by Sabaa Tahir
“Laia—his losses, what he has suffered—it is incalculable.”
“I do not love my family any less than he loved his.” I turn on her, and if she had a body, it would currently sport a black eye.
“I lost my mother,” I say. “My father. My sister. My friends. My grandmother. My grandfather. I was betrayed by the Resistance. Betrayed by the first boy I ever loved. Abandoned by Elias. You think I don’t want to sink a dagger into the Commandant’s heart? You think I don’t want to see the Martials suffer for what they have done to my people? I understand loss. But you do not fix loss with mass murder.”
“Your love is powerful,” Rehmat says. “It is your love that woke me—your love of your people. Your desire to save them. But the Nightbringer is not human, Laia. Can you compare the rage of a storm to the rage of man? When Mauth created the Meherya, he created a creature that could pass on ghosts for millennia, despite all of their pain, all of their sadness. Do you know what Meherya means?”
“No,” I say. “And I don’t care. I do wonder what your name means. Traitor, perhaps?”
“Meherya means Beloved.” She ignores my barb. “Not just because we loved him, but because of the love he offered. To his kin. To the ghosts. To the humans he encountered. For thousands of years.”
I think of all those the Nightbringer loved in order to get back the Star that would set his people free. I remember how he loved me, as Keenan. Something occurs to me then, and my face heats.
“Did you—you know that he and I—that we—”
“I know,” Rehmat says after a pause. “And I understand.”
“Beloved,” I whisper. The word makes me desperately sad. Because even if that’s who he was once, that is not who he is anymore.
“Love and hate, Laia,” Rehmat says. “They are two sides of the same coin. The Nightbringer’s hate burns as brightly as his love. Mauth does not love or hate. So he was not prepared when his son turned against him. But we can imprison the Meherya,” she says. “Bind him. My magic is the only force on this earth strong enough to contain him—”
“No,” I say. “The Nightbringer must die.”
“His death will usher in only more despair. You must trust me, child.”
“Why?” I say. “You deceived me. And now you will not tell me his weaknesses. You won’t tell me anything about him. Instead I go to the Tribes to beg for scraps of his story, which may or may not exist.”
“I cannot speak of my time with him. If I could, I would tell you all. What I can say is that he was the Beloved. His strength is in his name. And his weakness. His past and his present. You must understand both to defeat him.”
“To defeat him,” I say, “I need that scythe. And if you want me to trust you again, you’ll help me get it. You know how he thinks. You know him so well you spent a thousand years hiding just for the chance to defeat him.”
“I do not know him anymore.”
“Then I suppose we are finished,” I say. “And I’m doing this alone.”
I walk swiftly away from her, the soft sand dragging at my feet. A gust of wind blows the smell of roasting meat and horse to me. When I get to the top of the hill, I spot dim lights far ahead—the Tribal encampment.
“What if your theft of the scythe is part of his plan?” Rehmat comes around in front of me, so that I cannot walk forward without going through her. “A trap, a way to outwit you.”
“Then you will help me outwit him first.”
She considers me, drifting like a dandelion in the wind. Finally, she nods.
“I will help you get the scythe,” she says. “This, I vow. And—and kill him if that is what you wish.”
“Good.” I nod. I am glad then that she is not in my head anymore. For if she was, she would know that for all of her persuasive words, I no longer trust a single thing she says.
XXXVII: The Soul Catcher
The Tribes who escaped Aish left many of their wagons and fled into the labyrinthine desert canyons north of the city. It requires not inconsiderable skill to track them.
Still, after a couple of days, I manage it. Which means their enemies could follow them too.
I find Aubarit on the edge of the camp, sitting atop her wagon seat. She picks at a bowl of stew, listless despite the fact that it smells of cumin and garlic and coriander, and sets my stomach to growling. The walls on either side of the camp are high and the nearby stream rages, heavy from the rains.
“You need to hide your trail,” I tell her, and she glances up in surprise as I step out of the dark. “The only reason the Martials haven’t found you is that they’re too busy burying bodies.”
