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  Harotha adjusted her shawl, took a deep breath and tried again. “Saria,” she said, “I know you think something terrible will happen, but I have to talk to Faroth. Tonight. He’s making a serious mistake.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Saria.

  “He’s still my brother,” Harotha reminded her.

  “Yes, he is—and he thinks you’re dead. He mourned you. I don’t think you have any idea what losing you did to him. The gods help me, why do I have to explain this to you over and over again? Why did you come here when every time you asked me I told you to keep away?”

  “I should have seen Faroth as soon as I came back. I know you meant well, but hiding was a mistake. I’ve been doing nothing, sitting out there alone for the last five months, while this was happening.” She grimaced. “This business with the Mongrel has got to be stopped.”

  “Listen to yourself!” Saria demanded, forgetting to keep her voice low until Harotha quickly shushed her. “You amaze me, you really do. You think you can just walk back in here and start telling everyone what to do again, don’t you?”

  “Of course not. That’s not the point.”

  “No? I’m sorry I ever mentioned this Mongrel business to you. I think you’re looking for an excuse to take over—ever since you realized you couldn’t get that elixir. You just can’t stand Faroth being in charge instead of you. You’ve always been like that.”

  Harotha adjusted her shawl again. Getting angry at her sister-in-law would accomplish nothing—and Saria had been extraordinarily good to her under the circumstances, in her own way. Saria was just an ordinary Shadari girl, a loyal wife and a doting mother. She’d never been interested in politics, though she’d pretended for Faroth’s sake. “That’s not why I wanted the elixir. I just need guidance. I need to know what the gods want me to do.”

  “A little late for that, isn’t it?” Saria replied acidly.

  Harotha laid her hands across her big belly and said, “That’s not fair.”

  The light was beginning to fade but she could still see the anxiety tightening the corners of Saria’s dark eyes. “Oh, so I’m not being fair? Is any of this fair to me? I’ve lied to my husband. I’ve taken food that might have gone to my son just to keep you and that baby alive. Well, I’m not going to let you throw your life away now: you’re going back to that house, and you’re going to stay there until—until you do whatever it is you’re going to do.”

  “I can’t do that, Saria. Things are different now. I have to—”

  “Quiet!” her sister-in-law hissed, and pushed her back against the hard clay wall, ignoring her stifled cry. “Dramash! What are you doing out here?” she called out loudly, stomping out from around the sideyard and into the street.

  Harotha felt the baby wriggle inside her as she crept forward just far enough around the curving wall to spy through the gap before the first blanket hanging on the clothesline. She could see her nephew standing in the dusty track, his head thrown back and his mouth open as he stared up at the sky. Saria flicked the rag in her hand at the swathes of gold and crimson streaking the sky above Mount Asharamon and the smaller peaks on either side. “Can’t you see how late it is? Get back inside!”

  “I want to see the dereshadi,” Dramash answered, gesturing vaguely with the scrap of bread in his hand. He tore off a bit of hard crust and munched it without lowering his eyes.

  “Dramash, you’d better mind me,” his mother warned him, seizing his arm. “They send people to the mines for being out after curfew. Do you want to go to the mines?” She gave the boy’s arm a little shake.

  “They won’t catch me. I can just—”

  “They can do whatever they like. They could send you to the temple—how would you like that? To have to work all night, and do whatever the Dead Ones tell you to do, and never see your cousins or your father and me ever again?”

  “I could help take care of the dereshadi,” Dramash suggested in a wheedling tone, as if he was asking to go play at a friend’s house. “I could be breedmaster when old Shairav dies.”

  “Shairav?” his mother asked in surprise. “How did you hear about him?”

  “From Papa. He said that Shairav must like it in the temple, because he would have come back by now if he didn’t. How come he could come back from the temple if he wants to, but no one else can?”

  “That’s enough nonsense now,” Saria said. She grabbed him by the wrist and began pulling him back toward the house. “Get inside, and go to bed. If you’re still up when your father gets back, he’ll—”

  Dramash stopped dead in his tracks and his other arm shot up in the air. “Look!” he shouted.

