see the land below.
The Mir had shifted her bed yards to the south, leaving a swath of sooty mud bare. Gray froth tangled on the current, churned over the now-rocky bank. As they moved south she saw the remains of villages, streets buried under dust and cinders, thatched roofs burned away and beams like bones rising from the slag. Her ring chilled till her right hand was as numb as her left. The ferry landing and the hill above it were gone, washed away by mud and ash—nothing remained of the dock but a few charred splinters.
It was harder to breathe here. The ash fell thicker and the air reeked of alchemy—sulfur and salt spirits and salts of ammonia. Tears ran down her cheeks and she couldn’t stop coughing. Her exposed skin prickled painfully. Asheris didn’t falter, but his eyes reddened and watered and she could see the tightness of his jaw even through the veil.
“We can’t go much farther in this—”
He broke off, eyes widening, and Isyllt turned to look below them. She drew in a wondering breath and quickly regretted it as she began to cough.
They had reached the city. But where she expected to find another smoldering ruin, instead a shimmering dome of water rose.
Asheris sank slowly, landing on a spur of stone outside the wall. “She woke the river,” he whispered.
“She bought a miracle.”
The dome flowed in an unceasing cascade. It washed over their boots, soaked their trousers. Ash slid away in silver streams as soon as it touched the water. Asheris pressed a cautious hand into the wall, drew it back wet to the elbow and somewhat cleaner.
“I think we can go in.”
The pressure was enough to sting as she stepped through, but not much worse than a strong shower. They emerged drenched and gasping. Isyllt tugged her sodden veil aside and scrubbed her face with it, wrinkling her nose at the stains. She coughed and spat gray phlegm. Her throat ached, lips parched and tongue thick, but she didn’t want to risk the water, however miraculous. At least the air within was cleaner, thank the saints.
Thank Zhirin.
Symir hadn’t escaped entirely. The streets were strewn with rubble and stones—from both collapsing buildings and great porous black boulders that must have come from the volcano. The ground was slick with black mud, and bodies lay broken amid the debris. But the death-chill eased; there were survivors here too.
The streetlamps were out, but the gloom brightened. The water itself glowed, she realized, a subtle witchlit iridescence. Silver-green light and ash-shadows rippled over the ground and broken walls, washed everything unreal, dreamlike.
“Where should we go?” She wasn’t sure why she whispered, except that the shining vault of water reminded her of a cathedral.
“To the Khas, I suppose.”
“Did Faraj know, about you?” Their boots squelched as they walked, cloth slapping against flesh.
“I don’t think so,” he said after a moment. “He knew something, knew that my service was not entirely willing, but I doubt Imran or Rahal would have entrusted him with the truth.”
They passed a few survivors. A woman crouched in the rubble of a house, keening softly. A man kneeling beside an overflowing canal, a child’s body limp in his arms. They didn’t stop; there was nothing either of them could do.
As they neared Jadewater, voices rose over the constant rush of water. Glancing at each other, they turned toward it. The bridge was still intact, though cracked in places. The temple district had flooded knee-deep, nearly swallowed by the black pool that had been the Floating Garden. At the steps of the River Mother’s temple, a crowd gathered, voices raised in grief and wonder. One of the ivy-crowned domes had fallen, but the building was otherwise sound.
The Khas hadn’t fared so well. Its walls stood, gates open, but the Pomegranate Court was a ruin of fallen trees and muddy ash, and the dome on the great hall had caved in. The council dais was buried, and several councillors with it; guards tried to dig the bodies out but seemed too stunned to be effective. A few of them looked at Asheris with eyes wide and hopeful as hungry dogs, but he only shook his head sadly and turned away.
They found Faraj amid the rubble of the west wing, Shamina huddled lifelessly over Murai a few yards away. Isyllt swallowed the taste of char and started to turn, then paused. The chill wasn’t deep enough.
“Help me,” she said, crouching awkwardly beside the Vicereine. The woman’s skin was