A Reaper at the Gates

  Musa looks between Darin and me with arched brows. "Any other threats? Discussions you wish to waste my time with? None? Good. Then let's get the bleeding hells out of here."

  * * *

  Dawn approaches by the time Musa, Darin, and I emerge from a tailor's shop and out into Adisa. My head spins from the strange, interconnected series of tunnels, passageways, and alleys Musa took to get us here. But we are out. We are free.

  "Not bad timing," Musa says. "If we hurry, we can get to a safe house before--"

  "Wait." I grab him by the shoulder. "We're not going anywhere with you." Beside me, Darin nods vehemently. "Not until you tell us who you are. Why did Captain Eleiba know you? What in the skies attacked her? I heard a noise. It sounded like a ghul. Since Princess Nikla was crawling with them, you understand why I am concerned."

  Musa easily extricates himself from my grip, straightening his shirt, which I notice is quite finely made, for a Scholar.

  "She wasn't always like that," he says. "Nik--the princess, I mean. But that doesn't matter now. Dawn isn't far away. We really don't have time--"

  "Stop making excuses," I snarl. "And start explaining."

  Musa groans in irritation. "If I answer one question," he says, "will you stop being so annoying and let me get you to a safe house?"

  I consider, glancing at Darin, who gives me a noncommittal shrug. Now that Musa's gotten us out, I only need one bit of information from him. Once I get it, I can become invisible and knock him out, and Darin and I can disappear.

  "Fine," I say. "Who's the Beekeeper, and how can I find him?"

  "Ah, Laia of Serra." His white teeth shine like those of a smug horse. He offers me his arm, and under the brightening sky, I finally get a closer look at his tattoos--dozens of them, big and small, all clustered around a hive.

  Bees.

  "It's me, of course," Musa says. "Don't tell me you hadn't guessed."

  XV: Elias

  For days, I cajole and threaten and lure the ghosts away from the border wall. Skies only know what will happen if they break out. They grow more frenzied by the hour, it seems, until I can barely hear myself think over their accursed caterwauling.

  A fortnight after I've left Aubarit--and with no sense of how to move the ghosts any quicker or how to help the Fakira--I retire to Shaeva's cottage for the night, desperately grateful for this, my only sanctuary. The ghosts paw at me as I enter, wild as an Isle South typhoon.

  She shouldn't have--

  My husband, is he here, tell me--

  Have you seen my lovey--

  Usually, I feel guilty when I close the cottage door on the ghosts. Not today. I'm too exhausted, too angered by my failure, too disgusted by the relief I feel at the sudden, complete silence within Shaeva's home.

  Sleep in the cottage. They cannot hurt you there.

  Somehow, Shaeva magicked the cottage to insulate it from the ghosts and jinn. That bit of sorcery didn't die with her. She knew I would need a place where I could collect my thoughts, and I am grateful for it.

  But my thankfulness doesn't last long. After I've cleaned up and cooked a paltry meal that Shaeva would have scoffed at, I can't bring myself to sleep. I pace in a circle, guilt gnawing at my gut. The Soul Catcher's boots still sit by her bed. The arrows she was fletching lie untouched on her worktable. These small tokens from her life used to bring me comfort, especially in the days just after she died. Like the cottage itself, they reminded me that she believed I could be Soul Catcher.

  But tonight, her memory plagues me. Why did you not listen to me, Elias? Why did you not learn? Skies, she would be so disappointed.

  I kick at the door violently--a stupid decision, as now my foot aches. I wonder if my entire life will be a series of moments in which I realize I'm an idiot long after I can actually do anything about it. Will I ever feel like I know what I'm doing? Or will I be an old man, tottering about, flummoxed by whatever recent foolishness I've committed?

  Don't be pathetic. Strangely, Keris Veturia's taut voice rises in my mind. You know the question: How do you move the ghosts faster? Now find the answer. Think.

  I consider Aubarit's words. You must move the spirits, and to do that you must remove yourself from the world. A variation on Shaeva's advice. But I have removed myself from the world. I said farewell to Laia and Darin. I kept away all others who approached the Forest. I burgle my supplies quietly from villages instead of buying them from another human, the way I yearn to.

