“Lady Moon? What’s wrong?” Ronyl said in her ear.
“Bast,” she whispered, reaching for him, “you don’t have to do this. We can figure it out—I’ll help you.”
“How thick are you?” he said through his teeth. He thumped a hand on his chest. “You should never have trusted me. I brought this in here—I brought Shivne—I brought the corruption.”
Voices were shouting in her mind, but Munayair heard none of it. “Did it hurt?” she gasped, staring at the burn. “I’m so sorry.”
The drumbeat faltered, and Pich’s head drooped again towards Munayair. “Why don’t you hate me?” he cried, tears standing out in his eyes. “Everyone else does, and I don’t care. I deserve it. It’s like the khuttoch said—I knew what I was doing. First I smuggled goods for the mages, then I kidnapped for them. You should hate me! If you don’t, you’re sick in the head!”
“You made mistakes,” she gulped through the tears streaming down her face. “But you’re still a whole person. I’ve made mistakes, too. If I hated you, wouldn’t I have to hate myself far more? In truth are all things—”
“Oh, would you stop saying that!” Bast barked, tears standing out in his eyes. “Nonna didn’t know what she was talking about. No one is free. We’re trapped, all of us, by mistakes, lies, regrets—”
“Khuson, are you there yet?” Anjita’s voice was full of sharp steel. “You’re finally going to pay for what you’ve done, boatman.”
Bast returned to drumming, tempo increasing as he stepped away. As if mesmerized, Pich followed, stone limbs grinding together even more slowly than before. Tears blinded Munayair. She gasped sweet air, able to think of nothing but the relief flooding through her.
“This is your fault, kid.” His eyes met hers again. “You told me to make a choice.”
Chapter 45: Sacrifice
“Sarem-ori Munayair, talk to me right now. What is happening?” Anjita yelled. She was hoarse, as if she had been yelling for a long time.
But Munayair had nothing to say in reply. Thunder rumbled overhead. The sky was almost dark, and flashes of lightning illuminated the bottom of the canyon. She looked up at the storm.
“Sorry, kid,” Bast said through clenched teeth. The rhythm of his drumming changed. “I kept him out as long as I could.” The mellet slipped from his trembling fingers, but he continued tapping the same rhythm with fingers and knuckles. “Oi, ugly,” he bellowed, “this way!”
Most of the chelka carpeted the cave floor in lifeless piles. The rest fell back and gathered around Munayair, leaving Bast’s way clear. She watched his hands quivering. Sobs echoed in her ears.
“Don’t cry, Jita. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not crying!” Anjita yelled—it sounded as if she were involved in a scuffle. “I’m coming, Naya—let go of me—”
Ronyl cut in. “Keep the Journeyer from harm. Inform King Osoljin we’ve located the source of corruption and are in need of reinforcements.”
Still mesmerized, Pich followed the rhythm of the drum, step by painful step. Everyone was staring as Bast and the stone spirit vanished into the darkness at the far end of the canyon, deeper into the maze of petrified stone.
“Do you even know which way to go?” Munayair murmured, wiping at her nose. “Fool.”
“We’ll light his way out,” Dashjin said, beckoning. The few of his warriors still able to fly followed, and they swarmed ahead of Bast. He glanced around once before turning the corner out of sight, and Munayair nodded in response.
“I knew he was a lying traitor,” Anjita growled in her ear. But there was no satisfaction in the words. “Naya, I need to know if you’re all right.”
“I’m fine. Just a bruise or two. Bast didn’t hurt me—he saved me from Pich.” Munayair considered trying to stand up, but her legs felt like jelly and she decided not to move. She blinked and felt something sticky on her eye. When she touched her face her hand came away red with blood, and the world whirled around her. The wound cut by Pich’s teeth throbbed now she remembered its existence. All around her, the remaining chelka’s glyphs flickered as they fell to pieces, nothing more than piles of kindling. She looked around the dark canyon and shivered, feeling alone.
It was only then she remembered she was not alone.
Sparks flashed. Hadad moved painfully, wings ungainly and feathers askew. Once he had regained his feet he hunched in an attitude of pain and defeat, head bowed and eyes slitted.
“Lord Thunderer?” Munayair whispered.
