by Sabaa Tahir
Two weeks of plotting how in the hells I am going to get that scythe back.
And at the end of those two weeks, a storm that has been brewing on the horizon finally hits. Of course, it does not strike while I am at an inn or even in a barn. The skies open while I am scurrying through a narrow slot canyon. The wind whistles down the sheer rock on either side of me, and soon enough I am soaked through, my teeth chattering.
Whilst skulking about the last village, I learned that a large group of Aish’s survivors was gathered near an abandoned guard tower a few hours south of the canyon. Hundreds of families, scores of wagons. The Saif caravan made it there, the villagers said, along with the Nur caravan.
If the rumors are true, Afya and Mamie will be with them. But if this storm doesn’t let up, I will not reach them before they seek out shelter elsewhere.
Rain sluices down the canyon walls now, and I look up uneasily. Living in Serra, Pop warned us never to visit the canyons outside the city during the wet season. You’ll get swept away in a flash flood, he had said. They are quick as lightning and far more dangerous.
I hasten my pace. Once I get to Mamie and Afya, I can plan. Keris is by no means done with the Tribal lands yet. But if we get the scythe, we could take out her allies. Stop her in her tracks.
The thought of killing a jinn again fills me with a bizarre mix of anticipation and nausea. Khuri’s death flashes before my eyes for the hundredth time. The arc of her body as she fell. The Nightbringer’s scream of loss.
Khuri would have killed me. She and all of her kin are my enemies now. Her death should not haunt me.
But it does.
“There is no shame in mourning the passage of so ancient a creature, Laia of Serra.” Rehmat’s glow is a soft light that reflects off the swiftly pooling water at my feet. “Especially when it passed by your hand.”
“If your goal is to destroy the jinn”—I raise my voice so Rehmat can hear me over the rain—“why are you so sad about me killing one?”
“Life is sacred, Laia of Serra,” Rehmat says, its voice deep as the thunder rumbling above me. “Even the life of a jinn. It is forgetting this fact that leads to war in the first place. Do you think that Khuri was not loved?”
The rain pours down heavier, and I do not know why I bother to wear a hood. My hair is soaked, and water streams into my eyes, blinding me no matter how much I wipe it away. In a few hours, it will be dark. I need to get out of this damn place and find a dry spot to spend the night. Or, at the very least, a boulder to hunker under.
“I did not mean to kill her,” I say to Rehmat. “One second she was not there and then—”
“You did kill her. This is the nature of war. But you do not have to forget your enemy. Nor should you ignore the toll her slaying has taken on you.”
“There will be a lot more dead jinn before this all ends,” I say. “If I weep over every last one, I will go mad.”
“Perhaps,” Rehmat says. “But you’ll remain human. Is that not worth a bit of madness?”
“Better if you help me get the weapon that could end this war,” I say.
“The scythe cannot help you when you don’t know how to wield it.”
“I know I need his story,” I say. “And I will seek it. But a story won’t do much good without a weapon.” The water is to my calves now and rising fast. I quicken my gait. “I do not fear him, Rehmat.”
“What do you know of the Nightbringer, Laia?”
“He’s careful,” I say. “Angry. Capable of great love, but filled with hate too. He spent a thousand years trying to free his brethren.”
“And his mind?”
“How the skies should I know what goes through his twisted brain, Rehmat?”
“You fell in love with him, yes? And he with you.” There is a strange note in Rehmat’s voice, but it’s gone an instant later. “You must have learned something.”
“He—he suffered,” I say. “He lost family. People he loved. And—” Thunder booms overhead, closer than before. “He plays a long game. The moment he knew I had a piece of the Star, he began planning. When things did not go according to his plan, he shifted quickly.”
“So do you think, Laia of Serra, that the Nightbringer, the King of No Name, will allow you to take the scythe now that he knows you want it?”
“Did you know him?” I am practically shouting, the rain is so loud. “Before he became what he is?”
“What I was before does not matter.”
