<No,> said Lahlil, and placed a wooden spoon in the sack.
<What kind of sickness?> Isa asked, watching her sister thrust in items one after another.
<No one knows,> said Lahlil. <He has a black mark over his heart.>
The tent’s stripes appeared to undulate as Isa reeled and she looked for something to hold on to before she fainted, finally shaking the whole tent when she grabbed hold of one of the supports.
Lahlil looked at her at last. <What’s wrong with you?>
Isa said, <I know what it is.>
The pack in Lahlil’s hand dropped to the bed. <What?> Then, <What did you say?>
<It’s poison—someone in the Shadar has been poisoning ashas the same way. That’s the reason I’m here.>
<Poison.> Lahlil repeated the word as if it meant nothing to her. <What do you mean, “poisoning ashas?”>
<I mean, I think it only works on them, otherwise it would have killed me too.>
Isa drew back as Lahlil threw the pack aside and ran out of the tent, leaving her to follow behind in an exhausted, stumbling run as her sister loped down the sandy paths. The stricken looks and aimless pacing of the Nomas made sense now, as did the crowd Lahlil forced her way through to get to Jachad’s tent.
“Where is it?” Lahlil shouted to the people inside. No one paid Isa any heed as her sister barged around, bending down to look under the little table, then bumping into the desk with her sword and knocking the scrolls to the floor. Then she turned to the desk, and when she still didn’t find what she wanted, she darted to the corner and began rummaging through the neatly piled bags and trunks.
Jachad sat propped up in bed with a loose tourniquet circling his left arm and his hand supported by cushions, while blood dripped down from his forearm into a wide bowl. Mairi had just come back in herself and was pulling a stool up to the bed. A lancet glinted from the folds of a cloth in her hand.
“The wineskin,” said Lahlil, “the one we drank from yesterday—where is it?”
“What’s going on?” asked Jachad, trying to sit up until Mairi pushed him back into the cushions.
Lahlil continue to rummage, ignoring the stream of golden lentils pouring from a sack she’d tossed aside. Finally she uttered a strangled cry and turned around with a small wineskin in her hand. A smudge of yellow chalk marked one side.
<I know that mark,> said Isa, stepping forward. <It’s the same.>
“Isa! Sweet Amai, girl, where did you come from?” Mairi cried.
“The wine was poisoned,” said Lahlil. “Magic users—it only kills magic users. Someone in the Shadar has been using it to get rid of the ashas. You see? That’s why it affected Jachad and Callia’s baby, but not Callia or me.”
“Lahlil,” said Jachad. He began to rise, but the moment he swung his legs over the edge of the bed his eyes rolled and he crashed back down again. His elbow caught the edge of the bowl and flipped it over, splattering the striped tent wall with his blood.
Mairi cried out and jumped across to him. “Everybody get out!” the healer screamed at them.
Isa grabbed her sister’s arm and hauled her outside.
<You have to come with me back to the Shadar,> said Isa, ignoring the stares of the Nomas men all around them. <We have to find out who’s doing this and stop them. Daryan can’t do it alone. He needs our help.>
<Stop them?> Lahlil’s words flew at her with the flaying force of a sandstorm; in the middle of the whirlwind Isa saw the flash of revolving steel and the answering spray of blood: so much beautiful destruction. <There’s nothing to stop. They’ve already done it.>
Mairi came out of the tent, fists clenched, eyes aflame. “What was that all about?”
“Get Jachad ready,” Lahlil said to her. “I’m taking him to Norland. There’s a healer there, someone I trust … she can cure him.”
Mairi just stared in shock as Lahlil turned to Isa. <You came on a triffon, didn’t you?>
<You can’t fly a triffon all the way to Norland,> said Isa, <and you can’t have Aeda. I need her to get back to the Shadar.>
<I only need to get to Prol Irat—I know someone there who can take us the rest of the way. A strider.>
<But the striders are all dead,> said Isa. <You killed them all. Everybody knows that story.>
“It would take too long,” said Lahlil, seething with impatience. “It’d be at least a week, if I could get her to come at all.”
