Chapter Forty-Three: The Blood Shrike
Chapter Forty-Four: Laia
Chapter Forty-Five: Elias
Part Four: Siege
Chapter Forty-Six: The Blood Shrike
Chapter Forty-Seven: Laia
Chapter Forty-Eight: The Blood Shrike
Chapter Forty-Nine: Laia
Chapter Fifty: Elias
Chapter Fifty-One: The Blood Shrike
Chapter Fifty-Two: Laia
Chapter Fifty-Three: Elias
Chapter Fifty-Four: Laia
Chapter Fifty-Five: The Blood Shrike
Chapter Fifty-Six: Laia
Part Five: Beloved
Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Blood Shrike
Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Soul Catcher
Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Nightbringer
Acknowledgements
Also by Sabaa Tahir
About the Publisher
You love too much, my king.
My queen spoke the words often across the centuries we spent together. At first, with a smile. But in later years, with a furrowed brow. Her gaze settled on our children as they tore about the palace, their bodies flickering from flame to flesh, tiny cyclones of impossible beauty.
“I fear for you, Meherya.” Her voice trembled. “I fear what you will do if harm comes to those whom you love.”
“No harm shall befall you. I vow it.”
I spoke with the passion and folly of youth, though I was not, of course, young. Even then. That day, the breezes off the river ruffled her midnight hair and sunlight poured like liquid gold through the sheer curtains of the windows. It lit our children umber as they trailed scorch marks and laughter across the stone floor.
Her fears held her captive. I reached for her hands. “I would destroy any who dared hurt you,” I said.
“Meherya, no.” I have wondered in the years since then if she already feared what I would become. “Swear you would never. You are our Meherya. Your heart is made to love. To give. Not to take. That is why you are king of the jinn. Swear it.”
I swore two vows that day: to protect, always. To love, always.
Within a year, I had broken both.
The Star hangs from the wall of the cavern far from human eyes. It is a four-pointed diamond, with a narrow gap at its apex. Thin striations spiderweb across it, a reminder of the day the Scholars shattered it after imprisoning my people. The metal gleams with impatience, potent as the glare of a jungle beast closing in on prey. Such vast power within this weapon—enough to destroy an ancient city, an ancient people. Enough to imprison the jinn for a thousand years.
Enough to set them free.
As if sensing the armlet clinging to my wrist, the Star rattles, yearning toward the missing piece. A wrench shudders through me as I offer the armlet up, and it oozes away like a silver eel to join with the Star. The gap shrinks.
The four points of the Star flare, lighting the far reaches of the speckled granite cavern, eliciting a wave of angry hisses from the creatures around me. Then the glow fades, leaving only pallid moonlight. Ghuls swish at my ankles.
Master. Master.
Beyond them, the Wraith Lord awaits my orders, along with the efrit kings and queens—of wind and sea, sand and cave, air and snow.
As they watch, silent and wary, I consider the parchment in my hands. It is as unobtrusive as sand. The words within are not.
At my summons, the Wraith Lord approaches. He submits reluctantly, cowed by my magic, straining always to be free of me. But I have need of him yet. The wraiths are disparate scraps of lost souls, joined by ancient sorcery and undetectable when they wish to be. Even by the Empire’s famed Masks.
As I offer him the parchment, I hear her. My queen’s voice is a whisper, gentle as a candle on a chill night. Once you do this, you can never come back. All hope for you is lost, Meherya. Consider.
I do as she asks. I consider.
Then I remember she is dead and gone and has been for a millennium. Her presence is a delusion. Her voice is my weakness. I proffer the scroll to the Wraith Lord.
“See that it finds Blood Shrike Helene Aquilla,” I tell him. “And no other.” He bows, and the efrits sail forward. I order the efrits of air away; I have a separate task for them. The rest kneel.
“Long ago, you gave the Scholars knowledge that led to the destruction of my people and the fey world.” A jolt of memory ripples through their ranks. “I offer you redemption. Go to our new allies in the south. Help them understand what they can call forth from the dark places. The Grain Moon will rise six months hence. See it done well before then. And you”—the ghuls press close—“glut yourselves. Do not fail me.”
When they have all left me, I contemplate the Star and think of the treacherous jinn girl who helped bring it into being. Perhaps to a human, the weapon would shine with promise.
I feel only hatred.
A face drifts to the forefront of my mind.
