A Sky Beyond the Storm

by Sabaa Tahir

  “Hold her!”

  “D’arju—” A’vni protests, but D’arju waves her off and bores into my mind with her gaze. Her brown irises burn against the kohl rimming them. The fight oozes out of me. She’s hypnotized me and I cannot break her grip.

  “We mean you no harm,” D’arju says. “If we did, we’d have left you for the Nightbringer.”

  She is not expecting an answer, but I fight through her control and force out the words. “So he could watch Keris murder me slowly?”

  “He’s not hunting you to kill you,” D’arju says. “He’s hunting you so he can crack you open and understand what lives inside you.”

  I try not to let my alarm show. What lives inside me?

  “An old magic, child.” D’arju answers my unspoken question. “Waiting for a thousand years for someone with the strength to wake it.” The woman smiles with a fierce joy that makes me trust her a touch more. “I thought it would be Mirra of Serra. Or Isadora Teluman or perhaps Ildize Mosi. But—”

  “But even the ancient can be wrong,” A’vni says archly, and the other Jaduna chuckle. I expect D’arju to get angry, but she smiles. And something she said finally sinks in.

  “You—you knew my mother?”

  “Knew her! I trained her, or tried to. She never liked being told what to do. Ildize was more biddable, though that may have just been her Mariner civility. Isadora I never knew—but the power in that girl!” D’arju whistles. “A shame the Empire got to her before we did.”

  My mind spins. “Power,” I say. “You mean the power efrits gave?”

  D’arju snorts. “If your power came from an efrit then I’m a jinn. Silence, now. Let me work.”

  The old woman drags my stare to hers again, and my mind seems to bend and strain—a slow, torturous pulling, as if some part of me was immersed in a thousand-year-old swamp and is finally clawing its way into the light. When it emerges, I find I have been nudged into a back room of my own head.

  “Peace be upon thee, Rehmat.” D’arju’s voice trembles, and I know instantly that while she might be looking at me, she is not speaking to me. “Thy servants are here. Our vow is fulfilled.”

  “Peace be upon thee, Jaduna. Thy duty is complete. I discharge thee from thy vow.”

  The words come out of my mouth. It is my lips that move. But the low voice is not mine. I have never used the word thee in my life. Besides which, the voice sounds nothing like me. It is not human. It is more like what a sandstorm would sound like, if a sandstorm spoke archaic Serran.

  “So this is our warrior,” Rehmat says, no longer so formal. “The final manifestation of your long-ago sacrifice.”

  “It was no sacrifice to nest you within our people, great one,” D’arju says.

  “A hundred Jaduna accepted my power into their very bones, child.” Rehmat’s deep growl brooks no disagreement. “It was a great sacrifice. You did not know how it would affect your children, or theirs. But it is done. I live now in thousands upon thousands.”

  “I confess, great one,” D’arju says, “I did not think Laia of Serra would be the one to wake you. The Blood Shrike might have been a more fitting champion, or the Beekeeper. The smith Darin, perhaps.”

  “Even Avitas Harper,” another of the Jaduna says. “Or the young demon killer Tas.”

  “But they did not defy the Nightbringer. Laia did. Rejoice,” Rehmat says, “For the path is set. Now our young warrior must walk it. But if she is to defy the Meherya, I cannot live within her mind.”

  Meherya. The Nightbringer.

  D’arju shakes her head vehemently. “She must be one with you—”

  “She must choose me. If a falcon refuses to fly, can she be one with the aether?”

  Now A’vni speaks up, clasping her hands together so they do not tremble. “But—but no vessel can hold you, great one.”

  “I need no vessel, child. Only a conduit.”

  Oh skies. That doesn’t sound promising. I fight for control of my own mind, my body. But they both remain firmly in control of this voice. Rehmat. A strange name—one I have never heard of.

  “Will it hurt her?” A’vni asks, and if she had not helped kidnap me, I might have been thankful for her concern.

  “I live in her blood.” Rehmat sounds almost sad. “Yes. It will hurt. Hold her.”

  “What in the skies—” For a brief moment, I return to myself and thrash against the Jaduna. A’vni winces, but pins me down with the others.

