She wasn’t aware of falling until arms closed around her, and she kicked and fought, clawing the air, fighting to go back. Dimly, she heard voices in her ear, but she could not understand what they said. She had only one pressing worry left.
“Jita,” she screamed until her voice was raw. “Don’t touch her!”
The tachoul abandoned their other prey and converged on Munayair, hungry mouths speaking in voices too soft to hear.
“Go, go!” Khuson yelled.
She could hear nothing, nothing but screams and the fire ... She caught a glimpse of Bast’s pale face and huge eyes as he stumbled back, holding her in his arms, towards the shimmering barrier. His shoulder was bleeding again. Khuson stepped between them and the tachoul, slashing with torch and blade, roaring defiance. They fell back in utter silence. Scarlet soaked his tunic and his fist pressed against the old wound.
Screaming and clawing, she extricated herself from Bast’s grip and fell to the ground. On hands and knees, she crawled. Anjita lay nearby, eyelashes trembling like leaves on her bleached skin. Foam dribbled from her mouth and a crescent of white was visible under her eyelids. Every so often a tremor passed over her and her limbs spasmed. Munayair bit back tears as she put her hands on either side of Anjita’s face. It was cold, cold.
Dead, Munayair thought. Oh spirits, not again.
Hands grabbed her shoulders, and she saw a dark, scarred face with glinting eyes. A voice spoke urgently, but she could not comprehend the words.
“I know who you are now.” She smiled at the realization. “My father often spoke of Shamash, bringer of justice. Are you going to kill me?” She wondered if somewhere, far away, her heart was pounding with fear.
Giving up trying to talk to her, he bent to throw Anjita over his shoulder. Tel wriggled in her pocket, and she brought him out, swiping a finger over the glyphs sketched onto his forehead. Find Safety, they said.
Safety?
Did such a thing exist?
“Tel, I need you to save me again,” Munayair whispered.
He wriggled out of her grip, dropped to the forest floor, and scampered away to the barrier. Munayair didn’t notice Khuson striding away until he came back and led her by the hand like a child. Anjita’s head lolled on his shoulder, cold and calm as death.
Tel stood waiting impatiently for them. Bast jabbered in a tight, unhappy voice, but all she heard was gibberish. Lost within her own worries, too many to count, trampling her like a herd of frightened cattle, sharp hooves tearing her flesh and bones.
Find safety.
Where might the true heir of Geshuu find safety?
Dame Savra spoke as the crackling tent fire sent smoke as a benediction to the heavens. “She raised her hands, and the earth tore itself apart and killed everyone she loved.”
She focused on her hands, the familiar brown skin, stumpy fingers and sturdy fingernails, pared short. Memories flashed through her mind. Her father, tall and proud, riding his mare to war. Her cousin Zolzaya, only a few years older and engaged to a nearby clan chief’s son since birth. Surely she would be married by now. Bayar, the boy she had ridden ponies with. Was he taller than her now, still with that brilliant smile and his mother’s hazel eyes? Dame Savra and her stories. Temujin, who had guarded Munayair’s mother all the way from the mountains and stayed on the plains to protect her children … She saw them lying lifeless. All destroyed by her hand. Just like Anjita.
Your father saw this coming, the voice of fear whispered. There was no Avlingai to call it a liar. He sent you away because he knew what you would become.
As she drowned in fear and self-loathing, something touched her hair. A caress, gentle as the spray from a river as it went over rocks. Like the rhythm of a fountain—strong enough to level mountains, drown cities, and bury countless lives, but still tender. Someone was calling her, someone inside the barrier. Her head shot up. Tel waited beside the shimmering golden light, ceramic face flashing impatiently. Find Safety, his glyphs commanded.
Khuson tugged on her hand. “Only one way left.”
Clinging to him, she stepped through.
Chapter 33: Uneg
The shield passed like warm, dry air over Munayair’s skin. Khuson towed her behind him, Anjita’s body dangling over his shoulder. Whimpering, Bast trod on their heels.
“Nothing to do but wait,” Khuson said, settling Anjita gently on the soft loam.
