Munayair searched her pockets for Mehan’s amulet, the one he had been so insistent in giving her. In her other hand was Sakihan’s, and she compared them. At first glance, they were identical, but with careful study she could see the alterations. Mehan had carved the metal—altering some glyphs, filing others away, and adding a few of his own. His glyphs were simple and carefully made, but still unfamiliar to her. With a sigh of frustration, she turned the amulet over.
On the back was a single character, larger than the rest. Munayair caught her breath. Whoever had made this symbol was obviously a true master. It had been modeled with exquisite care, even in a mass-produced amulet. Mehan had been especially careful here, making only minute alterations. Looking at his precise work, Munayair blinked away tears. His death had been sudden and meaningless, but in her experience all death was like that.
She glanced at Khuson’s blank face. Turning to the water sprites, she said, “I’m looking for a high elemental to help my friend.”
“Just a friend?” one of the spirits giggled. “You wouldn’t mind sharing him, then?”
“Those eyes,” another sighed, gazing at Khuson with one hand cradling her cheek. The rest crowded close, whispering and laughing.
“Too bad he’s so thin.”
“He wasn’t always. Feed him well, and he’ll fill out. Look at the breadth of the shoulders.”
“Never mind.” Munayair’s cheeks heated. “Sorry to bother you.”
She grabbed Khuson’s hand and tugged him away. Laughter pursued them through the trees. Tembu circled like tiny jeweled serpents, pursued by dusty, pine-scented breezes. Her stomach rumbled, and she yearned for the bountiful meals in the enclave. “I have no idea where I’m going.” She glared up at Khuson. “And my arm is tired, yanking you around like an untrained colt. Why don’t you find your own blistering high elemental?”
Instantly, he took off on long legs at such a speed Munayair had to cling to his hand or be left behind. They rocketed between trees, whipped through stands of towering bamboo, and dodged around boulders. The tembu kept pace, breezes whipping into a gale that tore at her sleeves and urged her on.
“Slow down,” she panted, hauling at his hand. “You big—”
He halted abruptly. She crashed into him and fell, saved only by his hand. Straightening, she wondered if she was imagining a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“You did that on purpose,” she began. Then she saw where they were, and words died on her lips.
Everywhere else in the grove, the trees were tall and healthy, underbrush riotous with flowers. This clearing was black, and grey ashes carpeted the ground. In the center, bare branches reached towards the sky in silent appeal. A blackened cleft split the twisted trunk in two. Lightning-struck.
Silently, the tembu dancing on the breeze fled into the sky. Munayair pressed her sleeve to her nose, fighting back panic at the all-too-familiar stench of smoke. Her stomach lurched and she tightened her grip on Khuson’s hand. They stepped towards the tree cautiously, ashes puffing under their boots.
A movement in the corner of her eye attracted her attention, and she turned to see Dashjin’s light zoom towards them, strobing. “You tricked me!” he yelled.
“Whoops.” Munayair pulled Khuson toward the burned tree. Three things happened at once.
One: Dashjin’s eyes widened and he yelled, “Watch out!”
Two: Khuson’s hand tightened and he jerked her back.
Three: fire burst into life around the tree.
Chapter 37: Trickster
Munayair shrank back, averting her eyes from the flames, heart beating its way out of her chest. Dashjin hovered, wings fluttering. Around the lightning-struck tree, an enormous bonfire blazed. Swarms of sparks swirled through the flames, firebugs of Sayakhun folklore, hissing like water dripped on a hot pan. Sitting in the fire was a spirit in the form of a handsome man, sharp teeth bared in a smile.
“W-who are you?” Munayair asked.
“Have you not heard the name of Unaraq the imp, child?” His smile widened. “I delight in aiding mortals.”
An arrow of fear went through Munayair, who had indeed heard of imps. “What might you ask in return, my Lord Unaraq?”
The spirit rose, firebugs flying like sparks from under his feet. “A simple test of mettle,” he said. “Best me in combat, and the uneg will regain his mind.”
“Combat?” Munayair reached into her pocket, fighting back terror. No chelka, no wine—in fact there was only one thing left. Fine powder sifted between her fingers, stolen in a moment of drunken silliness at Lady Tarokh’s table. So long ago now, like something she had heard in a story.