  When Rehmat speaks again, it is only to me: I am sorry for this, young warrior.

  Fire tears through me, up and down every limb, as if my nerves are being ripped from my skin and salted. If I could scream, I would never stop. But the Jaduna have gagged me, and I strain against them, wondering what I have done to deserve this. For surely, this is my end.

  A vaguely human figure emerges from my body. It reminds me a little of when the ghuls took my brother’s form to frighten me long ago in Serra, at Spiro Teluman’s forge. But where ghul-spawned simulacrums are bits of night, this creature is a slice of the sun.

  My muscles turn to jelly. All I can do is squint against the brightness, trying to make out details of the shape, but it is not a she or he or they, and it is neither young nor old. With one last flare, its glow dulls until it is bearable.

  D’arju drops to her knees in front of the apparition. When it offers the Jaduna a glowing hand, D’arju’s fingers pass right through it. Whatever Rehmat is, it is not corporeal.

  “Rise, D’arju,” Rehmat says in that same deep voice. “Take thy kin and go. A human approaches.”

  I try to sit up and fail. What human? I try to say, but it just sounds like “Whhffff.”

  The Jaduna file out silently, all but A’vni. “Can we not aid her?” she says. “It is a lonely battle she must fight, Rehmat.”

  “Your kindness does you credit, A’vni,” Rehmat says. “Fear not. Our young warrior is not alone. There are others whose fates are twined with hers. They shall be her armor and her shield.”

  I do not hear A’vni’s response. For when I blink, the Jaduna are gone. Rehmat is gone. I do not feel tired, or weak, and the pain that wracked my body minutes ago has faded to a dull ache. I am still in the villa—from the jewelry scattered on the dresser, it must belong to the Jaduna.

  Was it a dream? If so, how did I get to this room? Why do I not have any marks on me from my fight with the Commandant and the Nightbringer?

  Forget it. Get out of here.

  Alarm bells still blare and the shouts from the street are so loud I can make them out through the shuttered window. “Search the next street. Find them!”

  The door slams open, and a woman walks in. I drop into a crouch behind the chair, blade in hand, but the woman throws back her hood.

  “Laia! Bleeding hells.” The Blood Shrike has changed into Mariner sea leathers, and though her hair is still covered, she looks more like herself. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What happened?”

  “I . . . I was—”—taken by Jaduna, who performed some sort of rite that led to a . . . thing coming out of me, but now it is gone and I have no idea what any of it means.

  “I got into a fight with the Nightbringer,” I say. “Escaped out a window.”

  The Shrike nods approvingly. “Same. The window bit, that is. Tell me what happened on the way. We need to meet the others at the gate. Guards all over the place—”

  I raise my hand, for I’ve seen a flash of iridescence—one of Musa’s wights. A moment later, a scroll appears between my fingers.

  Northeast gate compromised. Soldiers everywhere. What the bleeding hells did you two do? Get to the harbor. I’ll find you.

  “Nice that he managed to fit in a scolding but not which harbor,” the Shrike mutters.

  “It’ll be Fari Harbor,” I say. “Where we disembarked when we first got here. But we have to
get through half the city first. And if the streets are crawling with soldiers—”

  The Shrike offers a grim smile. “Streets are for amateurs, Laia of Serra. We’ll take the rooftops.”

  VIII: The Soul Catcher

  The jinn tear Cain from my hands and the Augur crashes to the ground a few yards away. I’m certain the force of it will break his frail body in half. But he rises to his elbows as three jinn close in around him, blocking his escape.

  “He belongs to us.” The jinn in command steps between the Augur and me. Rain sluices down her heavy cowl and her flame eyes burn with hate. “Go back to your ghosts. He is not worth your trouble, Soul Catcher.”

  Perhaps not. But Cain knows something about the dreams. He knows about a threat to the Waiting Place. He has information I need. Curse you, old man.

  “The Augur was once human,” I say. “He is thus in my charge. He will be removed from the Waiting Place. But not by you.”

