With each step, my head throbbed; the afternoon heat stifled me. I had not eaten before I left Yorua, unwilling to face my council siblings at breakfast. Kirah had lied to them and said Thaddace had sent me to officiate a court case. Far, far away. If I died in this wilderness, my only friends would never know what had happened to me.
Phantom murmurs seeped from the shadows of the corkwood trees. I heard the voices of my council siblings, sweet and forgiving.
“Tar? Is that you?”
“It is! It’s Tarisai!”
“Thank Am …”
“We’ve been looking ever since you left the keep. We don’t blame you about Dayo, Tar. We know it wasn’t your fault. Come home—”
“Stop trying so hard,” I snapped at the shadows. “I’m not leaving this path, so you might as well shut up!” Then I summoned the last of my strength and flung the Ray’s heat into the Bush, searching. I felt him. Sanjeet was still alive.
Hope buoyed my footsteps, though when I tried to Ray-speak, he didn’t respond. His mind felt submerged in water; the normal guard around it was gone. A snippet of his thoughts bled through the fog.
Look at you, brother. I can’t believe you’re so strong.
Sanjeet was happy. Delighted. Who on earth was he talking to? I searched with the Ray again, and sensed him farther up the path. I heard young voices, and a sound like the clack of wooden practice weapons.
“What in Am’s name?” I muttered. Then, with a single step, the landscape changed.
I spun and blinked rapidly. Tents dotted the previously empty grass, and smoke rose from campfires. Scruffy uniformed youths drilled with their captains, each bearing the sigil of a cobra. From their accents, the warriors appeared to be Dhyrmish mercenaries. Cautiously, I stepped back.
The camp disappeared.
I crept forward, and the mercenaries blossomed again into view.
The scene was staggeringly lifelike. I could even smell the cooking spices wafting from each fire. But when I hunted for mistakes in the illusion, I found them. Tents that failed to cast a shadow. Warriors wrestling on the ground without making an imprint in the mud. “Am’s Story,” I muttered. Why would the spirits make such an elaborate pantomime?
Then I saw him: the only living person in a camp full of ghosts.
“Jeet,” I cried out.
He was facing away, laughing. That rare, thunderous sound gave me so much joy, I wondered if the Bush had conjured it to seduce me. But it was real. He was real, the solid center around which the transparent illusion shifted. Sanjeet was sparring with one of the mercenaries, a clean-shaven young man with a scimitar.
“Jeet,” I repeated, grinning and waving at him.
He turned at my voice. But his deep brown eyes were glassy: He couldn’t see me.
“Follow my voice,” I said. “It’s all an illusion. You’ll see when you—”
“Careful of ghosts, brother.” The young mercenary stepped between me and Sanjeet. “We lose rookies every time we cross the Bush. Spirits always imitate people you know.”
My jaw dropped. This spirit had the audacity to pretend that I was one of them? I noticed then the resemblance between Sanjeet and the mercenary. The same copper complexion, heavy jaw, and protruding ears. But the spirit’s hair was straight, unlike Sanjeet’s loose curls. His face was soft and shy, a dramatic contrast to Sanjeet’s own.
“Sorry, Sendhil,” Sanjeet replied, shaking his head. “I just … I thought I heard someone.”
The spirit grinned. “An old sweetheart? Sanjeet, come find me.” The spirit mercenary mimicked my voice in a girlish falsetto. “You’re in danger …”
“Don’t listen to him,” I snarled. “He’s not real. None of this is real. Jeet—”
“Afternoon heat’s making us delusional,” said the spirit with a convincing shudder. “There’s a place we can cool off over the hill. Beat you there.” It grinned at Sanjeet boyishly. “I’m as tall as you now, big brother.”
Sanjeet hesitated, but when the spirit beckoned, he jogged after him. Soon I heard him laugh again, that warm, incredulous sound.
“Oh, Jeet,” I sighed. “You and your damned guilt complex.”
Of course he would leave the path for Sendhil. Sanjeet had longed for his brother’s forgiveness, just as I had longed for his. The Bush had lured him with his deepest torment—and now I couldn’t save him. If I left the path, the Bush would simply bewitch me too.
I paced, a panther in a cage. Then I dropped to my knees and tore up the fragrant purple flowers. I rubbed the downy leaves on my skin and stuffed them in the crevices of