“If you’re going to shout at each other out here,” said Jachad, appearing in the doorway of his tent with a fresh bandage on his wrist, “do you mind if I join you? It’s a little hard for me to hear from in there.”
Mairi and Lahlil glared at each other.
“How long do I have, Mairi?” Jachad asked her.
The healer twisted a lock of her tangled blonde hair. Then she said, “If we keep bleeding you…”
“Days? Weeks?” Jachad persisted. The forced jauntiness in his voice made Isa’s throat ache.
Mairi’s face screwed up. “Jachi, don’t…” He said nothing, only stood waiting patiently. After a moment, she rolled her shoulders and wiped her red eyes with her sleeve. “A few days, if we keep bleeding you. And I might be able to make up a draft to help you breathe better. But this is ridiculous—I won’t allow it, Jachi.”
“Do we have any other ideas?” His voice rose as the cracks began to show in his brave façade. “Because I don’t really want to die, to tell you the truth, and if I can’t avoid it, I’m guessing Prol Irat or Norland is just as good a place for it as Wastewater.”
“Well, you’re my king, so I can’t stop you,” said Mairi. “You can do what you like, even if it means dying in some frozen ditch somewhere, away from everyone who loves you—” She squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head for a moment, but when she raised it again her face blazed with anger. “What about Oshi? You can’t take him with you, Lahlil. I won’t let you.”
“I know. I’ll take care of it,” said Lahlil. “Moonrise—we can’t wait any longer, or we’ll lose the light.”
“What do you mean, you’ll take care of it?” Mairi demanded.
“Mairi,” said Lahlil, much too quietly, “leave it alone.” She took off back down the sandy path, Isa in hot pursuit.
<Wait, Lahlil. You can’t go to Norland.> Isa darted around a spindly dead tree and stood in front of Lahlil, ignoring the stinging insects landing on her hands and buzzing in her ears. <Come back to the Shadar with me. We’ll find out who gave Jachad the poison and make them give us the cure.>
<There’s no time for that,> Lahlil told her, trying to brush past.
<You’re coming with me!> Isa felt any chance she might have had for reuniting with Daryan slipping through her fingers, and in desperation, she slammed her palm into her sister’s chest and shoved her back. <I swore I would bring you back. I can’t go back to the Shadar without you, do you understand?>
Lahlil’s left hand curled into a fist and her right hand slid in toward the hilt of her knife. Isa stepped back in a cold flush of fear. Her sister could end her in a heartbeat. But then Lahlil gave a weird little shudder, like someone just waking up, and looked at Isa with her head cocked to one side as if she had just recognized her.
<You left Daryan?> asked Lahlil.
<I had to do something,> said Isa, freezing the tears behind her eyes before they could fall. <Things have been bad there. He’s been having a hard time keeping everything under control. Now someone is murdering the ashas—the Shadari are defenseless without them, and there’s nothing Daryan can do.>
<Why come to me?> asked Lahlil. <Why didn’t you stop it yourself?>
<They’re already using me to tear him down,> said Isa, <and they don’t even know what I am to him. The Shadari might love me for killing Frea, but they still hate me
for being a Norlander. If I can fix this—if I can save the ashas—they’ll have to accept me, won’t they?>
<Unless the ashas are already dead,> said Lahlil bluntly.
<That’s correct,> Isa shot back, refusing to be daunted. <I can save them, if they’re still alive.>
<No. There’s another way.> Something snaked through Lahlil’s words that made the hairs on the back of Isa’s neck stand up. <I’m not going back to the Shadar, and neither are you. You’re coming with me to Norland.>
Norland. The word came at Isa as hard and bright as a polished blade, and it cut right into her. The stump of her left arm flinched, and hot shame bubbled up from inside it.
<You know I can’t go to Norland,> she said.
<You need ashas and I know where to find one,> said Lahlil. <The Shadari who first brought the ore to Norland—she’s still there. The emperor’s kept her locked up all this time.>
Isa sucked in a breath of the marshy air. <How can you possibly know that?>
<She’s the one who gave me the divining elixir. You can rescue her and bring her back to the Shadar.>
<You think she could help Daryan?>
<Help him,> Lahlil said slowly, <or replace him.>
Replace him. He would be free. They would both be free. <But my arm—>
<—won’t be a problem, not where we’re going. You’ll soon see you’re not the only Norlander with scars.>
Isa stood very still, listening to the hiss of the reeds brushing against each other in the breeze.