“I think it does,” I say. “You want me to trust you. But how can I trust you when you will not tell me the truth about what you are?”
Wind howls down the canyon, and it sounds like a scream. Or a laugh. My blood goes cold and not from the rain. The last time I was in a storm this powerful, this angry, I was in the desert east of Serra, fighting to get a poisoned Elias to Raider’s Roost. That storm was the handiwork of the Nightbringer. As was the sandstorm that nearly separated me from Elias just a few weeks later.
“Rehmat,” I say. “This storm—”
“It is him.” The creature realizes it as I do. “He knows you are out here, Laia of Serra. He seeks to harm you. Climb, child.”
“Climb?” The path I am on is too narrow, the walls of the canyon too steep. Rehmat’s light flares in alarm as the earth beneath me rumbles.
“The canyon is flooding, Laia! Climb!”
Rehmat flies a dozen yards ahead, where the canyon curves into a small ridge. I try to run, but can only lurch heavily through the water. A deafening groan splits the air. Something moves behind me, a shattered forest come to life, gobbling and chewing as it goes. A flash flood.
I slosh forward as the water around me rises to my knees, then my thighs.
“Faster, Laia!” Rehmat barks, and now I have reached the ridge, but it is too slick for me to hold on to. The roar of the flood is so loud I cannot hear myself think. The headwall approaches too quickly.
“Help me!” I scream at Rehmat.
“The only way is to join with your mind.” Rehmat twists around me. “But we are too powerful together, Laia. And the Nightbringer is too close. If I lend you my magic, he would sense us!”
“Blast the Nightbringer!” I jump, clawing and scrabbling at the ridge. “Maybe that fiery bastard deserves to know I will not just lay down and die, Rehmat! He should know I’ll fight. But I cannot fight if you do not help me!”
The water pummels me, dragging me from the ridge. “Help me or I die!” I scream. “Please, Rehmat!”
The creature lunges, and for a moment, I feel it within my mind.
But it is too late. The flood has me now, and before I can draw on Rehmat’s magic, before I can even wrap my thoughts around the fact that it has joined with me, the water sweeps me away.
XXXI: The Soul Catcher
At first glance, the City of the Jinn looks as it always does. The wind scatters leaves and dirt down empty streets. The clouds above surge and heave, promising a storm. A hush blankets the spare buildings, heavy as the doors of a mausoleum.
In the distance, the River Dusk gleams a dull silver, more sluggish than normal. No doubt because it is choked with debris. After leaving Laia, I returned to find more dead patches along its banks. In the two weeks since then, those dead bits have only expanded.
I did not wish to come here. For nearly a fortnight, I put it off. But Mauth does not speak to me. The ghosts remain absent from the Waiting Place. And it all ties back to the Nightbringer. Here, in his home, perhaps I can learn why.
As I enter the outskirts of the city, it feels different. Awake. I slide through the shadows and spot the drift of a curtain in the wind. When I look again, it’s still. The edge of a cloak flits into view, followed by the low hum of voices in conversation. I follow the sound and find myself on a dead-end street. I think I smell cloves and coriander and apple on the air, but moments later the sce
nt is gone.
I feel like I am chasing down memories, instead of reality.
The wind, which screamed through the trees of the Waiting Place just minutes ago, is muted here, and transformed into a melancholy music that echoes through pipes hidden among the buildings. The melodies are beautiful. They also mask the sound of my passage.
Mauth’s magic does not extend to invisibility, so I must draw on all that I learned at Blackcliff. I stick to the shadows and take my time, making my way to the center of the city. There, on a street lined with high buildings, I hear voices that do not fade. They come from a gate twice my height—or more specifically, from the courtyard beyond it. There is no way to approach directly—not without risking discovery. I glance up, but the rooftops of the city are sloped, and smooth as polished glass. I’ll break my neck if I try to cross them.
Ten hells. Curse the jinn for not planting any bleeding shrubbery around their buildings. I edge toward a deep archway, hoping to the skies no jinn choose to walk past.
