"You must have a guard with you at all times, Blood Shrike," Avitas says. "Not because you are incapable, but because the Blood Shrike must show her strength. There is strength in numbers."
"There is strength in winning," I say. "To win, I need men I trust to carry out my orders." Avitas's jaw tenses, and he wheels his horse away.
By midnight, the bombardment has stopped. The Black Guard barracks are full of those who have escaped the Southeast Quarter, and Manor Aquilla and Manor Atria are bursting with the injured.
As I walk among the ill at Manor Aquilla, my body is drawn toward those suffering the most. The need to heal is overpowering. Dozens of songs fill my head at the sight of so much pain.
"They're Plebeians." Dex, who has rejoined me, shakes his head. "Every last one."
"Blood Shrike." A white-smocked man appears, his sharp-featured face paling at the sight of me. "I am Lieutenant Silvius. Sit, please--"
"I'm fine." The winter in my voice has him standing taller. "Tell me what you require, Lieutenant."
"Medicines, teas, bandages, spirits," Silvius says. "And more hands."
"Dex," I say, "help the lieutenant. I'll deal with them." I nod to an angry crowd gathering outside the infirmary.
When I emerge, the crowd goes silent, their respect for the Blood Shrike so deeply ingrained that even in the face of their suffering, they hold their tongues--all but one woman, who shoves through until she's inches from my face.
"My baby boy is in there," she whispers. "I don't know if he's alive, if he's hurting or--"
"Your families are being cared for," I say. "But you must let the physicians work."
"Why aren't we fighting back?" An aux soldier limps forward, uniform ripped, forehead leaking blood. "My entire family, they--" He shakes his head. "Why aren't we fighting?"
"I don't know," I say. "But we will stop the Barbarians. They won't set foot on Navium's shores. I vow it, by blood and by bone." The tenor of the crowd shifts--a weight has been lifted.
As the throng dissipates, I feel the tug of my healing again. Hope is stronger than fear. What if I was able to give these people a greater measure of hope?
A quick glance tells me that Lieutenant Silvius is deep in conversation with Dex. I slip across the back courtyard to the children's wing. The nurse nods a greeting but leaves me be.
While her attention is elsewhere, I cross the room and drop beside a dark-haired child. His eyelashes curl the way mine never will, his cheeks round and ashen. I take his small, cold hand in mine and search out his song.
Sails like birds on the sea, the laugh of his father, watching for dolphins on the water--
It is pure, a shaft of sunlight falling onto a glittering ocean. I do not hum his song aloud. Instead, I sing it in my head, as I did long ago, for Cook. One bar, two, three, until weakness fills me. When I open my eyes, his face has lost its unnatural gray hue, and I move on. With each child, I do just enough to ease their pain and bring them back from the edge.
My body grows fatigued, but there are dozens of injured left. One by one, I sing them well, until I can hardly walk. I need to leave. I need to rest.
But then a whimper breaks the quiet--a little boy in the back of the infirmary, dark-haired and gray-eyed. The wound on his chest weeps into his bandage. I stumble the few steps to his bed. He is awake.
"I'm afraid," he whispers.
"The pain will soon be gone."
"No," he says. "Of them."
It takes me a moment to understand. "The Karkauns."
"They'll come back. They'll kill us."
I look around. A wooden tray sits nearby, thick enough to prove my point.
"See, lad, if I open my hand and try to break this wood"--I smack the tray--"nothing happens. But if I make a fist . . ." I punch through the wood easily, startling the nurse.
"We are Martials, child. We are the fist. Our enemies are the wood. And we shall break them."
After I find his song and he falls into slumber, I head for the door. When I emerge into the courtyard, I'm stunned to see that dawn is only an hour or two away. The infirmary is much quieter now. On the other side of the yard, Dex stands with Silvius, his head bent thoughtfully as the physician speaks. Remembering Harper's comment about strength in numbers, and concerned at the depth of my fatigue, I almost call out to my friend.
But I stop myself. There is a charge in the air between Dex and Silvius that makes me smile, the first time I've felt anything other than rage or exhaustion all day.
I head for the courtyard gate without Dex. It's a short enough walk to the barracks.