Funny, she thought, I never knew Avlingai got drunk when I did.
“But first,” Unaraq leered, eyes gleaming, “show it to me. Show me the mark. I have to be sure.”
Is that all he’s after? Munayair reached for her sleeve.
A tiny light flew between her and the imp. “Does the gokhai know about this?” Dashjin demanded.
“You dare question me?” The fire roared in response to the imp’s anger, and firebugs buzzed ever louder, swarming around him. Munayair gritted her teeth and bent her face towards her shoulder, trying to shut out the sound and sight of the fire. “Me, Unaraq the Great, spirit of the eternal flame, second only to Lajha-al himself!”
Munayair spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Khuson?” Had she imagined him pulling her? His hand was limp again, and he gazed ahead with blank eyes.
“They are travelers, and subject to my rule.” A nimbus crackled around Unaraq. “Would a mere ulgeroi deny me my rights?”
“But they are also seeking refuge,” Dashjin said. “Thus, the gokhai has first claim.”
The smile slipped from Unaraq’s face. “Let her interfere.” He gestured, and a whip of fire appeared in his hand, crackling. “Do you think I fear Lady Ronyl?”
Dashjin’s light flickered, and he yelled, “I’m going for help!” He launched himself over the lightning-struck tree, disappearing among the grey clouds.
“Now then,” Unaraq grumbled. He released the whip, which turned into ashes and blew away, and turned back to Munayair—his eyes were flames. He took two steps, sparks flying from beneath his feet, and flung out a hand. A huge, flaming sword flared into being. “Are you ready, mortal?”
She wasted no breath replying. Instead, she tore her hand from her pocket and blew on the fine grey powder in her fist. Black birds burst from her hands, crying out madly and swarming the imp. “Khuson, run!” she cried, tugging on his hand. She might as well have shouted at a boulder. He didn’t blink, and his feet remained planted. She made it three steps before his weight jerked her to a stop.
Unaraq’s guffaw was audible even through the cacophony of birds. Firebugs whirled, buzzing angrily, and the illusion vanished. He waved a hand, and flames encircled them. Munayair cried out as heat washed over her, followed by the stench of smoke.
He showed his teeth, eyes sparking. “You think to distract me with such a pitiful show? Don’t you know illusion is the domain of fire?”
Munayair’s chest hurt—she couldn’t get any air into her lungs. Screams echoed from a great distance, rising above the fire’s hungry roaring. Her legs trembled underneath her. If the imp would only take the fire away, so she might breathe and think …
“Tel.” She blinked to focus her wavering vision. “Please, I need you.”
But she was alone. Her faithful chelka kept vigil by Anjita’s bed, and Khuson stared blankly ahead.
“Well, mortal?” Unaraq sneered. “Will you take up your weapon?”
Munayair struggled for breath. She was choking, drowning. “I—I can’t.”
Unaraq drew himself to his full height. “I challenge you!” he spat. “I cannot strike a cringing coward, so stand and fight!”
She fell to the ground. Stones bit into her knees, and ash puffed up. Firebugs nipped at her arms and hair, leaving tiny burn marks where they touched. “Av,” she whimp
ered. “I need help.”
A huff escaped Unaraq’s lips. “This is the champion the gokhai has chosen? Blubbering and begging on her knees?” He cracked his whip. “Pitiful.”
Munayair flinched, a fresh wave of smoke overwhelming her senses. The screams rang louder and closer than ever. If she were to turn, what would she see? “Oh, spirits,” she whispered. “The fire—Tel, the fire is coming!”
Unaraq sneered. “If it’s fire you fear, it is fire you must face.”
He waved a hand. The girdle of fire roared forward, tightening around them. Munayair struggled to stand, to breathe, too frightened even to scream. The blistering heat raised sweat on her temples, smoke choked her, and light seared her eyes. Unaraq’s smirk deepened. Their clothes were beginning to smoke.
“Please,” she croaked. “Gan, help.”
Khuson shifted, fingers curling around hers. She tore her gaze away from the flames. As she watched, his blank, expressionless face shifted. The corners of his mouth lifted a fraction, a line deepened between his eyebrows. His eyes slid over, and he winked. Flaring gold lit to flames by the morning sun, and a grin—sharp and vicious—cut across his face.