  One of the jinn steps forward. His hood falls back to reveal a human form, hair braided close to his head, skin a deeper brown than mine. He is vaguely familiar, but I cannot place why. He snorts. “Big words for a little boy.”

  My hackles rise at the mockery in the creature’s voice. No boy now, but a man, with a man’s burden upon your shoulders. The words are from my old life, spoken to me by Cain, though I do not remember when.

  I do, however, remember how to read an enemy, allowing me to shift aside just in time to avoid the blast of heat the jinn leader levels at me.

  My reprieve is short-lived. She strikes again and this time, I am enveloped in flame. I have no shirt or cloak to protect me. Mauth’s magic rises, saving me from the worst of the attack. But there is the faintest sluggishness to the shield. Battling a monster of his own creation, Cain had said.

  Now isn’t the time to be distracted, Mauth, I shout in my mind. Unless you want me barbecued.

  Mauth doesn’t respond, but the effort to kill me appears to have tired the jinn out—at least momentarily. Regular weapons do not do much against jinn unless they are coated with salt. In any case, I only have my fists, so I throw a punch. My fist slams into solid, burning flesh, and part of me crows in satisfaction as she rears back, screaming.

  “Umber!” One of the other jinn steps away from Cain to help her.

  “Get back, Maro!” Umber shrieks. But Maro is too slow, and leaves enough of an opening that I can bolt through, fists flying. I move preternaturally fast and the jinns’ prejudice works against them. They do not expect my competence, and I am able to sweep Cain up over my shoulder and tear away from the grove.

  The jinn might live in the Waiting Place, but they are not Soul Catchers anymore. They don’t have a map of the forest in their heads the way I do. They will track me. But it will take time.

  As I windwalk, I slow my pounding heart, quell the part of me that thrills at the violence and simplicity of battle. It felt good to fight, a voice within whispers, for you were born to it. Your body was made for it.

  I do not answer that voice. Instead I push myself faster, until I smell the salt of the sea. We are hundreds of miles from the jinn grove, not far from where I intercepted the humans earlier. Waves crash beyond the tree line, and I keep the water at my back. The jinn won’t approach from there. They hate salt.

  The Augur winces when I drop him. “What do you know about the visions?” I ask. “You spoke of a threat to the Waiting Place?”

  When the old man hesitates, I glance pointedly over his shoulder at the forest.

  “I could let them have you,” I say. “I could let you rot in their jail. Talk.”

  Cain sighs. “I will give you what you wish for. For a price.” His hands are inexorable as they close over mine. As he lifts them to his heart. “I want release, Soul Catcher. You are the Banu al-Mauth, the chosen of Death. You are one of the few on this earth who has the power to end my life. I ask that you do it quickly.”

  The images I saw months ago in the City of the Jinn assail me. Cain as a young Scholar king, greedy for power and magic. Cain demanding knowledge from the jinn ruler before he became the Nightbringer. Cain manipulating a kind-hearted, lovestruck jinn woman named Shaeva into betraying her people.

  Shaeva, who passed the mantle of the Waiting Place on to me. Who was chained to a fate she didn’t deserve because of this man.

  “Why didn’t you just let the jinn kill you?” I ask.

  “Because they do not want to kill me,” Cain says. “Not yet. When jinn die, they speak prophecy. That is what they want from me.”

  “You’re not a jinn.”

  “I siphoned their power for a millennium, Soul Catcher.” The Augur glances back to the dark line of the forest. “The Nightbringer killed the other Augurs too swiftly to learn anything from their deaths. But he’s been saving me. If he hears what I have to say, it will be the end of all things. This I swear, by blood and by bone. Kill me, Elias, before he and his kin can hear the prophecy, before they can use me. Kill me and the world might yet endure.”

  “I’m not going to kill you.”

  “Body and soul!” Cain closes the distance between us and jerks my face close, until all I can see are the reds of his eyes. “Do you remember? True freedom—of body and of soul.”

  “Lies,” I say. “Like everything else you told me.”

  “Not lies, but hope,” he says. “Hope for the future. Hope for the Scholars, my people, whom I failed. And hope for you, Soul Catcher, even when you believe your fate is written. It is not, no matter what Mauth or the Nightbringer might tell you.”