The murmur of conversation clarifies. Still, at first I cannot make sense of it. Then I realize why. The voices speak in Archaic Rei. The language of the jinn.
But Blackcliff’s rhetoric Centurion made us study Archaic Rei. It’s the parent language for Sadhese and Old Rei, the Scholar tongue. Thank the skies that old goat was so in love with ancient languages. After a few moments, I can translate:
“—cannot fight, you have yet to heal. There is no honor in death by idiocy—”
“—bring hot water and neem leaf, quickly—”
“—will be here soon. But he fights so we may forever be free of the Scholar scourge.”
The voices fade. I catch enough to understand that I’ve stumbled upon some sort of hospital or infirmary. But for whom? Do jinn even catch illnesses? When I lived with Shaeva, she never so much as sneezed.
I inch closer, and at that moment, two shapes plummet out of the sky, thundering down to the street just yards away.
One is Umber in her shadow form, glaive clutched tight. The other is the dark-eyed, dark-skinned jinn who accompanied her before—Talis.
Umber collapses upon landing, her flame body dim and flaking to ash. I am surprised. She certainly did not seem so weak when she was trying to kill me.
“Surfraaz!” Talis calls out, and another jinn, pale with a jutting chin and dark hair, runs from the infirmary.
“I told you not to let her fight!” Surfraaz snaps. “Look at her—”
“You try telling Umber no.” Talis struggles to stand, and Surfraaz grabs Umber’s other side. Together, they carry her into the courtyard. “She faded too fast,” Talis says. “This time, we need to keep her unconscious for a day or two, lest she—”
His words fade as he disappears from sight. Curiosity tempts me to follow, but I dare not risk being spotted. Instead, I sneak out of the archway and back the way I came. This city is vast. If there is one infirmary, there will be another, where I can figure out what is going on.
“Who are you?”
The speaker appears without warning, from a doorway I nearly walked past. It is a jinn woman regarding me with curiosity instead of rancor. She tilts her head, auburn hair falling in a waterfall down her back.
“You smell strange.” She sniffs at the air but does not look directly into my eyes, which is when I realize that she is at least partially blind. “Very strange indeed—”
I take a step back. Her hand shoots out and closes on my wrist. She hisses.
“Human!” she screams. “Intruder!”
I wrench away and windwalk, streaking through the streets. But the jinn can ride the winds too, and in less than a minute, a half dozen trail me, their fingers clawing at my back and shoulders. “Usurper!” they scream, and their voices are layered, an echo that bounces between the walls until it seems as if the city itself is hunting me.
One of them grabs my wrist and unleashes its fire. Mauth’s magic does not protect me in time. Pain bursts through my arm, and I stumble out of my windwalk, rolling to a stop at the border of the jinn city. The land flattens out into a large, empty plain before hitting a low escarpment. At the top: the jinn grove. It’s a good quarter mile distant, but if I can make it there, the jinn may back off. They hate the grove.
When I scramble to my feet, though, the jinn trailing me are gone.
All but one.
Talis holds a Serric steel dagger loosely in one hand, his stance indicating both that the steel does not affect him and that he knows how to use the blade. He watches me with the curiosity one reserves for an unfamiliar if not particularly threatening dog.
I tug Mauth’s magic into a shield, but it responds listlessly, like it can’t decide if it wants to wake up or not. When the jinn approaches, I back away. I don’t fear him. But I’m not an idiot either. I can still bleed. Still die. And Talis knows it.
“Our father’s magic fades.” Talis circles, taking my measure. “Mauth is locked in a battle with the Meherya, and I fear Mauth will lose.”
“Mauth is Death. For the living, death is the only guarantee. It cannot be defeated.”
“You are wrong,” Talis says. “There are many things more powerful than death. Your kind wax eloquent about them in song and ballads and poetry.”
“Love,” I say. “Hope. Memory.”
“Sorrow. Despair. Rage.” Talis considers me, then casts his dagger aside. “Fear not, Soul Catcher. I used my magic on my brethren. The jinn who followed you are convinced you’re on the other side of the city.”
