“Who cares what that khuttoch thinks? Not like I asked for her help.” Chanda scoffed. The tight scowl on her mouth did little to disguise the suspicious brightness of her eyes.
What is this? He put his head to one side. Part of your memories are blocked.
“Blocked?” Chanda’s eyebrows lowered. Without breaking eye contact she called, “Miss, what does he mean?”
“I’m not sure.” Munayair nibbled a thumbnail. She addressed Avlingai. “Can you see what’s missing?”
Only fragments. He leaned closer, sniffing delicately around Chanda’s chin. Fear. Separation. The Night Watcher. And ... He trailed off, ears twitching.
“The Night Watcher?” Chanda growled. “What’s that monster got to do with me?” Scowling, she shoved Avlingai’s face away and stormed off a few steps, kicking at the grass and muttering to herself.
Munayair murmured in Avlingai’s ear. “Have you ever heard of this Night Watcher?”
Avlingai didn’t answer. His eyes were distant, lips twitched back in an unconscious snarl. There’s something about that smell, he growled. Something ... familiar.
She frowned. “You know who’s responsible?”
Avlingai’s claws dug into the soft earth and his head swung towards the sun rising over the mist-wreathed trees. Everyone has things we would rather forget. The older you are, the truer that becomes—and I am older than you can comprehend.
Once again, she felt warm breath on her mouth, heard the silver blade drive home. She doubted she would ever forget that feeling, no matter how long she lived. Her fingers tightened in his fur. “Av, what’s wrong?”
Shoving her with his heavy head, he sighed. The scent is fading, as must I. Remember what I said about your future. He turned and began to walk up the slope.
“Wait,” she said. He looked over his shoulder. “You never answered the riddle.”
I’m sure it will come to you in time. He vanished into the trees.
Chanda watched him leave, still scowling. The cat ran to Munayair, threading between her feet and threatening to trip her. She smiled down at the insistent mewing, holding out her hands. “No food, sorry. Ouch!”
The cat stretched on her back legs, claws digging into Munayair’s thigh, staring with mismatched eyes.
“I said I was sorry,” Munayair muttered, disengaging the cat from her skirt. “I won’t be if you keep this up.” She turned back to Tel as the cat dogged her footsteps.
Tel had finished his report and waited on the stump. A dozen papers lay on the pale wood, each with a detailed drawing of something he had seen during his separation. Instead of the trees and animals she had expected, most were people. Where had he been?
“What’s that?” Chanda whispered next to her ear, loud enough to deafen. Munayair winced. “You have a chelka?”
“Yes, this is Tel, he’s …” Munayair turned and words died on her lips.
Chanda’s eyes were wide as she stared at Tel’s drawings. Her quaking form was transparent as mist. “I—I don’t understand.” Her voice rasped.
Tachoul appeared out of the air, drawn by the young spirit’s emotion. Alarmed, Munayair instinctively tossed down a shield. The magical barrier shimmered to life like a heat haze. Following Chanda’s gaze down to Tel’s report, her heart skipped a beat. On the top page, expression of curiosity and hunger captured with a chelka’s precision, Chanda’s own face looked back at them. Munayair gaped for a long moment. Tachoul moved through the shield, hands outstretched like children asking for food. Their mouths moved, endlessly chattering in voices too quiet to hear. Munayair tore her gaze from the picture and whispered desperately. “Chanda? Please, calm down, or we’ll both be in trouble.”
“You have to explain to me.” Chanda touched the picture, then jumped back as if burned. “How can this be?”
Munayair folded her fingers over the girl’s, while with her other hand she gathered the papers. “I don’t know. Tel was lost in the woods, so at least we have a place to start. Try to calm yourself.”
Chanda gasped and shuddered. Her hand was as cold as ice water. “I—I dreamed of the woods. Under the moons, searching. So hungry ...” With a gasp, she snatched another drawing from lower in the stack, too fast for Munayair to see. Her lips tightened, fear melting away. The paper crumpled in her fist and fell to the damp grass. The tachoul were vanishing, losing interest.