Munayair heard him as a distant echo beyond the clamor of her thoughts. Cursed. The clan was right to fear me. She looked beyond the barrier. The mercenaries were regrouping, bearing their wounded away. Tachoul pressed against the shimmering golden barrier. Amid the chaos, Shivne-Mage stood with hands folded, eyes fixed on her. Waiting, just as he had when the mercenary was being tested. Being driven mad. His gaze was intent.
“We’re going to die,” Bast whispered. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.
Khuson dropped to his knees next to the spasming boatman and rolled him onto his back. Blood pulsed from Bast’s shoulder, soaking his tunic and seeping into the mossy ground. Khuson tore off his cloak and wadded it up, pressing it against the wound.
Glimmering lights sparked from the air, bright as stars. They swirled around each person in turn. As the lights appeared, so did whispers like leaves rustling in the breeze. “Emissary … emissary … the emissary has returned.”
Munayair ran her fingers over Mehan’s amulet, only distantly aware of Bast crying out in fear. Lights swirled, close enough to dazzle her eyes. High-pitched voices spoke, but the words passed by her like figures in a dense fog. She looked at Anjita’s white face, mind blank and heart racing, terrified but unable to remember why.
“He has the mark!” one of the lights cried out, swirling around Bast’s arm. The lights abandoned the other humans and began circling him like a brilliant flow of water, crying out in high-pitched voices. Bast gawked around in terror.
Someone was touching Munayair’s shoulder, speaking. She caught a confused glimpse of dark hair smeared across gleaming gold, a familiar scent of leather and sweat. How had she ever taken him for a spirit? He was more solid than earth. “Munayair,” he said, so only she could hear. “Listen. You’re in shock.” He pressed something into her hand—a cool, familiar weight.
She gasped. Unconsciously, her hands tightened around Tel’s familiar form with bruising force.
Khuson gripped her by the shoulder, head bent to meet her eyes. “Don’t leave him behind. Hold on, don’t drop him. Can you do that?” Scarlet liquid dripped through the hand he held clamped against his side.
Her mind stirred slow as a spoon in molasses. “Don’t tell her,” she found herself babbling through tears. “Promise me you won’t say anything about what I did. I couldn’t bear it.”
He hesitated. “You must tell her yourself.”
“I will, I will.” She nodded frantically. “I promise, I promise.”
Releasing her, he stood back. The lights began to circle him, taking special interest in his sword as well as his eyes. He blinked as sparks gleamed in his face, a crooked smile touching his pale lips. “Hello again.”
The whispers grew louder, excited. “He’s back!”
“The uneg is back!”
“Windsinger be thanked, things were getting boring around here …”
“You!” A single voice rose above the others. If it hadn’t been issuing from a spark of light, it would have been described as self-important. “If you think you can slip through our patrol again—”
Khuson smirked. “Oh, just this once? For old times’ sake?”
Giggles spread through the sparks of light. “What news from outside?” a voice squeaked.
“Shut up, Engge,” the pompous voice cried. “Breath of the Windsinger!”
Bast was sobbing now, fingers clenched over his wound. Beside him Anjita lay as silent and unmoving as a chelka whose power matrix had run out. Munayair could not feel where her feet touched the ground. She seemed to be observing the scene from outside
her body, watching from the sky. She could hear every word spoken, but none of it had any effect on her. Absently, she looked at Anjita sprawled boneless, corpse-like, and wondered why the sight wasn’t upsetting her. Perhaps she had died in the battle, and was now a ghost removed from mortal concerns, able only to observe but not interfere.
Khuson gestured around. “As you see, our need is urgent. We seek the aid of the gokhai for our injured.”
“Injured?” The voice scoffed. “You already tried that trick, mortal.”
“Trick?” Khuson said, wounded. “When have I been anything other than forthright with the warriors of the ulger?”
“Need I remind you?” The voice rose indignantly. “Last time you sought a hidden treasure, later proven to be a dead mouse. Then you set your murderous beast on us and we barely escaped with their lives. Some of our warriors still lie abed due to the shock!”
“The cat is a rascal,” Khuson sighed, “especially when she’s hungry.”
Nothing felt real to Munayair anymore. It’s nice to be dead, she thought. No more fear or worry … She glanced around to find Shivne’s black gaze still fixed on her, and her stomach lurched. Even as a ghost, she still feared him. She thought of the color fading from Chanda’s eyes, and the mark on her wrist ached as if burned by ice.
