every three days. And”—he glances at Livia—“if I’m not satisfied with your progress, I’ll keep breaking your little sister’s bones until she’s nothing but jagged edges.”
For hours, I run, cloaking myself from a maddening number of Martial patrols, holding my invisibility until my head throbs and my legs tremble from cold and exhaustion. My mind spins with worry for Elias, for Darin, for Afya. Even if they are safe, what in the skies will we do now that the Empire has caught on to the raids? The Martials will flood the countryside with soldiers. We cannot continue. The risk is too great.
Never mind. Just get to the camp. And hope to the skies that Darin got there too.
At midnight a day after the raid, I finally spot the tall, naked oak that shelters our tent, its branches grousing in the wind. Horses nicker, and a familiar figure paces beneath the tree. Darin! I nearly sob in relief. My strength has left me, and I find I cannot call out. I simply drop into visibility.
When I do, darkness flashes across my vision. I see a shadowy room, a hunched figure. A moment later, the vision is gone, and I stumble toward the camp. Darin spies me and runs, pulling me into a hug. Afya bursts from the round fur tent my brother and I use as shelter, anger and relief mingling on her face.
“You’re a bleeding idiot, girl!”
“Laia, what happened?”
“Did you find Mamie? Are the prisoners safe? Did Elias—”
Afya holds up a hand. “Mamie’s with a healer from Tribe Nur,” the Zaldara says. “My people will get the prisoners to the Tribal lands. I meant to join them, but …”
She glances at Darin, and I understand. She did not wish to leave him alone. She did not know if I’d return. I tell them swiftly of the Blood Shrike’s ambush and Elias’s disappearance.
“Did you see Elias?” Please let him be all right. “Did he come out of the Forest?”
Afya shudders as she looks over her shoulder to the towering wall of trees that marks the western border of the Waiting Place. Darin only shakes his head.
I glower at the trees, wishing I had the power to burn a path through to the jinn’s cabin. Why did you snatch him away, Shaeva? Why do you torment him so?
“Come inside.” Darin tugs me into the tent and tucks a woolen blanket from his sleeping roll around my shoulders. “You’ll catch your death.”
Afya pulls away the fur covering the hole at the top of the tent and stirs the ashes of our small cook fire until her brown face is lit bronze. Long minutes later, I’m shoveling down the potato-and-squash stew Darin has made. It’s overcooked, with so much red pepper in it that I nearly choke—Darin was always hopeless in the kitchen.
“Our raiding days are over,” Afya says. “But if you wish to keep fighting the Empire, then come with me. Join Tribe Nur.” The Tribeswoman pauses, considering. “Permanently.”
My brother and I exchange a glance. Tribespeople only accept new family members through marriage or the adoption of children. To be invited to join a Tribe is no small thing—and by the Zaldara, no less.
I reach for Afya’s hand, stunned at her generosity, but she waves me off.
“You’re practically family anyway,” Afya says. “And you know me, girl. I want something in return.” She turns to my brother. “Many died to save you, Darin of Serra. The time has come for you to begin forging Serric steel. I can procure you materials. Skies know the Tribes need as much help as we can get.”
My brother flexes his hand as he always does when the phantom pains of his missing fingers plague him. His face goes pale, his lips thin. The demons within awaken.
I want so desperately for Darin to speak, to accept Afya’s offer. It might be the only chance we have to continue fighting the Empire. But when I turn to him, he is leaving the tent, muttering about needing air.
“What news from your spies?” I say quickly to Afya, hoping to shift her attention from my brother. “The Martials have not drawn down their forces?”
“They sent another legion into the Tribal desert from Atella’s Gap,” Afya says. “They’ve arrested hundreds around Nur on false charges: graft and transporting contraband and skies know what else. Rumor is that they’re planning to send the prisoners to Empire cities to be sold as slaves.”
“The Tribes are protected,” I say. “The treaty with Emperor Taius has held for five centuries.”
“Emperor Marcus doesn’t care a fig about that treaty.” Afya frowns. “That’s not the worst of it. In Sadh, a legionnaire killed the Kehanni of Tribe Alli.”
I cannot hide my slack-jawed shock. Kehannis are the keepers of Tribal stories and history, second in rank only to the Zaldars. Killing one is a declaration of war.
“Tribe Alli attacked the closest Martial garrison in retaliation,” Afya says. “It’s what the Empire wanted. The commanding Mask came down like a hammer out of the hells, and now all of Tribe Alli is either dead or in prison. Tribe Siyyad and Tribe Fozi have sworn vengeance on the Empire. Their Zaldars ordered attacks on Empire villages—nearly a hundred Martials dead at last count, and not just soldiers.”
She gives me a significant look. If the Tribes turn on Martial innocents—children, civilians, the elderly—the Empire will hit back hard.
“They’re provoking us.” Afya peers out at the sky to gauge the time. “Weakening us. We need that steel, Laia. Think on my offer.” She pulls on her cloak to leave, pausing at the flap of the tent. “But think quickly. A strangeness taints the air. I can feel it in my bones. It’s not just the Martials I fear.”
Afya’s warning plagues me all night. Not long before dawn, I give up on sleep and slip outside the tent to where my brother sits watch.
The ghosts of the Waiting Place are restive—angered, no doubt, by our presence. Their anguished cries join with the howling wind out of the north, an icy, hair-raising chorus. I pull my blanket close as I drop next to my brother.
We sit in silence, watching the treetops of the Waiting Place brighten from black to blue as the eastern sky pales. After a time, Darin speaks.
“You want to know why I won’t make the weapons.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish to.”
My brother bunches his fists and opens them, a habit he’s had since we were little. The middle and ring fingers of his left, dominant hand are sheared off.
“The materials are easy enough to get,” he says. The wails of the ghosts intensify, and he raises his voice.
“It’s the making that’s complicated. The mixture of the metals, the heat of the flame, how the steel is folded, when the edge is cooled, the way the blade