Munayair bent and retrieved the paper. When she smoothed it out, the drawing from Tel’s perspective showed a vast figure bending, hand outstretched towards her. Eyes glinted down at her from under black hair, and a mask covered the lower half of his face. She frowned, memory stirring. “The boy in the woods,” she muttered, running her fingers over the mask. “The one who led us to Adasari. So he was the one who found Tel. Then how did the Night Watcher ...” She studied the boy’s dark, curious eyes, and her stomach lurched. She knew those eyes. The paper fluttered from her grasp as she looked around frantically.
Chanda was gone.
“Chanda?” she called. “Chanda, where are you? Oh spirits.” She was alone beside the quiet woods. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she called, “Chanda! Wait!” Hiking up her skirt, she started towards the grove, still and dark under Sorath’s eye. She felt around for the lump in her pocket. I hope there’s enough— she thought wildly.
The thought fled when she saw Nasim running towards her, red-faced and frantic. She staggered to a halt in front of Munayair and bent over, gasping for air.
“Nasim, what’s wrong?” Munayair asked, still half turned toward the grove.
“Been—looking—everywhere—” Nasim managed between breaths. She jabbed a finger towards the village. “Aunt Sisue s-sent me to find you.”
Munayair’s hands shook, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the shadowy trees. Was Chanda in there? Were tachoul surrounding her even now, draining the color from her eyes, her mind? “What?” she managed. The cat threaded underfoot, mewing, eyes wide.
Hot fingers latched around her wrist. “It’s the Night Watcher.”
Warm breath touched her lips and black blood sprayed across the cobblestones. Despite herself, Munayair looked around. Her heart thudded in her throat.
“He’s dying.”
Chapter 23: Collapsing
An electric shock lanced up from the mark on Muanyair’s wrist. After one startled breath, she was running. Nasim dashed ahead, but the cat was faster still, quick as an arrow, tail held like a flag. With every step, Tel banged against Munayair’s leg, urging her to run faster. Her thoughts whirled. If the Night Watcher was dying—bleeding—stabbed—then he was indeed a mortal, not a spirit. And that meant he could not be the forest guardian and was not the one abducting villagers. Despite her worry, a strange, heady relief spread through her limbs.
You do feel very guilty about this, Avlingai purred.
Hush, she responded.
They shoved through early-morning crowds, flashed past stilted huts, then banged into the innyard. There, while Nasim paused to get her bearings, the cat shot like lightning across the yard. They followed her to the stable door, where she stretched as high as she could, scraping at the frame and chirping urgently.
Nasim flapped a hand. “This is as close as I’m getting.”
Duly reassured, Munayair took a deep breath and rapped. The door shot open, knocking the cat head over heels. Sisue Mishra dragged Munayair inside, face seamed with lines. She nodded to Nasim. “Keep watch.”
The door snapped shut, and Munayair blinked. Blankets smothered the windows, and apart from the harsh rasp of labored breathing, nothing disturbed the silence. A dark shape lay in the stall, and she crept closer. The eyes of the statue sparked as she passed its alcove.
Once she stood over him, she summoned her witchlight and leaned closer. Light leapt over stiff, contorted limbs, bared teeth, and bloodied straw. Gold glittered at her from under black lashes before he collapsed, face knotted with pain. The cat pressed close, rubbing her head against one clenched fist.
>
The Night Watcher.
Avlingai came alert. Step closer, he instructed. I need to see the wound up close.
But although Munayair could feel his worry and impatience, she couldn’t bring herself to move. Her heart thundered in her chest, and her throat was too tight to produce words.
Mother Mishra was speaking in a wobbly whisper. “Lieutenant Tarokh’s been hunting him for a dozen moons, but they’ve never gotten close before.” She bit back tears. “I found him by the well at sunrise, bleeding and muttering your name. It’s a miracle we got him here without anyone seeing.”
“My name?” Munayair repeated faintly. “He knows my name?”
“Oh, he knows everything going on around here,” Mother Mishra said. “One of the reasons the council is so keen to get rid of him.”
Please, Avlingai begged. You don’t have to touch him. Just get close enough to see what’s wrong.