“The time before, you distracted us with a shiny pebble. The kudai mocked me for days.” Khuson hid a smile behind his hand but said nothing. The voice grew higher and shriller the angrier it got. “And the tunnel you dug. Thank Aïda the delj caught you before you got too far. Before that, you lulled our patrol to sleep with a song. The time before that, you rushed in screaming the mages were attacking, and sent the entire sanctuary into uproar! The tembu were so upset they went into molt for three moons after. Have you ever been bitten by a molting tembu, mortal?”
Khuson’s face was completely straight. “No, but I’ve always longed to be.”
The lights giggled, and their incensed leader flashed blindingly. “Stop encouraging him! Where was I?” It paused. “Oh yes! It was the time before that you faked a mortal injury. We carried you—at much strain to our wings—almost all the way to the gokhai before we discovered your ruse!”
Khuson’s lips twitched. “Ahhh, I almost forgot. The berry juice attracted a swarm of firebugs.” He rubbed his arm. “I still have burns.”
“Enough! You have made a mockery of the ulger, now face the consequences.” Voices muttered, but none of the watching lights dared object. “The punishment for trespassing, as mandated by our most wise Lady Ronyl, is madness.”
“Very well.” Khuson sank to his knees. “As long as you take the others, I submit to punishment.”
The leader fell silent, as if he had anticipated more argument. Munayair’s heart leapt. Her limbs were beginning to ache, and the mark itched, so she scratched it. Perhaps she was alive after all. Worry was beginning to swirl in her mind, like dark water roiling as some vast creature rose from the depths.
“He came with the emissary,” a different voice piped in. Several lights darted closer to Bast. “Will you vouch for this uneg?”
Bast shook with exhaustion, eyes narrowed on Khuson. “If he’s not the Night Watcher,” he muttered, “who is he?”
“No one,” Khuson said helpfully, and winked.
Something was wrong—Munayair’s heart pounded. She looked from Anjita’s pale face to Khuson kneeling, and words stirred in her throat. Lifting her gaze, she met Shivne’s eyes through the barrier. He was watching, hands clenched, black eyes shining.
Be cautious. He wants us to get in, a voice whispered in her mind. The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t remember why, and it didn’t speak again.
“If the emissary will not speak for this uneg,” the leader said, “we have no choice.”
The lights began to whirl. Khuson let out a choked gasp, falling to his knees, eyes bulging. Like the mercenary, he was going to be driven mad.
Chapter 34: The Speaking Trees
The beast erupted from the black water. Terror flooded through Munayair from the center of her chest outward. Her tongue felt numb, her vision blurred. As her fingers crumpled the fabric of her tunic, she felt a hard shape in the pocket.
Dame Savra spoke, as she had so often before. “Spirits of air are lovers of many pleasures, especially fine liquor …”
Before she could think, Munayair strode into the middle of the swirling lights, between them and Khuson. Fear tasted like copper on her tongue. She took the jug from her pocket and tore out the cork with her teeth. A few drops splashed onto her hand, and a sweet, rotten scent wafted into the air. The lights paused, and whispers hissed. “Is that—”
“It can’t be!”
“Windsinger, I never thought I would meet such a smell again in this world …”
Kneeling among the distracted lights, Khuson blinked and drew in a ragged breath. He winked up at her and Munayair gasped with relief—his mind was still intact. Now to keep it that way. “Wardens of the Great Cypress.” She stumbled over her tongue. “Accept this offering as a token of our need for sanctuary.” She tipped the jar, golden stream splattering onto the moss.
“Don’t waste it!” a voice shrilled. The lights dove, flowing around the spilled wine like glowing water. Hundreds swarmed the jar in her hand, and she dropped it with a squeak.
Sparks scrambled around her feet, seeking out wine on the forest floor. A swarm churned around the mouth of the jar. One of the lights drifted close, and she narrowed her eyes against the glare. Inside was a tiny man, perfectly proportioned, dressed in fine robes of spring leaves trailing well past his feet. Gossamer wings—the source of the light—fluttered behind him.
