  Tem didn’t reply, for which I was grateful. I wasn’t entirely sure I had told the truth. The thought of Tem liking another girl made me feel strange. It wasn’t jealousy precisely. It was closer to loneliness than anything else. If I didn’t have Tem, who did I have?

  Sleep did not come easily for me, despite my exhaustion. Though the sound of the waterfall and Tem’s quiet snores were soothing, I lapsed in and out of a doze. The music of the Ghost March threaded through my thoughts. Part of me felt as if I were still spinning in circles. As if River’s arms were still around me, his breath warm against my ear. Others circled us—the masked dancers, but interspersed among them were the fiangul. Their beaks snapped at me as I passed, catching at my hair, my chuba, my skin. River melted away, and suddenly, they were everywhere, reaching for my throat with taloned hands—

  A noise startled me awake, my heart thundering. I listened, and it came again—a snuffling, scrabbling sound. The same sound I had heard before, at the edge of Bengarek Forest.

  I lay very still. It was hard to pinpoint the direction of the noise over the splash of the water—but it seemed close. As quietly as I could, I pushed back
my blankets and rose to a crouching position. Ragtooth, who had been sleeping by my head, gave a low hiss.

  “Shut up,” I whispered. My hand moved to the tent flap. The creature was just outside. I could hear its snout huffing against the rocky bank. Taking a deep breath, I pulled on the flap.

  Ragtooth bit my leg—hard.

  “Ouch!” I cried. Tem gave a start and muttered something, but he was not truly awake. He rolled over onto his side with a mumbling groan.

  Rubbing my calf, I listened. The sounds had stopped, and all was quiet. It was a different quiet from before, an honest, nighttime hush. I knew, somehow, that the creature was gone.

  In the morning light, there was no evidence of a trail. The earth was hard-packed, almost frozen. Not even Dargye’s footsteps left a trace.

  “I know it was out here!” I said. “It was the same creature I heard before. Whatever it was, it’s been following us.”

  Tem gave me a skeptical look. The others, preoccupied with breakfast, paid little attention to me.

  “It could have been the wind,” he offered, releasing the dragon he was holding and reaching for a second. The chill air dried their scales, which needed oiling every few days to keep them in good condition. The dragon’s eyes half closed as Tem rubbed heartseed oil between its wings.

  “It wasn’t the wind,” I said. “Please say you believe me. I wasn’t imagining it.”

  “I believe you,” he said quickly. “But, Kamzin, I set the warding spells myself last night. If an animal had slipped through them, I would have felt it.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t believe me at all. You could at least have the decency to say it.”

  “Kamzin . . .”

  I stomped over to the fire. Dargye handed me a bowl of sampa porridge, lumpy and slightly burned, which did not improve my mood. I stabbed at it with my spoon, trying to saw through the lumps.