Grimly wrangling with her composure, Munayair knelt to take a closer look. Sweat, grime, and blood smeared the Night Watcher’s ashen face, and thick black hair piled in clumps around his shoulders. An acrid scent came off him, and sweat stood out in a thick sheen on his forehead and trickled into his hair. A sharp pang of sympathy struck her.
He hasn’t been eating well recently, Avlingai noted. She agreed silently. Although he was tall and broad-shouldered, testament to a well-fed youth, now he was thin to the point of painfulness. Hollow, sunken eyes and cheeks, bones protruding at collar and knuckles.
She looked around. “Who else knows?”
Sisue shook her head. “Only Nasim. She’s got enough sense—and fear of the old magic—not to say anything.” She wrung her hands. “Can you help?”
“I’m no healer.” Munayair tried to keep her voice steady and clinical, hiding shaking hands in her pockets. Rubbing Tel’s smooth forehead with her thumb calmed her. “We should call Journeyer Mahil right away.”
“Can’t you try?” Sisue’s hands worried at her apron. “Please?”
I’ll walk you through it, Avlingai said. Don’t be afraid.
Munayair swallowed down her fear. “Well, I’ll take a look.” She reached for his wrist, but jerked back when the cat jumped on his chest and spat at her, pupils flared.
“That cat’s always wandering in the yard. Shoo!” Sisue flapped her hands but only inspired louder hissing, like a pit full of snakes.
“It’s all right.” Munayair put her hands out again. “I know you’re afraid, kar-ler. You can trust me.”
The cat glared, a low, warning yowl emerging from her throat. Then the man shifted and spoke softly, and the cat’s ears flicked towards him. Her eyes narrowed. Then she backed away and sat near the wall, tail tapping in the straw. Munayair’s mind whirred. Had the Night Watcher just talked to the cat? And did the cat obey him? If he could talk to the cat, what other animal languages did he speak? She thought of the wolves, leading them away from danger through the woods, and a warmth spread through her chest.
She looked at him and gasped. He was watching her from under half-closed lids. “Can you hear me?” she asked, leaning closer.
A smile creased his tense mouth. “The journeyer stabbed my back, not my ears.” His voice was hoarse.
Anger sliced through her like a hot knife, mixed with worry and the cold clutching fingers of guilt. If only she hadn’t been so drunk. “What possessed you? Coming into the city when you knew—”
“I blame those blue eyes of yours.” He winked.
Her cheeks burned and she could think of nothing more to say. Luckily, Avlingai’s amused voice in her mind was precise. Still flushing, she bent to follow his instructions. “I need to look at the wound.” She took in a deep breath before putting her hands on him. Forcing herself to remain outwardly calm, she unfastened his sword belt and the sheath slung across his torso. He had three knives and a javelin as well as the sword in its blackened scabbard. It looked like a nobleman’s sword, unusual for such a ragged man. She didn’t look at the carved pommel as she set the weapons out of the way. “Help me with his tunic,” she said to Mother Mishra.
Using Sisue’s belt knife and following Avlingai’s directions, they carved the blood-soaked garment off him. Munayair turned back and sucked in a breath. Ropey scars crisscrossed his chest and abdomen. There wasn’t a single patch of smooth skin on his torso. While most were old and faded, several were still pink, shiny, and fresh.
Our friend is no stranger to knife wounds, I see, Avlingai said.
It looks like some kind of ritual. Munayair felt sick. She hovered her hand over his ribcage, tracing the longest one from under his left armpit all the way to the opposite hip.
He saw her looking. “The blackberries were worth it. So juicy.”
A laugh escaped her, she couldn’t help it. “These are from blackberry thorns?” Sisue glanced between them, blinking.
“Ask me again when I’m not bleeding in a pile of straw,” he said with a strained grin. “You’re making me ticklish.” He squirmed, and a jolt of pain ran up to his face. A groan escaped from between clenched teeth.
“We need to turn him over,” Munayair echoed Avlingai’s words to Sisue.
Through a joint effort they got him onto his side, straining against his weight. Even though he helped as much as he could, he couldn’t move any of the muscles on his back without his nostrils whitening around the edges from the pain. She winced when she saw the stab wound. It was as wide as her palm and obscured by half-clotted blood. He spasmed when she brushed it with her fingertips, lips taking on a bluish tinge.