My senses are dulled as I walk, my legs growing weaker. A platoon of soldiers patrols nearby, saluting when I pass, and I am barely able to acknowledge them. I wish then that I'd asked Dex to accompany me. I hope to the skies there's no Karkaun assault. Right now, I couldn't fight off a fly.
Exhausted as I am, the part of me that raged and screamed at my own impotence in the face of Grimarr's attacks has quieted. I will sleep tonight. Maybe I'll even dream.
A step behind me.
Dex? No. The street is empty. I squint, trying to see into the darkness. A furtive scrape ahead of me this time--someone trying to remain unobserved.
My senses prickle. I didn't spend a decade and a half at Blackcliff only to get accosted by some idiot a few blocks from my own barracks.
I draw my scim and summon my Shrike's voice. "You'd be a fool to try it," I say. "But by all means, entertain me."
When the first dart comes flying out of the dark, I whip it out of the air by force of habit. I spent hundreds of hours deflecting missiles as a Yearling. A knife follows the dart.
"Show yourself!" I snarl. A shadow moves to my right, and I fling a throwing knife at it. The figure thuds to the ground only a dozen yards from me, clutching at his neck.
I make for him, aiming to unhood him. Filthy, traitorous coward--
But my legs will not move. Pain explodes along my side, sudden and white-hot. I look down. There's blood everywhere.
From the infirmary? No. It's my blood.
Walk, Shrike. Move. Get out of here.
But I cannot. I have no strength at all. I drop to my knees, able to do nothing more than watch as my life drains out of me.
XXIII: Laia
When Musa and I set out from Adisa, the sun blazes high, burning away the morning mist that has rolled in off the sea. But we do not clear the walls until early evening, as the guards are carefully watching all who leave as well as all who enter.
Musa's disguise--that of an old man with a piebald donkey--is frighteningly effective, and the guards don't look at him twice. Still, he waits until it is completely dark before bagging his tattersall cloak and raggedy wig. In a copse of trees, he pulls the Serric steel scims from a high pile of sticks on the donkey's back and sends the creature off with a slap to the rump.
"My sources tell me Tribe Sulud left late last night, which means we'll find their camp in one of the coastal villages to the south," Musa says. I nod a response, peering over my shoulder. The shadows of the night billow and contract. Though summer is in full bloom, I shiver and move swiftly across the marshy grasses.
"Will you stop looking back like that?" Musa says, immune as ever to my magic. "You're making me nervous."
"I just wish we could go faster," I say. "I feel strange. Like there's something back there." The Nightbringer disappeared so swiftly last night that I questioned whether he was even in Adisa. But since then, I haven't been able to shake the sense that something watches me.
"I have mounts hidden down the road. Once we get to them, we can move more quickly." Musa laughs at my obvious impatience. "What, you don't want to pass the time in conversation with me?" he says. "I'm hurt."
"I just want to get to the Kehanni," I mumble, though this is not the only reason I chafe at the delay. Musa regards me thoughtfully, and I lengthen my stride. He doesn't believe that I should offer to supply weapons to the Tribes, even if it means gaining information on
the Nightbringer. Not when those weapons might be used to kill innocent Martial civilians in the south.
But he doesn't stop me, though he easily could with that eerie magic of his. Instead, he accompanies me, his distaste palpable.
His disappointment gnaws at me. It is part of the reason I do not speak to him. I do not want his judgment. But there's more to my silence.
Speaking to him would mean learning about him. Understanding him. Maybe befriending him. I know what it is to travel with someone, to break bread and laugh and grow close to them.
And though perhaps it's foolish, that frightens me. Because I also know the pain of losing friends. Family. Mother. Father. Lis. Nan. Pop. Izzi. Elias. Too many lost. Too much pain.
I shake off my invisibility. "It's not as if you'll actually answer any of my questions. Anyway, I do want to talk to you, it's just--"
Dizziness sweeps over me. I recognize the feeling. No, not now, not when I need to get to the Kehanni. Though inside I scream with frustration, I cannot stop the vision: the dank room, the shape of a woman. Her hair is light. Her face is in shadow. And that voice again, so familiar.