  The Forest will show thee its sly memory. Were the Mysteries referring to Mauth? Or was there something more to the statement? Forest could be referring to something else entirely, Aubarit had said. The ghosts, perhaps? But they don't spend enough time in the Waiting Place to know anything.

  Though, now that I think of it, not all of the spirits move on swiftly.

  The Wisp. I grab my scims--more out of habit than because I actually need them--and head out. Just before entering the cottage, I heard her voice. But she's not here now.

  Damn you, Elias, think. The Wisp used to avoid Shaeva. When the ghost speaks at all, it's to me, and it's always about her "lovey." And, unlike the other shades, she likes water. She often lurks near a spring just south of the cottage.

  The path to it is well-worn; when I moved into the cottage, Shaeva lost no time in passing all water-fetching chores to me. What's the point of having muscles, she'd teased, if you can't carry things for others?

  I catch a glint of white as I draw closer and soon find the Wisp at the edge of the spring, staring down into it.

  She turns her face toward me and flits backward--she's in no mood to talk. But I can't afford to let her get away.

  "You're looking for your lovey, right?"

  The Wisp stops and appears before me so suddenly that I rock back on my heels.

  "You know where she is?" Her thin voice is painfully happy, and guilt twists in my gut.

  "Ah, not exactly," I say. "But perhaps you could help me? And I could help you?"

  The Wisp tilts her head, considering.

  "I'm trying to learn about the magic of the Waiting Place," I say before she disappears again. "About Mauth. You've been here a long time. Can you tell me anything about the Forest having a . . . a memory?"

  "Where is my lovey?"

  I curse. I should've known better than to think a ghost--and one who refuses to move on--could help me.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "I'll look for your lovey." I turn back for the cottage. Perhaps I need sleep. Perhaps I'll have a better idea in the morning. Or I could go back to Aubarit and see if she remembers anything else. Or find another Fakira . . .

  "The memory is in the pain."

  I spin so fast it's a miracle my head doesn't fly off. "What--what did you say?"

  "The memory is in the pain." The Wisp circles me, and I spin as she does. I'm not letting her out of my sight. "The memory is where the greatest hurt lies, the greatest anger."

  "What in ten hells do you mean, 'the greatest hurt'?"

  "A hurt like mine. The memory is in the pain, little one. In their pain. They burn with it, for they have lived with it much longer than I."

  Their pain.

  "The jinn?" My stomach sinks. "You're speaking of the jinn."

  But the Wisp is gone now, calling out to her lovey. I try to follow her, but I can't keep up. Other ghosts, drawn by my voice, cluster near, flooding me with their suffering. I windwalk away from them, though I know it's wrong to ignore their misery. Eventually, they'll find me again and I'll be forced to try to pass some on, simply so I don't lose my mind at their badgering. But before they do, I need to sort this out. The longer I wait, the more the ghosts will amass.

  Think quickly, Elias! Could the jinn help me? They've been imprisoned here for a thousand years, but they were free once, and they possessed the most powerful magic in the land. They are fey. Born of magic, like the efrits, the wraiths, the ghuls. Now that the idea is in my head, I've latched on to it like a dog to a bone. The jinn must have some deeper k
nowledge of the magic.

  And I need to figure out a way to get it from them.

  XVI: The Blood Shrike

  "The Paters of Navium," the Nightbringer says as we leave the docks, "wish to greet you."

  I barely hear him. He knows Livia is pregnant. He will share that information with the Commandant. My sister will confront attackers and assassins likely within days, and I am not there to keep her safe.

  Harper falls back, speaking urgently to the Black Guard who brought us our horses. Now that he knows of the pregnancy he'll be sending orders to Faris and Rallius to triple the guard around Livia.

  "The Paters are at the Island?" I ask the Nightbringer.

  "Indeed, Shrike."

  For now, I must put my faith in Livia's bodyguards. My more immediate issue is the Commandant. She's already taken the upper hand by sending the Nightbringer to throw me off my guard. She wants me weak.

  But I will not give her that satisfaction. She wants to order me to the Island? Fine. I need to take control of this sinking ship anyway. If the Paters are nearby, all the better. They can bear witness as I wrench Keris's power from her.