“Windsinger, I’m thirsty,” he rasped. “Do you have any water?”
Unaraq started back, eyes wide. “What—” All Munayair could do was gape.
“No?” Khuson sighed. “I have to do everything myself.” He let out a mind-scrambling shriek and jerked her into a run. Towards the fire. “Jump!” he howled.
“NO!” she squawked.
But she had no choice. His grip was iron, and the fire reached out to greet her. She jumped, as high as her desperate, trembling legs could carry her. Hot wind caught her sleeves and propelled her at dizzying speed. Fire crackled, and she tumbled—rolled—into something cold enough to knock the wind from her. She found her footing and rose, dripping.
They stood in flowing water, water sprites giggling all around. Khuson met Unaraq’s eyes and smirked.
Unaraq had recovered his temper. “Fight me or die!” His handsome features twisted, and he cracked his whip. It sizzled when it hit the water and disintegrated in a puff.
Grinning, Khuson gestured at the water flowing between them. “Why don’t you come and fight us here?”
Unaraq’s face contorted, and he stomped about, cursing and shrieking. Sparks whirled, heat blasted, flames cackled—but none could touch them.
As Munayair’s terror flowed away with the cold water, she realized something was wrong. Khuson’s hand trembled around hers, and he breathed in a tight, controlled rhythm.
“Khuson!” she cried, her own fear forgotten. “Are you all right?”
“I should have expected cowardly tricks,” Unaraq bellowed. “I demand trial by combat! It is my right! Face me or—”
Munayair held up a hand to hush him. “Wait.” Blinking, the imp fell silent. With hesitating fingers, she brushed Khuson’s black hair away from his face. He blinked eyes like gold coins, pupils shrunk to infinitesimal dots. He was hissing under his breath, too quiet to hear. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, but she caught a few of the words. “... amisgalaaraa bidniig teverch avaachna, tany gart unakhgui ...”
... bear us in your breath, let us not fall from your hands ...
She blinked. “Are you praying?”
“Yes.” Through his teeth. After a moment, more gently: “I’m not fond of running water.”
She nodded. “Can I help?”
“You are helping.” His hand tightened. A bolt of warmth shot through her and she had to look away to hide the heat rising into her face. They stood together, hand-in-hand, facing down the roaring flames. For the first time in a long time, she was not afraid.
“You!” Unaraq pointed his whip at Khuson’s face. “You cheated me.”
“Only an idiot fights a spirit in his own element,” Khuson said. “And despite how we look, we are not idiots.”
“Cowards! Craven—” Unaraq paced among whirling sparks and ash.
Glancing around at Khuson, Munayair frowned. “Must you antagonize him?”
“Why not?” He grinned again, vicious and sharp-edged. “The hotter a fire, the sooner it is extinguished.”
It made sense, she had to admit as she turned her attention back to their attacker. She could almost hear Avlingai’s voice in her mind, urging patience and compassion. Until the old bear’s temper got the best of him, that is. If he were here to witness this unprovoked attack, she knew, his eyes would be sparking and his teeth bared.
But he’s not here. It’s just us.
“Curse this prison!” Unaraq roared, flames licking the blue sky amid billowing smoke. “And curse my ill fate for bringing me here!”
Choking on smoke, Munayair fell back, and Khuson’s hand tightened as he cast a concerned look back at her. “Well now, there’s a question for the sages,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “Are we controlled by fate, or are we free to choose?”
Unaraq whirled. “I loathe riddles. Speak plainly.” He cracked his whip.
Unable to stop herself, Munayair flinched at the loud crackle and the fresh wave of smoke. Khuson didn’t look at her, but he squeezed her hand before letting go. As Unaraq watched with narrowed eyes, Khuson stepped forward until the water only covered his feet. “Plainly, Lord Unaraq, you chose the wrong weapon. She might be afraid of fire, but I ... I was born in it. Your fear tactics mean nothing to me.”
Unaraq sneered, but his eyes darted away. The flames died down to pale blue and purple. “This from a coward hiding in running water,” he snarled, “when you know my nature prevents me from following!”