A star she came
Into my home
And lit it bright with glo-ry
Her laughter like
A gilded song
A raincloud sparrow's sto-ry.
I want to get closer. I want to see the face. I know the voice--I have heard it before. I search my memories. Who is she? A soft crack sounds. The singing stops.
"Oi!" I wake to Musa smacking my face, and I shove him away.
"What the hells, Musa?"
"You're the one who collapsed like some sort of swooning theater heroine," he says crossly. "I've been trying to wake you for an hour. Does that happen every time you use your invisibility? Rather inconvenient."
"Just the past few times." I get to my feet. My head aches, but I cannot tell if it is from falling or from Musa's slap. "It never used to happen," I say. "And the blackouts are getting longer."
"The more you use the magic, the more it takes from you. At least, that's what I've seen." Musa offers me his canteen and chivvies me forward. This time, he peers over his shoulder.
"What?" I say. "Did you see something back there? Is--"
"It's after dark. Highwaymen aren't unheard of this far from the city. Best if we reach the horses. You were complaining that I never answer questions. Ask, and I'll try not to disappoint you."
I know he's distracting me, but my curiosity is piqued. I have not spoken with anyone about my magic. I wanted to talk to Darin, but didn't want to burden him. The only one who might understand is the Blood Shrike, with her powers of healing. I scowl at the thought of having a discussion with her about it. "How does your magic take from you?"
Musa is quiet for a long time as we walk, the night growing deeper around us. The stars are a streak of silver light above, illuminating the road almost as well as a full moon.
"The magic makes me seek control when there is none to be found," he says. "It is the magic of manipulation--of speaking--of getting lesser creatures to bend to my will. It's why I was so good with my father's bees. But when I rely too much on it, it makes me into my worst self. A tyrant."
"These creatures you can manipulate," I say. "Do they include ghuls?"
"I'd not sully my mind by communicating with those little brutes."
A chitter comes from somewhere near Musa's feet, and I spot a flash of iridescence, like torchlight on water. It disappears, and Musa lifts his hands, which I could have sworn were empty a moment ago. Now he holds a scroll.
"For you," he says.
I snatch the scroll from him, reading through it quickly before dropping my arm in disgust. "This doesn't tell me anything."
"It tells you that the Blood Shrike was injured." He looks down at the parchment. "And that the Paters have turned against her. Her survival is quite miraculous. Interesting. I wonder--"
"I don't care about the bleeding Blood Shrike or Martial politics," I hiss. "I need to know whom else the Nightbringer is spending his time with."
"You sound like an ex-lover." Musa lifts his eyebrows, and I realize he must know about me and Keenan. About what happened between us. Embarrassment floods me. I wish now that I hadn't opened up to him.
"Ah, Laia-aapan." He uses the Mariner honorific for little sister and jostles me with an arm. "We've all made mistakes in love. Me most of all."
Love. I sigh. Love is joy coupled with misery, elation bound to despair. It is a fire that beckons me gently and then burns when I get too close. I hate love. I yearn for it. And it drives me mad.
In any case, it is not something I want to discuss with anyone, least of all Musa.
"Among the Paters," I say, "is there anyone with whom the Nightbringer has spent more time?"
Another crooning chitter. "My friend here says he will find out."
I catch a glimpse of shimmering, iridescent wings, and shiver with sudden knowledge.
"Musa," I whisper, "is that a bleeding wight?" Wights are fey, like wraiths, but smaller, swifter, and craftier. Stories say they are tricksters who enjoy luring humans to their deaths.
"My little spies. Swift as the wind. Obsessed with candied almonds--which you might have noticed when you poked around my room." He gives me an arch look and I flush, embarrassed. "And they're actually very sweet creatures, once you get to know them."
"Wights"--I raise my eyebrows--"are sweet?"
"I wouldn't cross one, no. But they're very loyal. More loyal than most humans, anyway."
And strangely, it is that comment, delivered almost defensively, that finally makes me less suspicious of Musa. I do not trust him--not yet. But, I realize, I like him. I did not know how much I missed having someone to talk to. With Darin, the simplest conversation sometimes feels like dancing on butterflies' wings.