  As we ride through the streets, the full devastation of the Karkaun attack is apparent in every collapsed building, every burn-scarred street.

  The ground shudders, and the unmistakable whistle ofs a stone ripping out of a ballista splits the air. As we get closer to the Island, the Nightbringer is forced to change course, leading us near the embattled Southwest Quarter of Navium.

  Screams and shouts fill the air, penetrating over the roar of fire. I pull up a bandanna to block out the choking smells of singed flesh and stone.

  A group of Plebeians hurries past, most carrying nothing but children and the clothes on their backs. I watch a woman with a hood pulled low. Her face and body are hidden by a cloak, her hands stained a deep gold. The color is so unusual that I nudge my horse forward to get a closer look.

  A fire brigade gallops by, buckets of seawater splashing everywhere. When they are past, the woman is gone. Soldiers lead families from the swiftly spreading chaos. Cries for aid seem to come from all sides. A child with blood streaming down her face stands in the middle of an alley, bewildered and silent, no guardian in sight. She's no more than four, and without thinking, I turn my horse toward her.

  "Shrike, no!" Avitas reappears and kicks his mount in front of mine. "One of the men will take care of her. We have to get to the Island."

  I make myself turn away, ignoring the pull that has come over me to go to the child, to heal her. It is so strong that I have to grab the pommel of my saddle, lacing my fingers under it to keep myself from dismounting.

  The Nightbringer watches me from the back of a cloud-white stallion. I sense no malice, only curiosity.

  "You are not like her," he observes. "The Commandant is not a woman of the people."

  "I thought you'd appreciate that about her, being that you are not a man of the people yourself."

  "I am not a man of your people," the Nightbringer says. "But I do wonder at Keris. You humans give your loyalty so willingly for just a little hope."

  "And you think we are fools because of it?" I shake my head. "Hope is stronger than fear. It is stronger than hate."

  "Precisely, Blood Shrike. Keris could use it as a weapon. But she does not. To her folly."

  He makes a poor ally, I think to myself, or a dissatisfied one, to criticize her so openly.

  "I'm not her ally, Blood Shrike." The Nightbringer cocks his head, and I sense his amusement. "I am her master."

  A half hour later, Navium's key-shaped double harbor comes into view. The rectangular merchant harbor, which opens into the sea, has been decimated. The channel is littered with charred masts and soggy, torn sails. The huge, rusted sea chains that protect the harbor gleam with moss and barnacles, but at least they are up. Why the hells weren't they up when Grimarr attacked? Where were the guards on the watchtowers? Why weren't we able to halt the assault?

  At its northern end, the merchant harbor widens into an inner harbor made of two rings. The Island is the center ring, connected to the mainland by a bridge. A crenellated tower dominates the Island. From its top, one can see up and down the coast for miles. The outer ring of the harbor is a covered, circular dock with hundreds of slipways for the Martial fleet. Its scale is mind-boggling.

  Dex swears as we get closer. "The ships are docked, Shrike," he says. "We're just letting them pummel us."

  Though the earlier report from Harper said as much, I don't believe it until I see the ships myself, bobbing quietly in their slips. My hands curl into fists as I think of the destruction I just witnessed.

  When we finally reach the bridge that leads to the Island, I stop short. For hanging from a rope over the wall is Admiral Lenidas, a fat crow perched atop his twisted body. I bite my lip to keep from retching. His broken limbs and lash-marred skin tell the tale of a slow, painful death.

  I take the stairs up to the watchtower two at a time. Dex and Harper run to catch up, the latter clearing his throat just before we enter the command room.

  "Shrike." He leans close, his distress evident. "She's penned a play," he says. "I can feel it. Don't act the part she's written for you."

  I nod shortly--did he think I didn't know that?--and enter the tower. The Veturius men guarding it immediately salute. The Commandant barks out orders to the runners to take to the drum towers, ignoring me entirely. The top brass of Navium, along with a dozen of its Paters, are gathered around a map on a massive table. As one, they turn.