“What do you want?” I ask. “Unless you sent them chasing after a fake Soul Catcher out of the kindness of your heart?”
“To speak with you,” the jinn says. “Without rancor or dissemblance.”
At my hesitation, he throws up his hands. “If I’d wished to harm you, I’d have done it while you eavesdropped. Dozens of jinn lay steps away, all of whom would have loved to see you dead.”
“Dozens of jinn who can barely muster their power, apparently.”
Talis’s back goes rigid. Interesting. “What are you doing in the Sher Jinnaat, Soul Catcher?” he asks.
Sher Jinnaat. The City of the Jinn.
“Is the Nightbringer stealing ghosts to restore the magic of the jinn?” I lob the question at him like a blade, in the hopes of catching him off guard. Confusion flashes on his face, and surprise. I might not be exactly on the mark, but I have hit close to the truth.
“You answer my questions,” I say, “and I’ll answer yours. An honest conversation, just like you wanted.”
“Ah, a human bargain with a fey, like in the stories your Kehannis tell.” Talis laughs. To my surprise, the sound is not menacing but warm, and a little sad. “Very well, Soul Catcher. One for one. You first. Why are you here?”
The Commandant’s interrogation training kicks in. If you must, offer the shortest answers you can while maintaining the illusion of cooperation.
“Reconnaissance,” I say.
“What did you learn, Banu al-Mauth?” he asks. “That we aren’t as great a threat as you feared? That your precious humans are safe?”
“As for your second and third questions,” I clarify, lest he think I’ve lost count, “I learned that you struggle with your powers, but that you are still a threat. Regarding the fourth, humans are not precious to me. Not anymore. Only the Waiting Place matters. Only the ghosts.”
“Lies.” The jinn motions me to walk with him toward the escarpment. “What of Laia of Serra?”
A fifth question. Yet none of my answers have given him any real information. This is too easy. Either he will go back on his word and refuse my questions, or there is something else afoot.
“Some names are etched into the stars,” Talis goes on. “Melody and countermelody, a harmony that echoes in the blood. I hear such harmony in your names—Laia-Elias.” He speaks them so they sound like one
word, so they sound like a song. “You might seek to deny her, but you cannot. Fate will always lead you back to her, for good or for ill.”
“I am not Elias anymore. And Laia is my past,” I say. “The Waiting Place is my present and my future.”
“No, Soul Catcher,” Talis says. “War is your past. War is your present. War is your future. The Augurs knew it—they sensed it when you were but a child. Why else would they choose you for Blackcliff?”
My nightmare rears its head. The army behind me, the bloody scims in my hands. The maelstrom, churning and insatiable.
Talis slows, his gaze fixed on my face. “What did you see, just then?” There is a strange undercurrent of urgency in his tone. “The Augur’s foretelling?”
I am surprised, but I hide it. Now I understand why he wasted his other questions. This was the one he wanted to ask from the beginning.
But Cain was desperate to keep the prophecy a secret from the jinn. If the Nightbringer hears what I have to say, it will be the end of all things. The Augur was cryptic and manipulative, but he never lied. Not outright. If he was afraid, perhaps there was a reason.
“You’ve asked enough questions for now. My turn,” I say, and though Talis glowers, jaw tight with impatience, he nods.
“Why is the Nightbringer stealing the ghosts that should be going to the Waiting Place?”
Talis is silent for long enough that I wonder if he’s going to answer the question.
“Revenge,” he says.
I think of my own answer earlier. Reconnaissance. The more questions he gets out of me, the more likely it is that he can ask about the foretelling.
Think, Soul Catcher. Think. The Nightbringer isn’t using ghosts to gather magic. He’s using them for revenge. What flavor of revenge? My nightmarish visions come to mind, and I cast another guess.
“What does the Nightbringer’s theft of the ghosts have to do with the maelstrom I’ve seen in my nightmares?”
Talis swings his head toward me, unable to mask his shock. “What nightmares?”