The Fakira does not smile, and her shoulders are stiff. “I thought matters of the human world were not yours to worry over, Banu al-Mauth.”
“They aren’t,” I say. “But matters of the Waiting Place are. And right now, the two are one and the same.”
The Fakira calls over one of her Tribesmen and speaks to him in Sadhese. He glances at me curiously before leaving.
“Junaid will see to our tracks,” she says. “You have not asked about Mamie Rila, Banu al-Mauth, or Tribe Nur or your own Tribe.”
“I have no Tribe, Aubarit,” I remind her. “However, I do have a problem. One that only the Tribes can help me with.” Admitting it is frustrating. But it is the truth and cannot be avoided. “Who escaped Aish?”
“Tribe Nasur. Tribe Nur. Tribe Saif. Tribe Rahim. A few others. They are scattered through the canyons, wherever the water is. In the immediate vicinity, there are perhaps three thousand.”
“Call the Kehannis and the Zaldars.” I refer to the Tribal leaders. “Call the Fakirs and Fakiras. Tell them the Banu al-Mauth has need of them.”
“Many are still in mourning.” Aubarit cannot hide her shock at my callousness, but I shake my head.
“There is no time to mourn,” I say. “Not if they wish to survive and not if they wish their dead to pass on in peace instead of torment. Harness their anger, Fakira. Call them to me.”
Within the hour, the area around her wagon is crowded with people. Some are vaguely familiar, like a tiny woman with black-and-red braids and a beautiful face. Her arms are crossed over a mirrored dress of gold and green, and she stands with a young man who looks like the taller version of her. Afya. I remember her from my memories of Laia. And her brother, Gibran.
I find I am relieved to see him. A memory ricochets through my mind—him attacking me, possessed by a ghost. Trying desperately to stop him, and the fear that in doing so, I’d damaged him irrevocably.
Mamie Rila arrives with a cauldron of tea and passes cups around to ward off the chill wind blowing in from the north. She nods silently to me, but keeps her distance. A tall man steps out from beside her. His curly hair is half-hidden beneath a scarf, and his skin is lighter than mine. He closes the distance between us in two steps, arms wide for a hug.
“Ilyaas—brother—”
I extricate myself from him carefully.
“Ilyaas,” he says. “It’s me—Shan—”
I know the name now. He is my foster brother. Mamie’s other adopted child. I nod at him stiffly. He wears the tattoos of a Zaldar, freshly inked. Behind him are other faces I recognize. Mamie’s cousins and brothers, her nephews and nieces. My old family.
They eye me with awe and a touch of wariness. Only Shan looks at me like I am one of them.
Mamie Rila touches his arm gently, whispering something into his ear, and his smile fades. After a few moments, he steps back. “Forgive me, Banu al-Mauth,” he says. “If I overstepped.”
You didn’t, the trapped voice inside me calls out. I crush it.
“Fakira Ara-Nasur.” I find Aubarit speaking to Gibran. “Is everyone here?”
At her nod, I look out at the crowd. Conversations hush, and the only sound is the sand susurrating restlessly against the canyon walls
.
“The Nightbringer steals spirits,” I say. “He keeps them from crossing over.”
Gasps arise and Aubarit looks sick. Afya Ara-Nur’s hand goes to the blade at her waist. “Those in Aish—” she says. “All of our dead?”
I nod. “All have been taken, and—” I stop before mentioning the maelstrom, my old Blackcliff training kicking in. Share only what is necessary. Telling them what the Nightbringer is using those spirits for will frighten them. And frightened people make poor foot soldiers.
“Why?” Mamie Rila says softly, her tea forgotten in her hands. “Why do such a horrible thing?”
“The jinns’ strength is more limited than it appears.” I let them draw their own conclusions. “They are powerful, yes, but in short bursts only. When their power is spent, they heal slowly. A side effect of their imprisonment, perhaps.”
“So—they are feeding off the spirits?” Shan says.
