A Sky Beyond the Storm (An Ember in the Ashes #4) - Sabaa Tahir Page 0,86

name a prayer and a curse at once. “You died. In the Duskan Sea battle—”

What the bleeding skies is happening? I scream in my mind at Rehmat.

It—or she—ignores me. But when she speaks again, it is in the manner that I’ve become accustomed to, as if she has finally remembered why she is here.

“I did not die,” she says. “I saw what was to come and I called on an old magic, blood magic. Lay down your scythe, Meherya. Stop this madness—”

But the Nightbringer flinches. “I was alone,” he whispers. “For a thousand years, I thought I was—” He shakes his head, and it is such a human gesture that I actually feel sorry for him. For in this moment, we have both been betrayed.

Damn you, Rehmat, I shout at her in my head. Get out of my mind.

Laia—

Get out! Her magic fades first, then her presence, and I am alone.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the Nightbringer, “I—I didn’t know—” Why am I telling him this? He will only use it against me. He might have loved me, but he hated himself as he did so, because his hatred for my people is the air he breathes.

An aroma of cedar and lemon fills my senses, and I return to a cellar miles to the north, where a red-haired boy I loved made me feel less alone. I have spent so long hating the Nightbringer that I never mourned who he used to be. Keenan, my first love, my friend, a boy who understood my loss so deeply because he had endured his own.

“We are doomed, you and I,” the Nightbringer whispers, and when he touches my face with his hands, their fire cooled, I do not quail. “To offer more love than we will ever be given.”

He is not violence then, or vengeance. All his hate has drained away, replaced by despair, and I put my hands on his face. I am glad Rehmat has fled, for this strange impulse is mine alone.

Salt flows over his fingers as fire trickles down mine. Would that we all knew the cracked terrain of each other’s broken hearts. Perhaps then, we would not be so cruel to those who walk this lonely world with us.

Our moment is over too quickly. As if realizing what he is doing, he wrenches his hands from my skin, and I stumble back, toward the canyon’s edge. He snatches me from peril, but that act of mercy seems to rekindle his fury. A fey wind howls out of the somber sky, and he spins away.

Just like that, we are at war again.

I watch him until he is gone and then look down at my hands. They are unmarked by his fire, appearing whole, as if I’d touched a human and not a creature of flame.

Still, they burn.

XXXIV: The Blood Shrike

As we enter the city, a horn wails. A Karkaun warning call, rousing them from sleep and drink and less savory entertainments. In minutes, the sound echoes across the city.

“Teluman.” At my summons, the smith looms out of the night, a group of twenty men behind him.

“After you secure the drum towers,” I tell him, “get to the southeast barracks, in the Mercator Quarter. A good part of their army is there. Burn it down.”

“Consider it done, Shrike.” Teluman moves off, and I turn to Mettias.

I’m heartened to see that though the thud of Karkaun boots closes in on us, the young Pater is unfazed. He’d have made a good Mask.

“Make sure those weapons get to every Martial and Scholar willing to fight,” I say. “Get the word out to hold the attack until Teluman sounds the drums. Musa, send a wight to Quin. When he gets through, he needs to bring his forces to Cardium Rock.”

“Shrike,” Harper protests, for this is not part of the plan. “Grímarr is too well-protected. He’ll have the bulk of his men up there. He’s luring you to him.”

“You are a man of few words, Harper.” I signal to my men, and we move away from the walls. “So don’t waste the ones you do utter on things I already know. He needs to die. And I’m the one who is going to kill him.”

Harper looks taken aback, and then laughs. “Sorry, Shrike.”

Musa, Harper, and my last thirty men are behind me as we weave through streets we know better than any Karkaun. We leave weapons throughout the city, passing through a prearranged system of alleys and courtyards and homes. Everywhere, the Martials