  "Nephew." I recognize Janus Atrius--Dex's uncle and the Pater of Gens Atria. He nods a quick greeting at his nephew before saluting me. I cannot read his features, but he glances askance at Keris before speaking--a look I am not meant to miss, I think. "Shrike, have you been briefed?"

  "Half of the Southwest Quarter is on fire," I say. "That's all the briefing I need. Why are we not fighting back? Night won't fall for hours. We need to use the light that remains."

  Janus and a few of the other Paters mutter their agreement. But the rest shake their heads, a few raising their voices in dispute. Admiral Argus and Vice Admiral Vissellius exchange a look of disgust that I make note of. I won't find an ally in either of them.

  "Blood Shrike." The Commandant has finished with the runners, and her cool voice silences the room. Despite the hatred that rises in me at her patronizing tone, I admire the way she wields her power. Though the men in this room are lords of their own Gens, not a single one will defy her. "We expected you days ago. I--we"--she glances at the Paters and navy officers--"are yours to command."

  This woman trained all expression from my face, but it is difficult not to show my surprise. As Blood Shrike, I am a superior officer, and the Emperor sent me to take command of Navium's defense. But I did not expect the Commandant to give it up so easily. I did not expect her to give it up at all.

  Harper gives me a warning look. Don't act the part she's written for you.

  "Keris." I hide my wariness. "Why do we not have boats in the water?"

  "The weather is treacherous, Shrike. For the past few weeks storms have moved in swiftly." She walks to the tall windows that look south. From here, I can see the whole coast, along with the distant masts of a massive Karkaun fleet. "That cloud bank"--she nods to it--"has been there for three days. The last time we took the fleet out, the weather was similar."

  "Lenidas knew sea weather better than anyone."

  "Lenidas ignored the orders of a superior officer simply because she commands an army instead of a navy." Admiral Argus leads one of the more powerful Mercator Gens, and his rage at his lost ships is clear. "General Veturia ordered him not to take out the fleet, and he didn't listen. We all"--he gives the room a glower--"supported Lenidas's execution."

  "Not all," Janus Atrius says stiffly.

  "Lenidas is not the point," I say. The old man is dead, and while he didn't deserve to die in disgrace, this is not a battle I can win. "Keris, have you been in the South
west Quarter since the attack began?"

  Argus pushes forward, planting himself in front of me like a squat, belligerent toad. "The Commandant has--"

  Beside me, Dex half draws a scim. "Interrupt me one more time, Argus," I say, "and I'll have Captain Atrius make me a necklace of your entrails."

  The Paters fall silent, and I let them consider the threat before I speak.

  "Paters," I say, "I won't launch the fleet without your approval. But consider our losses. More than a thousand killed already and dozens dying by the hour. I've seen children with their limbs blasted off, women trapped beneath rubble dying slowly. Grimarr the Karkaun is a vicious foe. Will we let him take our city?"

  "Most of the city is safe," Vissellius argues. "It is only the Southwest Quarter that has--"

  "Just because they're not Mercators or Illustrians doesn't make their lives any less valuable. We have to do something."

  Keris holds up a hand to silence her allies. "The watchtower ballistae--"

  "Are too far from the ships to do any real damage," I cut her off. "What in the skies was your plan? To sit here and just let them destroy us?"

  "Our plan was to allow them to believe they could storm the city," the Commandant says. "When they made the mistake of landing their troops, we would wipe them out. We would launch an attack on their ships"--she points this out on the map--"from a nearby cove, where we would move the fleet at night. We would stop the Karkaun ground forces while still capturing their ships, which would replace those the Mercators lost in the attack on the harbor."

  The bleeding weather has nothing to do with this after all. She wants the Barbarian ships. She wants them so she can get Navium's Paters in her pocket--all the better to secure their support when she tries to take down Marcus again.

  "And you were planning to do this when, exactly?"

  "We expected three more weeks of siege. We've been choking off their supplies. Grimarr and his men will run out of food eventually."

  "Once they finish with the Southwest Quarter," I say, "they'll move to the Southeast. You're willing to allow dozens of neighborhoods--thousands of homes--to be besieged for nearly a month. There are more than a hundred thousand people living--"