"What of my end of the bargain?" I ask. "You're spreading my story and making me out to be some sort of . . . hero--"
"Leader, actually."
I knew a deal with him wouldn't be as simple as recruiting Resistance fighters. "You want me to lead the Resistance?"
"If I'd told you that in the prison cell, you'd have rejected my offer."
"Because I have no wish to lead anyone. Look at what happened to my mother. To Mazen." Musa's calm only incenses me further. "Why don't you do it yourself? Why me?"
"I'm a Scholar of Adisa," Musa says. "My family has lived here for more than two hundred years. The refugees don't need me to speak for them. They need someone who understands their pain to plead their case before King Irmand."
I glance at him, alarmed. "Is this what you meant when you said you wanted to work with the king? Have you forgotten that he wants to imprison Darin and me--and you?"
"That's Nikla's doing." Musa shrugs off my protests. "I doubt she told her father she had you and Darin in her clutches. He's old. Ailing. She's used his weakness to push the Scholars out of Adisa and into the camps. To strip land and titles from Adisan Scholars. But the princess doesn't rule yet. While the king lives, there's hope that he'll listen to reason. Especially from the daughter of the Lioness, who he considered a friend."
He catches sight of my face in the dark and chuckles. "Don't look so worried," he says. "You won't go in unprepared. We'll have one chance to plead our case before the king. The future of our people depends on how successful we are. We need support from the refugees and Adisan Scholars before then. It's why I've had you meet with so many of my friends. If we have enough Scholars at our backs, King Irmand will have to listen to us."
But gathering so many will take time--time I do not have. Guilt stabs through me. Musa has spent weeks building me up. But the moment I learn how to stop the Nightbringer, I'll have to depart Adisa. And where does that leave him?
Alive, to fight, I tell myself firmly, instead of dead in a jinn-fueled apocalypse.
Shortly after we reach the horses, a summer storm rolls in from the ocean, drenching us in minutes. Still wary, I insist
that we ride through the night.
Musa's wights report Tribe Sulud's location, and we finally draw to a halt outside a coastal village just as the fishing trawlers drift out to sea. The sodden fields around the village are thick with farmhands harvesting summer crops. Tribe Sulud's wagons sit near the docks, a stone's throw from the village's only inn, where Musa takes rooms.
I hope the Kehanni knows something about the Nightbringer. The approach of the Grain Moon, seven weeks away, looms over me like an executioner's ax. Please. I cast my wish to the stars, hoping the universe is listening. Please let me learn something useful.
Musa insists we clean up--She won't let us in her wagon if we smell of horse and sweat. By the time we emerge from the inn, a group of Tribesmen awaits us. They greet Musa as an old friend and me with a formal politeness. Without fanfare, we are led to the largest of the wagons, painted with purple fish and yellow flowers, white herons and crystalline rivers. Pendants of tarnished silver hang from the wagon's back, and when the door swings open, they jangle merrily.
The Kehanni wears a simple robe instead of the finery of the other night, but her bearing is no less noble. The bracelets on her arms jingle, hiding the heavy, faded tattoos on her arms.
"Musa of Adisa," she greets him. "Still getting yourself into trouble you can't get out of?"
"Always, Kehanni."
"Ah." She watches him shrewdly. "So you have finally seen her for what she is."
An old pain flashes in Musa's eyes, and I know that they are not speaking of me. "I have hope for her yet."
"Do not wait for her, child. Sometimes those we love are lost to us, as surely as if Death himself had claimed them. All we can do is mourn the divergence of their path. If you try to walk it, you too will fall into darkness."
Musa opens his mouth as if to respond, but the Kehanni turns to me. "You bring questions, Laia of Serra. Do you bring payment?"
"I have Serric steel weapons," I say. "Six blades, freshly forged."
The Kehanni sniffs and summons one of her kinsmen. Musa catches my eye, and though he says nothing, I find myself fidgeting. I think of what Darin said. You have your own strength. It doesn't have to be the same as the Lioness's.
"Wait." I place my hands on the weapons just as the Kehanni is handing them to the Tribesman. "Please," I say. "Use them in defense. Use them to fight the soldiers. But not . . . not those who are innocent. Please."