  That muted voice within pokes up its head. Fight, Soul Catcher, it says as I try to hush it. Fight.

  In the distance, the forest glows orange. The jinn approach.

  “Tell me about the dreams and the threat to the Waiting Place. And I’ll take you somewhere you’ll be safe from the jinn.”

  “I do not want safety. The killing blow is my release, Elias Veturius. And yours. Swear you will deliver it, and you will have what you wish.”

  “Keep your secrets, then.” There’s some trick here. Something he’s not saying. I try to shake him off, but he holds on like a lamprey. “I won’t kill you.”

  “Remember I’d hoped to be gentle,” he whispers. “Remember that I tried, Elias, even as you curse my name. And tell them. You are my messenger here, at the end, and if you do not tell them, there will be no sky beyond the storm. No Waiting Place or ghosts or hope. Only suffering and pain.”

  He grabs me, sinking his fingers into my scalp like he’s going to tunnel through my skull. I shout and try to pry him off. But though I’m six inches taller and four stones heavier, Cain holds me captive as easily as if I’m that six-year-old child being dragged off to Blackcliff.

  “A gift from me to you, Elias,” he says. “A gift for all that I have taken. The girl with the gold eyes is Laia of Serra, heir of the Lioness. I burn her name into you, and no power on this earth shall root it out—” He flares with magic and a flood of memories explodes in my mind.

  —The fire in her gaze the day I met her and—

  —A dark night in the Tribal desert. Whispering You are my temple and—

  —Her tears as she shoved a familiar armlet into my hands. Take this. I don’t want it—

  “No.” I try to force Cain’s hands away. “Stop this.”

  “The woman with the crown braid”—the Augur’s bloody gaze bores into me—“is Helene Aquilla, Blood Shrike and Hope of the Empire. I burn her name into you, and no power on this earth shall root it out—”

  —Her hand reaching for me in the Blackcliff culling pens and—

  —Her moonlit face in the steppes north of the Empire, smiling as the wind howled and—

  —Let me go, Elias as I fled Blackcliff—

  “Cain, skies.” I shove him, but he won’t let go. Mauth’s magic pools inside me, a white-hot sizzle
at my fingertips, screaming for release.

  “Stop—bleeding, burning skies—” The words are strange in my mouth and I realize I haven’t sworn for months. “You mad old bastard!”

  But Cain is resolute. He speaks, his words a cudgel over my head.

  “The woman with your eyes is your mother, Keris Veturia, daughter of Quin and Karinna, teacher and executioner. I burn her name into you, and no power on this earth shall root it out—”

  —Her tired face peering down at me and—

  —Go back to the caravan, Ilyaas. Dark creatures walk the desert at night and—

  —The tattoo winding up her neck and—

  My mind overflows with their names, their faces, with all we are to each other. Laia. Helene. Keris. Beloved. Friend. Mother.

  This cannot be borne, because I have a duty and these names, these faces, are an impediment to that. Yet I can’t unsee the memories Cain has given me.

  Laia. Helene. Keris.

  “You get these names out of my head, Cain.” I want to shout, but I only manage a whisper. Laia. Helene. Keris. “Get them out—”

  But the Augur tightens his grip, and fearing he will pour more memories into me, I lash out with Mauth’s magic. It wraps around Cain’s throat like a whip and pulls at his life force, draining him dry in seconds. The Augur collapses and I drop beside him, understanding too late that this was his intention. That this is why he gave me the memories. He’s not dead yet. But he will be soon.

  As I stare down at him, I can smell the cool sand of the desert and Tribe Saif’s fear. I see the stars going out as he stole me from my family. From any joy I might have had.

  “It was the only way, Elias,” he whispers. “I—” His body stiffens like Shaeva’s did, before the end. He stares into the middle distance, and when he speaks, it’s as if there are many of him.

  “It was never one. It was always three. The Blood Shrike is the first. Laia of Serra, the second. And the Soul Catcher is the last. The Mother watches over them all. If one fails, they all fail. If one dies, they all die. Go back to the beginning and there, find the truth. Strive even unto your own end, else all is lost.”