  A triangular shape was drifting toward them. At first it looked like a single massive creature, but as it came closer, Harotha could pick out the six dereshadi flying in formation, one in front, two others wingtip-to-wingtip just behind and three more behind those. The day-patrols were returning to the temple. The six sets of wings beat together in unison, and the sun-proof capes of their riders rippled in the wind, reflecting the ruddy colors of the sunset.

  Returning to the temple, where Eofar was waiting for her.

  “Dramash!” whispered Saria, holding her boy tighter.

  “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll protect you.”

  Saria gave him another squeeze. “There, are you happy? Now get inside!” She swatted him on the bottom to start him off in the right direction. “And go straight to bed!”

  As Dramash skipped into the house and disappeared behind the heavy curtain Harotha started to emerge from her hiding-place, but she froze when her sister-in-law said stiffly, “Stay right where you are. They’re coming.”

  Harotha’s heart pulsed in her chest and she crossed her arms over her belly and pressed closer to the wall. Saria remained standing where she was, looking down the street. Insects buzzed in the weeds and the houses cast long shadows into the street. Then Harotha too could hear the unmistakable sound of her twin brother’s limping gait, and a moment later she saw Faroth stop in front of Saria. She had been seriously considering confronting her brother despite Saria’s refusals, but she abandoned that plan when she saw that her brother was not alone.

  “What’s going on here, Saria? Did I see Dramash out here just now?”

  “He only came outside for a moment—only a moment, Faroth,” said Saria. “I made him go right back in.”

  “You have to keep him under control, Saria. You know the White Wolf is sending out more patrols these days. Why did you leave him alone? What are you doing out here?”

  “Me? Oh, I was just down the street at Ahnisa’s. Her daughter is sick. I told her I’d bring some fish broth over to her later.” The ease with which Saria lied to her husband made Harotha think she’d had plenty of practice.

  “You’re too generous, Saria,” said Faroth. “It’s not like we have it to spare.”

  “Faroth, don’t you think we should hurry?” asked one of the other men. “The sun’s going down, and she’ll be waiting in the tavern.”

  “Let her wait,” Faroth answered back in that irritated way that meant he was anxious. He followed his wife into the house while the others waited outside.

  Harotha studied the faces of the men; she’d known what to expect from Saria, but seeing them assembled here was still a blow. The most talented of their inner circle, her closest friends—Jai, Shovan, Elud, Thissela, and so many more—were all gone. Jai had been lost to the mines, Shovan to sickness. Elud had split after a bad quarrel with Faroth, taking many with him, only to be killed a few months later in a failed attempt to steal mining tools. Some of his followers had gone back to Faroth after that, but more than a few lost their taste for rebellion at their first sight of blood. Thissela had given up after the death of her only son in the temple; the others had similar stories. Three long years had taken a heavy toll.

  She knew those who remained, too: worried Binit, somehow still stout and flabby despite that fact that no one in the Shadar ever had enough to eat; young Elt
hion, taller and thinner than when she’d last seen him, as if he’d been stretched, and still unable to keep his hands and feet quiet for a moment; broody Alkar, with his right hand missing all of the fingers except the thumb; and short Sami, eager to please, always exhorting the others to listen to Faroth.

  She still didn’t agree with Faroth’s decision to hire the Mongrel, but she had more sympathy for him now. It was impossible to imagine these men overthrowing the Dead Ones without help—her brother could only do so much on his own.

  He came back out of the house holding a bundle wrapped up in cloth, with what looked like a sword-hilt protruding from the top. The shape of the bundle was wrong for a straight sword, but she thought she could detect the outline of a wide, curved blade.

  “They say she’s killed hundreds of people,” Saria was saying, clearly continuing an argument that had begun inside. “They say she worships demons, and she’s got all sorts of unspeakable evil powers.”

  “Don’t be childish,” said Faroth, securing the semi-disguised weapon under his sash. “She’s a mercenary. She gets paid to lead armies and to kill, and she’s good at it.”

