A Torch Against the Night (An Ember in the Ashes #2) - Sabaa Tahir Page 0,47
only fighter who knew about the safe houses, they’re compromised.”
Elias speeds his gait, and Keenan drops back, taking a position far enough behind me that I think it best to leave him be. I catch up with Izzi, and she leans toward me.
“They’ve avoided ripping each other’s faces off,” she says. “That’s a start, right?”
I choke back a laugh. “How long until they kill each other, d’you think? And who strikes first?”
“Two days before all-out war,” Izzi says. “My money’s on Keenan striking first. He’s got a temper, that one. But Elias will win, being a Mask and all. Though”—she tilts her head—“he doesn’t look so good, Laia.”
Izzi always sees more than anyone gives her credit for. I’m certain she’ll notice me dancing around the question, so I try to keep my response simple.
“We should reach Nur tonight,” I say. “Once he rests, he’ll be fine.”
But by late afternoon, a powerful wind blows in from the east, and our progress slows as we enter the foothills. By the time we reach the stretch of dunes that lead to Nur, the moon is high, the galaxy a blaze of silver above. But we are all exhausted from fighting the wind. Izzi’s walk has deteriorated to a stumble, and both Keenan and I pant in tiredness. Even Elias struggles, stopping short enough times that I begin to worry for him.
“I don’t like this wind,” he says. “The desert sandstorms don’t start until late fall. But the weather since Serra has been odd—rain instead of sun, fog instead of clear skies.” We exchange a glance. I wonder if he’s thinking what I am: that it feels as if something doesn’t want us to reach Nur … or Kauf or Darin.
The oil lamps of Nur glow like a beacon only a few miles to the east, and we head straight for them. But a mile or so into the dunes, a deep hum thrums out across the sands, echoing in our bones.
“What in the skies is that?” I ask.
“The sand is shifting,” Elias says. “A lot of it. A sandstorm is coming. Quickly now!”
The sands swirl restlessly, rising in taunting clouds before gusting away. After another half mile, the wind grows so frenzied that we can hardly make out the lights of Nur.
“This is insane!” Keenan shouts. “We should turn back for the foothills. Find shelter for the night.”
“Elias.” I raise my voice over the wind. “How much would that delay us?”
“If we wait, we miss the gathering. We need those crowds if we want to pass unnoticed.” And he needs the Tellis. We cannot predict the Soul Catcher. If Elias starts convulsing again and loses consciousness, who knows how long that creature will keep him in the Waiting Place? Hours if he’s lucky. Days if he’s not.
A shudder rolls through Elias, sudden and violent, and his body jerks—too sharply for anyone with eyes to miss it. I am beside him instantly.
“Stay with me, Elias,” I whisper into his ear. “The Soul Catcher’s trying to call you back. Don’t let her.”
Elias grits his teeth, and the convulsion passes. I’m well aware of Izzi’s bewildered look, Keenan’s suspicion.
The rebel steps closer. “Laia, what’s—”
“We keep going.” I raise my voice so he and Izzi can hear. “A delay now could mean a difference of weeks later if the snows come early or the northern passes are closed.”
“Here.” Elias pulls a stack of kerchiefs from his pack and hands them to me. As I dole them out, he cuts a length of rope into ten-foot sections. Another shudder ripples across his shoulders, and he clenches his teeth, battling against it. Don’t give in. I give him a pointed look as Izzi huddles closer. Now is not the time. He binds Izzi to himself and is about to bind me to Izzi when she shakes her head.
“Laia on your other side.” Her gaze flits to Keenan so swiftly that I’m not sure I even saw it. I wonder if she heard Keenan imploring me to leave with him last night.
My body shakes with the effort of standing in one spot. The winds scream around us, as violent as a chorus of funeral shrieks. The sound makes me think of the wraiths in the desert outside Serra, and I wonder if fey creatures haunt this desert too.
“Keep the rope taut”—Elias’s hands brush mine, and his skin is fevered—“or I won’t know if we’ve been separated.” Fear stabs at me, but he drops his face close to mine.