A Sky Beyond the Storm (An Ember in the Ashes #4) - Sabaa Tahir Page 0,119

back, unwieldy, but too precious to leave unattended.

All along the canyon, fires have sprung up. Their glow is cleverly hidden beneath overhangs and vented tarps. The scent of roasting leeks and buttered flatbread has my mouth watering.

“I thought you might want company,” I tell Mamie. “And I’m—a bit lonely.”

The Kehanni’s face softens, and she hands me the spoon so I can stir the stew as she sprinkles a pinch of cinnamon into it, followed by a handful of dried cilantro. The omnipresent desert wind whistles down the canyon, muting the quiet talk of thousands of people, and the fires spark and dance. Efrits walk beside Tribespeople. High above on the canyon’s rim, guards patrol.

“Mamie,” I begin. “I was wondering—”

Horses’ hooves sound behind me, and I turn to see Afya and her little brother, Gibran, dismounting near their own caravan.

“Anything?” I call out to the Zaldara, but she shakes her head.

“Not so much as a forgotten shoe,” she says. “Rowan was with us for most of the trip.” She nods to the sand efrit, drifting to a group of his kin who have gathered on one side of the canyon. “He sensed no magic. They’re gone.”

Mamie ladles out a bowl of squash stew for me and another for Afya. When the latter protests, the Kehanni gives her a dark look, and she sits.

Gibran drops beside his sister, lured by the scent of stew as well as the fluffy stack of flatbread Shan has produced. “They might be headed for Taib,” he says. “Though by now, they should know it’s empty.”

“At least we have time to recover,” I say. “And to plan our next move.”

“A bit hard to do that when our general is missing,” Afya mutters. Mamie gives her a sharp look, but I do not blame the Zaldara for her irritation. Elias’s disappearance sent ripples of unease through the Tribes, even when Afya told them of his assurances that he’d return.

“He’ll be back,” I say. “Nur was a small victory in a greater war, and he has a stake in it. Mamie”—I turn to her now—“how goes the story-hunting?”

“It is slow,” the Kehanni says between bites of stew. “Our stories have two qualities. Sechei and Diladhardha.”

“Truth . . . and—” My Sadhese is limited, and I shake my head.

“Diladhardha means ‘to know the heart of pain,’” Mamie says. “We seek truth, Laia. And when we find it, we must approach it with empathy. We must understand the creatures, fey or human, who populate our tales. Respect them. Love them, despite the villainous things they do. We must see them. Else how will our stories echo in the hearts of those who hear them? How will the stories survive beyond one telling?”

The Zaldara and Gibran listen, rapt, and even Shan, who has lived with the Kehanni his whole life, stares at her with his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth.

“Sechei and Diladhardha are the first steps to hunting a story. When you have attained them, then a story might be coaxed from the shadows. I have heard many tales of the Nightbringer. But none that will allow me to understand him or love him or respect him. I know him only as a creature of great evil. I fear loving him. I fear respecting him. I fear if I do, I will lose myself.”

“Such stories are dragons drawn from a deep well in a dark place,” I murmur.

“Where did you hear that?” Mamie asks.

“The Kehanni of Tribe Sulud,” I say. “She knew the Nightbringer’s story. But wraiths killed her before she could tell me.”

Mamie’s food is forgotten, and she looks at me intently. “Do you remember anything else of what she told you? Any hint at all as to what the story could be about?”

“She didn’t really—” I stop then and consider. “She spoke of his name. She said the story she told would be about his name. About how—how important it is.”

“His name,” Mamie considers. “The Meherya, you said. And it means . . .”

“Beloved.” Even thinking the word makes me sad. But Mamie shakes her head.

“It is not enough,” she says.

“You couldn’t help, could you?” I mutter to Rehmat. But she doesn’t respond.

A sharp call sounds from the northern end of the canyon, followed by the chilling rasp of dozens of scims being drawn at once.

Mamie is already kicking sand over the fire and shooing me toward her wagon. Afya sprints for her horse, Gibran following. Then Afya calls out.

“Laia,” she says. “Wait, look!”

She peers down the canyon, and