“In a manner of speaking,” I say. “The Nightbringer seems to want ghosts who have suffered. Those who would have come to the Waiting Place. That is why it is empty. He is taking them.”
“But what does he do with them?” A young Fakir I don’t recognize speaks up from the back of the crowd. I can barely see him—the torchlight near Aubarit’s wagon does not extend so far.
“I do not yet know,” I say, because Talis did not explain the mechanics of the Nightbringer’s plan. “But the jinn need the ghosts, which means they need dead humans. The jinn terrify a city, make a populace panic and capitulate. Keris Veturia sends her army in to butcher at will. The Nightbringer gets his suffering, and Keris claims another city.”
“What can we do against the jinn?” Gibran says, and his sister answers.
“It’s not the jinn we’re after.” She glances at me. “You want the Martials. If the jinn don’t have their foot soldiers, there would be less butchering. Less suffering. Fewer ghosts for the Nightbringer to steal.”
Beyond the ring of Zaldars and Fakirs and Kehannis, the crowd expands. Their fear spreads like an insidious fog.
“If we battle the Martials,” Mamie Rila says, “will that not simply make more ghosts?”
“Soldiers rarely enter the Waiting Place,” I tell her. “Especially Martial soldiers. Perhaps because they go to battle prepared for death. In any case, it is suffering the Nightbringer wants. Agony. We won’t give it to him.”
“What do you propose?” Shan asks.
“We fight.” My hands fist and my battle rage stirs, restless in my blood. “We attack in small groups, insurgency style. We aim for their food stores, their livestock, and supplies. We empty out the villages in their path. If Keris’s men are going to walk lands that do not belong to them, we can make that walk as difficult as possible. And we can do it without creating a glut of new ghosts for the Nightbringer to thieve.”
“Why not empty our cities?” Afya says. “Scatter into the desert and the Serran Range? The Nightbringer wants death, no? We could simply deny him that by hiding.”
“How long will you hide for?” Mamie says. “Keris Veturia will not give up. It might take longer, but she will hunt us down. And not just to kill us.”
Now Shan speaks up. “Her Empire has need of slaves. She killed too many during the Scholar purges.”
“We have a treaty with them—” a voice calls out, but Mamie snorts.
“Keris sold her own city to the Karkauns,” she says. “Do you think treaties mean anything to her?”
“We should fight,” Gibran says. “If the cost of staying in the Tribal lands is too high for the Martials, they’ll leave. Keris has another enemy to the north. The Blood Shrike and her nephew.”
“Yes, but if Keris defeats her,” Afya says, “she’ll send her armies back for us. Then what? Do we keep fighting? Living in canyons and gulches? When will it end?”
The crowd shifts, small conversations and arguments breaking out and echoing off the canyon walls. I am losing them.
Then a dark-haired, gold-eyed figure steps from the crowd into the firelight. She wears an embroidered Tribal tunic that brushes her knees, and her hair is freshly braided.
Fate will always lead you back to her, for good or for ill.
“Laia.” Mamie Rila is by her side instantly. “You should be resting—” But Laia shakes her head, a new sadness rounding her shoulders.
“All this sorrow. This suffering.” Her gold eyes fix on me. “All of it is because of the Nightbringer. Afya asks when will it end. It will end when the king of the jinn is dead.”
The Tribes nod and mutter in agreement.
“Killing him is not simple,” she says. “It will require the theft of a weapon he carries, and powerful magic. Until we can get that weapon, we must find other ways to hinder him. Stripping him of his allies is one such way. Keris is his strongest ally. To that end, Elias’s plan is sound. And he knows the Martials. He knows how they think. With him, we have a chance at victory.”
The Tribespeople glance at each other when she uses my old name, though I spot Mamie hiding a smile. I consider correcting Laia, but she has them mesmerized, so I keep silent.
“The Martials crushed my people,” she says. “Keris would do the same to you. And her master, the Nightbringer, would inflict that indignity upon your dead. So do we stand with the Banu al-Mauth and fight them? Or do we roll over like cowed dogs and let them do what they want with us?”