His lung is collapsing, Avlingai said, fiery determination overtaking his worry. I know what to do.
This is too much, Munayair thought wildly. I can’t!
If you follow my instructions--
I said never again, she cut him off. This isn’t like putting glyphs on a chelka, it’s a person’s life!
As ever, he subsided without further argument, but his frustration at the back of her mind was acrid as sweat.
“Can’t you do anything?” Mother Mishra cried.
Munayair wiped her damp brow. “I’m sorry. We need Anjita.”
Frowning, Sisue wiped her hands over and over on her apron. Finally, she turned towards the door, muttering, “I’ll send Nasim.”
“I have a quicker way,” Munayair said. Lifting the hem of her dress, she touched a spell near her knee, shuddering as energy flowed out of her. She hated using skin spells. Chelka were more efficient and doubled as a buffer against backlash from broken spells. She touched the doorposts and lintel, then laid her palm against the door itself. The doorway creaked like the entire stable had settled into its foundation, then blue fire raced around the outline. Munayair opened it in one quick movement. Beyond lay shifting darkness, difficult to look straight into. She lit her witchlight and cupped it in both hands. “I need you,” she said, voice falling flat. Then she blew the light into the darkness.
After a moment a figure appeared. At first formless and shifting, then eventually coalescing into a familiar outline. Anjita hesitated on the doorstep with the witchlight floating by her shoulder. She took in the scene as she shut the door, eyes fastening on the figure in the straw. A grimace twisted her lips. “I might have known.”
“Help me.” Munayair said through her teeth as she dispersed the witchlight.
Anjita sighed as she bent to inspect his injuries with a practiced eye. “Is he awake?” She peered at the face squashed into the straw. “Can you talk to me? Goodman Night Watcher? If you can hear me, I need you to answer some questions.”
Moving to the front of the stall out of the way, Munayair watched in silence. Now Anjita was here, she found herself pacing, chewing on the skin of her lower lip, and wiping sweat out of her eyes.
Tell her his lung has collapsed, Avlingai urged.
I can’t! Munayair thought. What if she asks how I know?
What if it saves his life? It wasn’t like Avlingai to push so hard, ignore her commands. She gritted her teeth to e
ndure.
Anjita probed and pushed, listening to the grunted reactions from her patient. Her eyebrows drew down by slow degrees. While the process felt tortuously slow to Munayair, who understood very little, she didn’t look away. Avlingai muttered at the back of her mind, noting each step Anjita took.
… Tchunuuly test, Ocroo test. Chancy, but should get results. Ifanry-tved test … Smart girl. Now check his pulse …
“He’s having trouble breathing,” Munayair ventured. Even this small hint terrified her.
Anjita nodded. “The wound isn’t the real problem.” She pushed back her sleeves. “Something’s wrong inside.”
“What can I do?” Mother Mishra asked, eyes dark with worry.
“Run out to the river and fetch me a hollow reed—about a finger’s length. And sharpen the tip. Or I could go.” Anjita frowned as she tied her hair back into a tight knot.
Mother Mishra heaved herself upright. “There are reeds in the yard,” she said. “I’ll get one.” She hurried out, shutting the door after herself.
Anjita turned back. “We don’t have a lot of time,” she muttered, probing at the wound.
The Night Watcher screamed. He sat half-upright, each cough paining him worse and worse until he fell back, skin an unhealthy grey color.
“Easy now,” Anjita murmured, shoving with both hands. “Even if you feel like you’re smothering, you need to breathe gently. Oof, it’d be easier to shift a boulder.”
Munayair crossed her arms tightly, hunching and drawing a triangle over and over on the dirt floor with the toe of her boot. She looked up and met the eyes of the statue in its alcove, glittering knowingly. Please, she thought, and was unable to think of anything more to say.
It’s all right, Avlingai whispered. The gods are listening.
“Naya?” Anjita called.
Munayair jumped to attention. “Yes? What can I do?”
“The knife nicked his lung, and air is getting into his chest. He’s suffocating himself trying to breathe.”
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