A scraping sound startled her. She looked up in time to see Khuson drop forty spans amidst a shower of sand and dust and land silently, gaze fixed. He fell to his knees beside her and gripped her shoulders with scorching hands. His eyes were dark and there was a line between his eyebrows she hadn’t seen before. “Munayair.” His voice was hoarse.
She swallowed down a wave of relief. “You’re late—I thought you ran fast.”
“You know how it is.” A hesitant smile broke through. “I like to pick my moment.”
“Can you two save the flirting until you’re safe?” Anjita’s voice was rough.
He pulled a cloth from his belt pouch and sponged the blood from her face. She winced at the touch. Then he spread a cool, sharp-smelling poultice with his fingertips, and she forgot the pain. As he worked, he murmured a prayer for healing. She had heard similar prayers in the mountain temples high above Sayakhun.
“So you do know magic.” Munayair grinned, wincing as the movement disturbed the gash on her forehead. She wasn’t sure why she was joking around, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “What other abilities are you hiding?”
His eyes glinted as he glanced up at her. “Magic? Now that’s something. The old mercenary who struggled to teach me herbcraft would laugh. No, this is fagua cuur, to keep the wound from fevering.”
“I know that plant well.” A smile made her wince. “The herdsmen in my clan called it sillyweed, because cattle that ate it would go crazy.”
“Are you all right, Naya?” Anjita asked. “If he touched you, I’ll—”
“Bast wouldn’t hurt me,” Munayair stated. There was a moment of silence, and she frowned. “Bast?”
His voice came through in fragments. “Bye, kid. Thanks.” Then nothing apart from ringing in her ears.
“Bast?” she cried. “What happened?”
“The sun set,” Khuson finished with the poultice and settled both hands on her shoulders. He didn’t lean away.
No more voices spoke in their minds. No more arguing ulgeroi, Ronyl giving crisp commands, Anjita shouting, or Bast grumbling. Munayair stared at her clasped hands. Her heart was pounding and thunder rumbled overhead. Finally, she got the courage to look at him, and found he was watching her. Golden eyes flashed and lines drew tight around his mouth. His grip on her shoulders tightened. She gazed back—her heart thudded louder. Dust was sticking to suspicious wetness on his face. She realized Anjita hadn’t been the one crying, and all her levity evaporated.
“Magic,” he chuckled. “Believe me, if I had the power to bewitch you as you’ve bewitched me …”
In the dim light, his face was difficult to read—all silver glimmer and grey shadows. All but his eyes, like slivers of fire. She had seen him like this before, when he executed Nastaran and Sakihan. His hands felt like they were burning her. Munayair tried to ignore the chill running up her spine. She found it impossible to tell if she was afraid or … something else. The mark itched, and she fought the urge to scratch it. A few drops of rain fell, and wind gusted down the canyon. She wondered distantly if she were about to cry.
“Munayair?” he said. “Aren’t you going to push me away—or get annoyed?”
As he spoke, warm breath stirred against her cheek. She jerked back, remembering a thud reverberating through her. Blood on the street.
Starting back as well, he blinked several times. “I’m sorry, I—”
But even as he moved away she leaned forward, and they both froze. Astonished by her own
daring, she lifted a shaking hand to brush a strand of hair away from his face. They both shivered as if they had been electrocuted. So close now, she could have run her fingers over those sharp cheekbones again, scrape a knuckle against the stubble coating his jaw.
“Khuson,” she whispered. His eyes were wide.
A sudden flash of light startled them both. Munayair blinked, and Khuson jumped, sword clanging against rock as he spun. Wings extending, Hadad’s claws carved into sand and rock. Sparks cracked. Humidity pressed on them and sweat rolled down their temples. Thunder rumbled overhead. Stormclouds roiled far overhead as incessant lightning flashed deep within. More drops fell, large as coins where they splattered. Hadad’s wings were half-opened, claws sparking on rock. The hair on Munayair’s neck tingled.
Khuson bent, pulling her up to stand on trembling legs. “Something’s wrong.” He stepped back, keeping her behind him. “He’s losing control.”
Hadad’s gaze swept over them, and she gasped. His eyes, once so fierce and yellow, were now half-clouded by misty whiteness as if he were going blind. A low-voiced curse escaped Khuson.