“Tribe Saif will fight.” My foster brother stands, but he doesn’t look at me. “For our land and our dead.”
“Tribe Nur will fight,” Afya says after a nudge from her brother. “If the other Tribes join,” she adds.
“Tribe Nasur will fight.” A silver-haired Zaldar steps forward. “And if the Banu al-Mauth’s plan works, we will continue fighting. If not . . .” He shrugs.
The sentiment spreads, and one by one, the Tribes agree to my plan. Laia turns to me, tilting her head as if to say, What next?
“We’ll meet in the morning,” I say. “To discuss the first attack.”
As the group breaks up, Laia approaches. She looks exhausted, covered in scratches and cuts, with a large bruise on the side of her face. I get an odd prickly feeling in my chest.
She puts her hand to it when she sees me looking. “It was a river,” she says. “So unless you strangle a force of nature, you cannot do much. Besides, you’re the one who left me stranded in the desert. If you want to be angry at someone, go find a mirror.”
“I am sorry. But—”
“No.” She puts a finger to my lips. “I am sorry was the perfect place to stop.”
She stands close enough for me to see the myriad tiny scratches all over her face. I brush my fingers against one lightly.
“The river that did this to you,” I say. “I don’t like it.”
Her smile is a lightning flash in the dark. “Are you going to find the bad river, Elias? Make it pay?”
“It’s Soul Catcher. And yes.” My thoughts toward this river turn baleful. “Maybe I can divert it down a canyon, or—”
The fire turns her gold eyes molten, and she throws back her head and laughs. Watching her is like watching a waterfall thundering down a gorge. Like watching the Northern Dancers illuminate the sky. I cannot describe it. I only know that a tightness in my chest loosens, and I am different—lighter—for witnessing it.
“That’s good,” she says. “That’s a start.”
“It will be a hard fight.” I force my thoughts toward the challenge that lies ahead. “Keris is a wily enemy.”
Laia holds up a scroll. “I’ve had a message from the Shrike. She is offering aid. She wants fealty in return, but it might give the Tribes a chance to renegotiate their treaty with the Empire.”
She examines me. “You could help with that if you chose,” she says. “Negotiate well, and they might be more willing to fight for you.” She nods after the
retreating Tribespeople. “You weren’t doing so well there.”
“Thank you for talking to them,” I say. At her shrug, dismissive and embarrassed at once, I find myself thinking of when I first became Soul Catcher.
Darin was still recovering from Kauf, and Laia and I were walking along the border of the Forest of Dusk, speaking of the Empire.
Nothing ever changes, she had said. Nothing ever will.
Maybe we’re the ones who change it, I’d told her. If there was one thing you could do right now to change the Empire, what would it be?
I’d get rid of the ghost wagons. Set free the Scholars locked up inside. Light those skies-forsaken death boxes on fire.
You can disappear. I’d taken her hand then, even knowing that Mauth would punish me for it. I can windwalk. What’s stopping us?
She offered that same smile. That same shrug. And then she started planning. Afya helped smuggle the Scholars we freed south, and Darin aided in the fighting. But Laia was the heart of it.
“You’re good at bringing people together,” I tell her now. “You always have been.”
“And you’re good at leading them.” She holds my arm and walks with me, and I’m so astonished I let her pull me along. “If you want your ghosts back, you’ll have to channel that skill.”
“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”
She shakes her head. “Elias, you need the Tribes to fight for you. You need to save the ghosts from whatever hellish torment the Nightbringer is subjecting them to. But”—she cuts me a look—“you cannot lead them if you do not understand them. No one wants to draw blades beside someone who views them as lesser. You are too distant. Too cold. If you want the Tribes’ loyalty, then appeal to their hearts. You might want to start by finding your own.”
XXXVIII: The Blood Shrike
“Lord Kinnius! We are pleased to grant you an audience.”
Livia rises from her simple black onyx throne and smiles at the dour-faced Illustrian staring her down. My sister arrived in Antium this morning, a week after we took the city, and barely had enough time to change.