“I am Dashjin, prince of the ulger.” His voice was the one that had listed Khuson’s crimes.
Ulger. Munayair’s heart lifted. The legends of Sayakhun were full of these, the children of songs. Trickster spirits, lovers of food and drink. Clever talkers, like all Aïda Windsinger’s children. Flighty and unpredictable, but with a strict code of honor.
“You wish to vouch for this creature? Who are you?” Dashjin’s scowl lightened, and he eyeballed the drops still glistening on her palm. Munayair beckoned. Dashjin retained his haughty dignity until he lit on her hand and bent to sip. His face brightened. “Excellent! Like Aïda’s own tears.”
“Enjoy it with my blessing,” Munayair said.
“My thanks, mortal.” He flicked a drop of wine skyward for the goddess. “Here’s to mirth until the dragon comes.” Then he began to slurp with abandon, red spots blooming on his cheeks.
Munayair stiffened her neck to keep herself from looking at Shivne. She could feel his eyes boring into her. Her pulse quickened. Panic simmered at the bottom of her heart, reminding her of everything she still had to lose. She looked at Bast huddled against a tree trunk, pressing a cloak to his bleeding shoulder. At Anjita unmoving among the leaves, pale lips and sunken eyes. The uncaring lassitude was wearing off.
Finally, she turned her eyes towards Khuson, kneeling on the ground in lively conversation with the ulger. The dark stain on his torso hadn’t gotten larger, but he kept pressing his hand to it. The deepening lines around his mouth spoke of suppressed pain.
The crazed mercenary’s bulging eyes filled her mind, the agonized screams muffled by a gag. Losing Khuson’s lively smile and quick tongue forever was … she shied away from the thought. Impossible.
Dashjin followed her gaze. “I regret it. He may be disruptive, but he did liven things up around here.” He belched and licked his fingers. “Only a high elemental has the authority to grant him clemency.”
High elemental? Here Sayakhun legend failed her—she had never heard the term before. She gazed around the scene of revelry. Ulger sang and lay among the mossy tree roots, tiny bodies already replete with drink. Unbidden, her gaze then turned to the other side of the barrier, where Shivne waited. His expression had not changed, but a hungry gleam lit his eyes, like a plains cat stalking his prey.
; Panic shot down her limbs and she turned back to Dashjin. “Where might I find a high—” she began, but was interrupted.
Bast yelped and grabbed her elbow. “Mun—Muna—kid! Did you see—” He pointed a shaking finger towards the branches overhead. Then she saw it—a small thing like a squirrel racing along a tree branch almost too fast for her eyes to follow. A ghostly laugh touched her ears, fading away before she could even decide if she’d heard it.
“Kudai,” Munayair whispered in wonderment. “Spirit of a tree.” A popular legend among the Besh ar-Unsalkhi, her mother’s clan, told of a warrior who ran afoul of a grove of kudai. He chopped off branches to build a fire, and bad luck plagued him until he brought a new seedling and planted it in their midst.
Av, I wish you were here to see this, she thought. I’ve never seen so many spirits in one place before. And all with voices!
“Wonderful,” Dashjin muttered, a note of annoyance coloring his tone. He settled onto a twig near Khuson’s head. “Just when I was starting to enjoy myself.”
Munayair and Bast clung to each other, staring at the silent trees surrounding them. The kudai paused, hanging upside-down over them. It was a thin, human-shaped creature no longer than Munayair’s forearm, skin exactly the same shade of dark brown as the bark of the tree. Long-fingered hands and feet dug into the bark. Its face was shaped like an aspen leaf, wide around huge amethyst eyes and narrowed to a point at the chin. Its full lips pursed. “This is why I was sent in such haste, like a common lackey?” it sniffed. “Can’t say I’m impressed.”
“Five gods,” Bast croaked, gaping. “That must be the strangest-looking squirrel I’ve ever laid eyes upon.” He slumped, cradling his wounded arm.
“Squirrel?” the kudai squeaked, eyes flaring. “How dare you? I am Ennai, spirit of the Great Cypress, whose roots reach the center of the world!” It scrambled higher, the better to glare. “The cheek,” it muttered. Dashjin exploded with giggles, flying in circles and tangling in Khuson’s hair.
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