  “But I heard the ore is running out,” Saria argued. “That’s why the Dead Ones have doubled the shifts at the mines—they don’t even have enough to finish the blades for this shipment, and the emperor’s ship is due any day now.”

  “What of it?” Elthion asked. Harotha had known him since he was a troublesome, colicky baby, and he hadn’t improved much over the years.

  “I heard the Dead Ones melted down an imperial sword from some soldier who died and mixed in the blood of someone else, to see if they could re-use the ore,” Alkar said.

  “I heard that, too. It didn’t work,” Binit chortled. “The Dead One whose blood they used couldn’t control the sword—he almost cut off his own arm!”

  Faroth glared at Binit, who stopped talking and looked down at his feet.

  “If the ore runs out, the Dead Ones will have no reason to stay here,” Saria reminded them all. “They may just decide to go and leave us alone. If you get the Mongrel involved now, you’ll be stirring up trouble for nothing.”

  “Where are you getting these ideas, Saria?” Faroth asked, his voice dripping contempt. “At the well? Gossiping with a bunch of brainless women?”

  Harotha flushed with anger.

  “What’s going on?” called out an excited little voice, and Dramash stepped out in front of the curtain, rubbing at his eyes. His robe was askew and his belt untied. Then he caught sight of Faroth. “Papa!” he shouted, bounding toward him. “Where are you going with your sword? Are you going to kill bad people? Can I come?”

  Faroth caught the boy by the shoulder. “How do you know what this is?” he asked.

  “I … I saw you cleaning it last night.”

  “You were in bed.”

  “I woke up. You and Mama were talking too loud.”

  Saria stepped in front of Dramash and stood there with her hands on her hips. “You see?” she said bitterly. “You see what you’ve brought into our house? I want you to get rid of that thing. I won’t let you keep it here any more.”

  Harotha could see Faroth’s face clearly from where she stood. She’d seen that hard glint in his eyes once before: the night Harotha had told him that she was going to the temple to find Shairav, with his approval, or without it.

  “Where are you going?” Dramash piped up again. “Can I come, too?”

  Faroth looked from Dramash to Saria and back again. “Yes,” Faroth said to the boy, “you can come. Tie your robe.”

  “Faroth, no!” Saria cried in horror, as Dramash let out a wild whoop of joy. “The Mongrel? And the Dead Ones? He’s six years old! It’s after curfew, and the patrols— What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking you coddle the boy. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. Come on, son.”

  Dramash flew to his father’s side with a shriek of delight.

  “Faroth, wait!” Saria cried out, rushing over to him. She seized his hand and drew him away from the others, close to the wall where Harotha was concealed as if she’d forgotten her sister-in-law was hiding there.

  Harotha held her breath.

  “Look into your heart, Faroth. Is this really what the gods want from you? Do you think this is why they spared you from the mines?”

  He stared down at her. “Spared me?” he asked, with a nasty little laugh. “So that’s what you call being born with a crippled leg, is it? Spared? The gods don’t spare anyone, Saria. And neither will I.” He turned away and rejoined the others, and they hurried off down the street with Dramash gamboling like a puppy at his father’s side.

  Harotha watched them until they disappeared from her line of sight and then remained with her eyes still focused on the same spot, staring at nothing. For months she had endured Saria’s harping on about her brother’s changed nature; she’d dismissed it all as dramatics. But now she had seen it for herself. She couldn’t believe he could be capable of such casual brutality.

  “I hope you heard every word,” Saria said, pushing suddenly through the laundry and making Harotha jump.

  ’Yes,” she said after a moment, her hand still pressed to her heart. “I heard.”

  “Well, now you see for yourself,” Saria fumed, twisting her face up in an effort not to cry. “He took my son away from me—my only child—just because I spoke against him in front of the others. That’s why he did it, you know: to punish me.”

  Harotha wanted to deny it but she couldn’t. Saria was right—she had been right all along. And now Harotha’s situation, already complicated enough, looked far grimmer than it had at the evening’s start.

