her wore charms or witch-marks, and a chill followed them, greater than any one ghost. Shaiyung kept close, till Xinai’s arm tingled with cold.
A few protested at first as Selei laid out her plan. It was madness. If the mountain erupted, it would easily destroy the mine and the Kurun Tam mages responsible for it, but the jungle was sure to burn as well. But the more Selei talked, the more sense it made. The Assari had bound the mountain with magic as they’d bound the land with steel and stone—what better way to teach them the strength of a free Sivahra than to unleash the fire they tamed? The forest would grow back, unlike all the clansfolk who had died in the mines.
Soon the assembled witches nodded to the argument, and murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd. Their breath hung in shimmering plumes.
When the gathering dispersed, she escorted Selei back to her makeshift house. The fire had left her, and the old woman seemed frailer than ever, leaning on Xinai’s arm as they walked.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be on the mountain tonight, to make sure the bindings break. When you’re done with the wards, join me at the eastern rim of the cauldron.”
“Are you sure that’s safe? It’s a long climb—”
Selei snorted. “I’m not infirm yet. And I’ll have warriors with me, don’t worry. But I want you there as well. And your mother.”
“We’ll be there.”
“Thank you.” The woman’s fingers squeezed Xinai’s arm. “I’m glad you could be here for this. The more clans we have, the stronger we are.”
“Not much of a clan, are we?” She shrugged a shoulder toward Shaiyung.
“You don’t need to take the gray yet. You’re still young. More than one clan has been renewed from a single scion.”
Xinai chuckled. “Those stories were more heartening when it wasn’t my womb needed for the renewal.”
“It isn’t so bad. And I think you’ll find no few men willing to help you.”
“Now you sound like my mother.”
They passed a cooking fire and the smell of pork and curried lentils wafted around them. Smoke stung Xinai’s eyes and for an instant it was like looking through time. People moved in Cay Lin, cooking and talking, walking between the houses. She almost thought she heard a child’s high laughter. But was it the past she saw, or the future?
She shook her head and the illusion vanished, leaving only warriors breaking camp in the iron dawn.
Zhirin drifted in and out of sleep, surfacing at the sound of voices or footfalls or the clack of a tray, only to sink again. Dreams waited for her, circling like nakh in the deep—bright dreams and dark, ordinary and terrifying, till she couldn’t tell what was real.
Eventually she woke, blinking till her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her head felt stuffed with wool, sticky and dreamsick. She sat up with a wince, neck popping; her right arm tingled from being pinned against the floor. Rain rattled softly against the thatch roof.
She rubbed her face, pausing at the salt and snot crusted on her cheeks and lips. Rust-colored crescents darkened her fingernails and the heavy heron-ring gleamed on her hand. The bird’s topaz eye glittered coldly. A sick, hollow feeling opened in her stomach, and for a moment she thought she might vomit.
Cloth rustled and she started before recognizing Isyllt’s pale face in the gloom. The necromancer sat against the far wall, a blanket draped over her shoulders.
“There’s food,” she said softly, nudging a tray with her foot.
Zhirin shook her head, swallowing sour spit. “What time is it?”
“Just past dawn.”
She touched her head, frowning at a strange lingering tingle behind her eyes. “You spelled me.”
Isyllt shrugged. “I thought you needed it.”
With unsteady hands, Zhirin poured a cup of water. The first swallow eased the taste of salt and sleep and reminded her of her aching bladder.
“Are you all right?” Isyllt asked.
Zhirin’s hands tightened around the cup till she was surprised the clay didn’t shatter. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she said. It came out harsher than she intended, but she didn’t think she could stand either pity or heartless pragmatism at the moment.
The door scraped open and she flinched, slopping water over her hands. Gray light washed the room and she squinted as a woman leaned inside.
“You’re both awake? Jabbor says I’m to look after you. Do you need anything?”
Zhirin clenched her fists so she couldn’t see the blood under her nails. “A bathhouse?”