“Mortals,” Hadad rasped, wings spreading to blot out the sky. “You ... did ... this.”
He held her gaze as the clouds over his eyes thickened and swirled. His beak clacked once, twice. Munayair’s stomach lurched. She was pinned, unable to look away. She saw the thunderer from a great distance as he measured her entire life. They rose higher and higher together, gazing into each other, seeing the far distance.
As Hadad looked into her future, she saw his past. So brief, only a few short days. Born as Sorath’s heat stirred deep waters, soaring high into the sky, growing in size, height, and power. Blown by Aïda’s breath inland, meant to stir the humid air and bring water to thirsty earth. Instead, his life had been artificially prolonged by the needs of the sanctuary, stretched into days instead of hours. Energy dissipating over time instead of in one glorious burst. And behind it all, the fear—the creeping silence—
“Get back.” Khuson shoved her aside and met Hadad’s gaze with deadly calm. His eyes were so gold they glowed from within. Munayair pulled on his arm, but he wrenched away without turning. “The goddess forbids it, thunderer. Lady Moon has not asked to know her future.”
Hadad’s beak clacked. “Very well, uneg. Since you have long desired it, listen well.”
They gazed at each other for several interminable heartbeats, the man and the spirit of a thunderstorm. The crest rose on Hadad’s head and his wingtips flared, claws grating against stone. “Three laws there are, three only,” he keened, suffocating as a hot, humid breeze. “You have broken the first and second already. The day you break the third will be the day you are wrenched screaming back into oblivion.”
Standing behind him, Munayair watched as Khuson’s shoulders drooped, the breath rushed from his lungs. He closed his eyes and his hands curled into fists. Her heart fell.
An anguished cry echoed through the rocks. “Lord Thunderer! Help us—please!” A sob broke Dashjin’s voice. Ulgeroi flowed down into the canyon and whirled around Hadad. He glared around with milky white eyes, and cries of shock tore through the shining stream. They broke away, scattering in terror.
Ignoring the ulger, Hadad gestured with a wing, and a gust drove Khuson back. “Leave. If I see you again, I will kill you.”
“Lady Moon?” Dashjin’s voice sounded like a lost child, and he drifted, light flickering.
She reached out a hand. “I’m here, Dash.”
The ulgeroi descended in a tight knot and laid something small and cold in her palm, then flowed away. Dashjin crashed onto her shoulder. “It’s Engge.” Tears streaked his face. “Pich must have touched him. He—”
Engge lay still as death in her hands. Munayair peered closely, blinking back tears. Whiteness clouded his staring eyes. “Ronyl will know what to do,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Dashjin collapsed, sobbing. She glanced aside at Khuson, but he wasn’t looking at her. He reached to pick something from the floor and tucked it in his tunic. She turned to Hadad. “Lord Thunderer, please. There’s still time,” she said. “If you get to the spring—”
Hadad let out another screech, the storm’s intensity building with his rage. Rain and wind plastered her hair to her face. “You—drown—!” he shrieked, writhing backwards in a furious tangle of feathers and talons. “No water—never!”
Feathers flew. Hadad’s sharp beak clacked open and shut, gurgling emerging from his throat. The air, already damp, thickened with humidity so palpable it was nearly mist. Ulgeroi clustered around Munayair, a flickering ball of light too bright to look at. Munayair’s hair stood on end, and she braced herself for a blow.
Then Hadad saw Engge, cradled limply in her hands. He let out a trailing screech. “Sky—need—wind—mother—”
With one thrash of his great wings he rocketed into the air. The wind of his passage blinded Munayair, and by the time she had blinked the tears out of her eyes, he was lost to view. The rain slowed to a drizzle, then stopped, and the lightning calmed among the boiling clouds.
Khuson had not stirred so much as a step since Hadad had proclaimed his future. His head was bowed, eyes focused on nothing. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Khuson, Hadad’s not in his right mind. I’m sure the gokhai will—”
He jerked away as if her touch burned. “Are you ever going to speak the truth?” A lump rose in her throat, and she let her hand fall. “How we escaped from the mages? How Anjita lost her power?”
She had never heard such a harsh tone emerge from his mouth before, and she fell back. Clumsy excuses ran through her mind, but she had not the courage to voice them.