“More excuses. Does nature prevent you, or fear? Is it your doom to be doused like a coal in water?” Deliberately, he lifted his boot and splashed. Unaraq flinched back as droplets sizzled through the ashes around his feet. Khuson continued, musing, “It’s a shame you’ll never know what you’re missing. The taste of a mountain stream, schools of fish gleaming silver. You’ve never even seen the patterns your father Sorath paints underwater.”
The imp’s mouth was twisted with disdain, but as he glared at the flowing water with glowing eyes, the hand clutching his whip trembled. Munayair couldn’t stop compassion leaking into her heart. Cool water lapped around her legs, a stark contrast to the dry heat radiating from Unaraq’s flames. What must it be like, she wondered, never to have felt anything soft or gentle in your entire life?
Khuson glanced at the glowering sky, and a grin tugged at his mouth. “Then again, maybe your doom is to be blown to bits, but I’m no prophet.” He stepped back and grabbed Munayair’s hand again.
A strong wind began to blow, throwing hot ashes into their faces. Glimmering lights surrounded the clearing. Dashjin darted through the wind. “I told you I’d find help!” he cried, grabbing Khuson’s collar to anchor himself.
“What kind of help is this?” Munayair cried.
Khuson’s wicked grin widened. “Well met, Prince of the ulger.”
With a gasp, Dashjin toppled off his shoulder. “Y—you’re awake? H—how—?” His wings fluttered.
“Amazing, aren’t I?” Khuson winced and brushed hair out of his eyes. His lips were cracked and his eyes dim, underscored by dark circles. A stark contrast to his earlier vivacity and ease. Munayair blinked.
“You—you tricked me?” Dashjin’s eyes widened. “Again?”
Khuson stared at his own hand. Slowly, his gaze traveled to Munayair’s face. Then he started and dropped her hand like a live serpent. Flushing, he bent to the water and drank several handfuls.
Frowning, she tucked her hand away. Had he only just realized they were holding hands? Or perhaps he was ashamed to be so familiar with someone he saw only as a captive to be rescued, not as a woman? Now embarrassment rose in her throat as well. She berated herself for reading too much into his casual, easy friendliness. She glanced away as he straightened, unable to meet his eyes.
Still locked in personal crisis, Dashjin c
lutched his face. “Oh, Windsinger—Da is going to have my hide.”
Unaraq roared again, cracking his whip, and glared at the gathering thunderclouds overhead. Starting back with a cry, Munayair clutched at her heart. She had completely forgotten about the imp. Fingers squeezed her hand, and she looked around in surprise. It wasn’t until then she realized she had reached automatically for Khuson. He was once again holding her hand, a blush staining his cheekbones.
“Don’t worry, lady,” Dashjin said with a satisfied grin. “This time I brought backup.”
Lightning lanced from the sky, hitting Unaraq square in the chest and sending him flying back into the dead tree. The ulgeroi cheered along with the crack of thunder.
“The thunderer is here!”
“Lord Hadad!” Dashjin jabbed a tiny fist into the sky.
Next to her, Khuson whispered, “Finally.”
Chapter 38: Lord of Thunder
Quick on the heels of the lightning, a huge birdlike spirit plummeted towards them. Attended by seething fog and gusts of cool, moist air, grey and transparent as the remnants of a thundercloud. He was over twenty spans from wingtip to wingtip. When his wings flared for landing, white sparks danced between his feathers. Static built in Munayair’s hair. A few drops of rain hissed in the ashes.
He landed with a great clashing of thunder and folded his wings. Half-hidden under a magnificent crest glared a pair of fierce, bright yellow eyes. Unaraq rose, teeth bared, crackling with heat.
“I—Hadad, Lord of Thunder—lay claim to these mortals,” the bird cried. “Do you dispute me, imp?”
Unaraq glowered. “No.” He threw down his whip so it scattered into ashes again. “Is it not my right as high elemental of fire to test the chosen one?”
The thunderstorm spirit chattered his beak. “Neither of these mortals are the chosen one.”
“No?” For the first time, Unaraq’s towering confidence faltered. His eyelashes fluttered and his black brows drew down. He staggered back a step, staring at the ground. “Not the one?”
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