<I’m going to get the supplies we need from Behr.> Lahlil started off down the path. Without turning back, she repeated, <We leave at moonrise.>
* * *
Mairi came out of Jachad’s tent carrying a bowl full of bloodstained bandages. She kept her head down and would have walked past again if Isa hadn’t stepped out in front of her.
<I need more pills,> said Isa.
<Your arm?> asked Mairi. Her eyes narrowed. <You shouldn’t be in pain still.>
<I can still feel it burning.>
<Show me,> said Mairi, unbuttoning Isa’s cloak. Isa had left in her old shirt, and now Mari undid the knot on her sleeve and pushed it back until the stump was exposed. She turned away from the sight of the violet, puckered flesh.
<No infection.> Mairi muttered something to herself in Nomas that Isa didn’t understand. <You say you’re still experiencing pain—and the pills were helping?>
<Yes,> said Isa. <Can you make them stronger?>
<I’ll try.> Mairi buttoned her cloak back up. <I’ll make you up some more before you go. You should get some rest in the meantime. You’ve got a long journey in front of you. I don’t envy you, I’ll tell you that. I think you’re all heading straight to perdition.>
Isa didn’t mind going to perdition; the sooner she got there, the sooner she could come back.
Chapter 16
Lahlil walked through the camp looking for Behr, but every time she tried to think about the supplies they would need for the journey to Norland, the memories of that last argument with Cyrrin locked up her mind like rust on a wheel’s axle. She had been living in Norland with the other outcasts for five months: that was already longer than she’d stayed in any one place since she’d left the Nomas …
* * *
The clearing was only a short way through the tunnel in the briar, but ice had already stiffened her fur coat and the cold was scorching her lungs. She paced around the ancient statue, cataloguing its particulars: a sexless body, a mound for a head, twin pits for eyes. Snow filled the basin where people had once burned their sacrifices.
Trey was waiting for her answer. Heavy snowflakes fell around him and settled on the hood and shoulders of his patchwork furs and on the shining hilt of Honor’s Proof. Darkness drifted from him: smoke, and storm clouds, quiet as the forest around them.
<You have forty-eight people,> said Lahlil, watching as the snow blurred the jagged crenellations and broken towers of their mutual home. <Five can’t walk; three can’t see; seven are low-clan and have never even held a sword; five are too old to fight; three are children. You have one archer with a bad bow and worse arrows.>
<We have you,> said Trey. <Lord Valrig’s army will rise if you’ll lead us. I know it.>
<I don’t serve Lord Valrig.>
He took out the copy of the Book that he had been carrying when he was injured; he never went anywhere without it. Lahlil had watched him pore over it for hours when it was their turn to wait at Onfar’s Circle for new outcasts to bring to Cyrrin. Now she watched him flip the bloodstained leaves to a particular page.
<I don’t need to see it,> she said.
Trey gripped the book with one hand and tore the page from the binding. She knew how he felt about the Book; she might be jaded, but for him it must have been like tearing off a fingernail.
<Here,> he said, pushing the page into her hand before the snow could wet the ink. <Take it. Keep it with you. You know what it says. He’s claimed you, whether you like it or not. You have no choice. That’s why you didn’t die. Why I didn’t die.>
She folded the page and slid it into the sleeve of her coat.
<We can’t go on like this,> said Trey, as the grachtel swooped by him and alighted on the top of the statue’s head. <You know it. You can see this place for what it really is, can’t you?>
<Trey—>
<Can’t you?>
<You know I can,> said Lahlil, staring down at the statue’s faint shadow. <It’s a prison.>
They sensed Cyrrin coming even before her approach flushed a flock of silver birds from the treetops and filled the air with cries like a chorus of rusty hinges.