Khuson turned, eyes flashing. “I helped you with the understanding you were innocent. Was I wrong?”
A sob was trapped in her throat. Tears burned their way down her cheeks. “Yes.”
His eyes widened and he stepped back, stumbling as if fleeing a wild animal. “You can’t say that to me!” he hissed. His hand fell to the sword tucked into his belt and he shook his head as if to dislodge something. “You think I live in the woods with only a cat for company because I enjoy it? I stay away because I have to. To keep you safe—everyone safe.”
His eyebrows lowered, eyes darkening. As she met his searing gaze, it felt as if the stone spirit’s head were still resting on her chest. She struggled to draw breath.
“Don’t you understand what I am yet?” he hissed. “I am the hand of the goddess. Her command is to protect the innocent and punish the guilty. I have killed ... many I did not wish to kill. And now I’m afraid I will kill you, too.” They stared at each other, and his fist clenched, metal squeaking as his sword began to slide out of its scabbard.
Munayair stood frozen. She couldn’t even step away from Khuson, the sword gleaming on his hip. Everything that hadn’t made sense about him was falling into place. The blankness of his eyes as he condemned the mercenaries. The horror and confusion as he came back to himself. Jokes and flirting, all to hide the same terror dwelling within her own heart. The terror of hurting someone they loved. Of one day being alone and having no one to blame but themselves.
A light flickered in the corner of her eye and Tel wandered out from among the rocks, slow and awkward. His energy had almost run out, and the glyphs on his forehead were dim. Both of them drew in a sudden breath, and Khuson’s hand released the sword hilt.
“Tel!” she called.
At the same moment Khuson said softly, “Tel.”
Tel hesitated.
Munayair’s stomach lurched. She bent and put out a hand. “Tel, come here.”
Still the tiny chelka wavered, and Munayair’s heart seized. It was impossible. Who had ever heard of a chelka turning away from its creator and going to the hand of another?
The ground shook under their feet. A dozen armed goblins rounded the corner, accompanied by a mass of ulger led by Tevulai. They formed ranks around Munayair. She stood with hands cupped around Engge’s cold
body, Dashjin’s sobs loud in her ears.
Tevulai gestured, and four ulgeroi warriors darted forward, clutching their spears. “Follow the thunderer,” she snapped. “Don’t get too close.” The warriors launched themselves out of the canyon, sparks of light against the swirling black clouds.
Munayair looked around. Khuson was gone, a shadow in the twilight.
And so was Tel.
Chapter 46: The Grey Death
“Hold him in the water!” Ronyl’s voice cracked with fear. “It’s his only chance.”
Munayair was doing her best, but the tiny body writhed in her hands. Engge fought like a viper to get away from the water of the spring. Waves soaked her skirt and arms, and she blinked droplets out of her eyes. White scum like lye floated from his body as the corruption dissolved in the water. But as she watched, Engge’s screams faded. Slowly, the struggle eased. The wings dimmed. His eyes were white as tiny opals and his mouth moved soundlessly.
Ronyl held out a hand. “You can let go, Moony,” she said in her crystal voice. Her smooth fingers split into dozens of smaller appendages. A cage flowed up from her hand, enclosing the corrupted spirit and floating him from Munayair’s nerveless fingers into Ronyl’s grasp. The gokhai let out a tiny sigh and reached out to brush her fingers against Munayair’s forehead. Then Ronyl rose gracefully and turned to face those waiting for the storm to break. Dozens of ulgeroi waited, eyes fixed on the cage and the tiny body inside. Their lights had dimmed and many of them were sobbing. Dashjin flew close to his father. His face was a stern rictus, tears dried up.
“That’s it?” King Osoljin’s voice was thick with incredulity. “He’s gone? The confluence could do nothing?”
“We did all we could,” Ronyl said. “I fear it was already too late when he got here.”
Munayair remained kneeling, bent over the spring. She felt fragile, as if moving would break her into shards. Anjita touched her shoulder, her hand warm and comforting. But Munayair couldn’t bring herself to lean into the touch. Her chest felt heavy—she could barely breathe. She sat with hands clamped on knees, staring at the fractured mirror of the spring, reflecting the sky in broken sparks of light. In the opening overhead, the sun peeked through ragged edges of cloud. Then she realized it was the next day already.
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