  Suddenly Saria reached out and touched her arm. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” she asked, but in the next instant she heard it, too: a long, low rumbling, as if a heavily laden cart were rolling past them down the street. But the street was empty.

  “Earthquake,” Saria breathed.

  “Just a tremor,” Harotha reassured her. “Listen—it’s already fading.”

  “It’s the gods,” said Saria. “They’re angry at us. They’ve abandoned us.” As Saria’s anger faded, a faint look of hopelessness came into her eyes. Harotha’s heart shrank. This was all her fault; she had put her sister-in-law in this position and it wasn’t fair to her.

  “You were right, Saria. I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll go back.”

  Saria looked at her and the lost look disappeared as swiftly as it had appeared. “Good.” She lifted the shawl from her shoulders and draped it over her head.

  “What are you doing?” Harotha asked, surprised.

  “I’m going with you to make sure you get back safely,” Saria said.

  “But the curfew, and the patrols—” she protested.

  “Someone has to look after you—gods help me, Harotha, sometimes you act like I don’t care about you at all!”

  Chapter Eight

  Jachad pushed aside the curtain of the tiny tavern, looked inside and muttered, “Thank Shof.” There was Meiran, slouched on a stool in front of the stone bar with her cowl pulled close around her face despite the lingering late afternoon heat. He picked his way toward her around the battered furniture, glancing uncomfortably at the rounded ceiling arching just over his head.

  “We’re closed,” the Shadari taverner called out with a sour glance at his Nomas garb.

  “I’m meeting someone,” Jachad informed him pleasantly, and then sniffed the air. “It stinks in here. What’s in that lamp? Fish oil?” Then he noticed six or seven coins glinting on the bar and whistled softly: Norland imperial eagles. He squinted at Meiran. “Just how long have you been waiting here, anyway?”

  A gulp. The clay cup smacked down.

  “More,” she rasped and tossed another coin on the bar. The taverner leaped forward to pour her another drink from the jug sweating in his hand.

  “I’ve seen Faroth’s men. He should be here soon. I tried to delay them,
but they said everything’s prepared for tonight.” He leaned in closer. “The sun will be down soon,” he told her quietly. “If you want to go, I’ll wait here for Faroth.”

  Her only response was to produce a small silver flask—one he had never seen before—and take a short, sharp pull.

  “What is that you’re taking?” he asked, eyeing the cup on the bar in confusion.

  “Medicine,” she said as she stowed the flask away again.

  “You have medicine?” he asked. “Why haven’t I seen you take it before? Why didn’t you use it in the desert?”

  “There’s not much left. I’ve been saving it.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Why don’t you get out of here and leave her alone, sand-spitter?” the taverner interposed. “She’s fine right where she is.”

  Jachad straightened up. “Now I know you can’t be talking to me,” he said smoothly, “because my name is Jachad. King Jachad Nisharan, of the Nomas.” He tapped his fingers on the bar. “You understand?”

  The taverner snapped the evil-smelling rag from his shoulder and began wiping up an invisible spill. “King of bastards,” Jachad heard him grousing under his breath. “One of our girls gets in trouble, we don’t call her brat the son of a god.”

  He struggled for self-control. “Insult me all you want, Shadari, but go carefully with my father, Shof. I won’t stand for any blasphemy.”

  “Your father, the sun!” jeered the Shadari, thrusting his sharp-boned face across the bar. “I think you and those other swindlers have been living out in the sun too long. ‘Shof’ has baked your brains dry!”

  Jachad rested his hands on the bar and looked across at the taverner. Wisps of smoke rose up from between his fingers and scorch marks etched black lines in the stone around his palms. “Careful, Shadari. If you want proof of who my father is, you’ll get it.”

  “Tricks! Tricks and lies—that’s all you people are good for!”

  Suddenly the cups and jars on the shelf behind the bar began to rattle. The taverner stepped hastily aside just as a little jug on the far end shimmied its way off and crashed to the floor. Jachad felt the stone of the bar vibrating and snatched his hands back in alarm.