<I knew you’d be out here plotting,> said Cyrrin, leaning heavily on Berril’s shoulder. Scarlet pain bled through her words, staining the snow at her feet.
<You shouldn’t have followed us,> said Trey. <There’s no point. You weren’t born high-clan—you were never a warrior. You can’t understand what it’s like.>
<This is all her fault,> Cyrrin said, as if Lahlil wasn’t standing right there. <You were here three years before she came, without any of this. You were doing better. You were settling in.>
<I was dying. You just didn’t want to see it.>
Lahlil swallowed back the taste of blood: the cut on the corner of her mouth had cracked open again. <I’m not going to attack Ravindal,> she said firmly. <I’m not going to lead an army of the cursed, or any other kind. I’ll fight to protect the people here if it ever comes to that, but that’s all.>
Trey fixed her with his silver eyes. <But protecting people isn’t what you do, is it? People hire you to destroy their enemies, not protect them. Destruction and death: that’s what you were made for.>
<Stop it, Trey.> Cyrrin rocked in the snow and nearly fell, but Berril locked her skinny arms around her, brace and all, and held her up. <Dress it up in your pious nonsense all you want but what you really want is revenge: common, ugly revenge.>
<What I want is to pull it all down,> said Trey. The words snapped off one by one, like icicles from a ledge. <I want to pull it down and see what crawls out of the rubble. I want to see what happens when everyone has scars. So do you, Lahlil. I know you can see it, too. That’s because it’s part of you.>
He was right: she could see it. She could see the towers and walls crumbling and sending an avalanche of stone through the streets of Ravinsur and rumbling through the warehouses, mansions, and towers. She could see the beacon toppling, scattering fire across the Front as it fell, and the plundered wealth of a hundred nations trammeled underfoot by the panicked mobs. She could see ten thousand mangled bodies groaning beneath the rubble, begging for the mercy of death.
She could do it. She could pull it all down. She was the Mongrel.
<Trey,> said Cyrrin, <leave us alone.>
He hesitated for a moment, then he dropped his gaze, crossed the clearing and disappeared into the briars.
Berril helped Cyrrin walk up to the statue, where she looked up into its
staring eyes. She scooped a bit of snow out of the basin and let it fall in a wet clod at her feet. <What do you think those long-gone Norlanders expected to get for their sacrifices? Death for their enemies? Favors? Protection?>
<I don’t know. Whatever they wanted, I guess.>
<I used to want things,> said Cyrrin. <At least, I remember wanting things. Now I just want to survive until tomorrow, and keep as many of these people alive as I can. I’ve only ever wanted one thing for myself since I came here. One thing.>
The grachtel took off into the trees.
<I thought you just needed more time,> said Cyrrin. <I thought you’d find something here to live for, the way the others have. But you … you’re tearing us apart, Lahlil. I’ve pretended not to see it for too long. You’re not like the others; you can survive out there. If you want to go now, I won’t stop you.>
Lahlil felt an unfamiliar pull in her chest. <I never said I wanted to go.>
<You know what else you never said?> asked Cyrrin, her words as brittle and sharp as broken glass. <“Thank you.”>
* * *
Lahlil found Behr over by the goat pens and gave him a list of what they would need. He listened attentively, suggested a few substitutions, and recommended a few more things they might find useful. Then she headed back through the silent camp to finish her packing. No one plucked a harp or puffed pipe smoke into a wedge of lamplight. No voices bubbled up in laughter or song or impassioned conversation.
She found Callia in the rocking chair. She was still very pale, but she had put on a clean dress and had brushed her hair into its usual glossy waves. She had Oshi in her arms. Something about the way she was holding him reminded Lahlil of someone in a swollen river clinging on to a tree root to keep from being swept away.
“He’s tired,” Callia warned her as she came closer. “That’s why I brought him back. I’m just trying to get him to sleep. Then I’ll go.”
“Let me have him,” she said, and Callia took a moment to fuss with his blanket before handing him over. He started to cry as Lahlil cradled him against her shoulder and she gave him her finger to clutch in his tiny hand. An ember not quite dead somewhere inside her glowed as he fit snugly into the space in her arms, but Callia looked small and lost without him.