A Sky Beyond the Storm Page 16

  Every few hours, the jinn ranges ahead on her mount. Before she goes, she reinforces the compulsion she’s already placed upon us by again demanding silence.

  But on the morning of the third day, she forgets.

  Most of the soldiers do not notice, and ride onward with dead eyes, bodies swaying to the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. Only Mask Novius, riding beside me, jerks his head up as she leaves. A muscle pops on his jaw as he strains against the jinn woman’s control.

  I watch him surreptitiously. His mask gleams in the dreary winter sunlight, and though he stares straight ahead, I sense he is aware of my every move.

  Rehmat will not or cannot help me. I have no magic. I tried to contact Darin—to no avail. We travel at unnatural speeds. If I do not act soon, I will be in Aish—and the Nightbringer’s hands—by nightfall tomorrow. Skies only know what he will do with me. Not kill me, perhaps. But there are things worse than death. My mother’s fate as the Commandant’s slave taught me that.

  Far ahead, the jinn is a distant silhouette on the horizon. With utmost care, I rest my left palm where Novius can see it.

  Help, I trace slowly. I have a plan.

  A minute passes. Then another. You will not set her free or aid in her escape. He cannot break free of the jinn. Perhaps I was a fool to think that any of us could.

  After a few minutes, though, I hear a strange sound. Like a roar through a mouth with a hand held over it.

  Novius looks at me now, fury etched into every crag of his face. I realize that it is he who has made the sound. That he has broken free, at least a little bit, from the jinn’s control.

  Quite suddenly, he drives his horse into mine. If I could, I would cry out. My mount stumbles, throwing its head back in agitation, lifting its front legs. I grab for the pommel, but it slips out of my fingers. My back meets the desert floor with such force that I nearly bite through my tongue.

  The Mask might hate being controlled, but he’s a Martial, through and through. I glare at him and he meets my gaze with that same barely quelled rage. He dismounts, grabs me by my bound arms, and shoves me toward my horse.

  In the distance, the jinn wheels her steed around and gallops back toward us.

  “What is this?” Her beast whinnies in complaint as she yanks him to a halt. “What happened?” She looks at me. “Speak, girl! And you will not deceive me.”

  “I—I fell off my horse.”

  “Why did you fall off your horse? Was it on purpose? A distraction? Tell the truth!”

  “Not on purpose,” I say honestly. “I lost my balance.” Unwillingly, I glance over at the Mask. The jinn narrows her eyes.

  “Did Novius speak to you? Are you two planning something?”

  “No,” I say, thanking the skies that the Mask’s muffled bellow could hardly be called speech.

  The jinn observes me for long moments before turning away. Novius helps me back onto my horse, and the jinn rides ahead again, remaining close enough that I cannot write a message to Novius.

  But far enough that I can hide the scroll he slipped me into my sleeve.

  * * *

  «««

  I do not get a chance to read the scroll that night—the jinn watches too closely. The next morning, a powerful, dry gale churns up a dust storm. The jinn urges the horses onward, until visibility is so poor that they groan and snort. She forces them toward an outcropping of rock, where we settle down to wait. An hour later, with the sun a rusty disk overhead, the sandstorm has not abated.

  The jinn appears wan, almost sickly as she crouches beside a boulder. The rest of the soldiers stand beside their horses, unnaturally still, like Mariner windup dolls frozen in place.

  As the wind blasts us, the jinn’s blazing eyes remain fixed on me. I distract myself by thinking of the last time I traveled this desert. Izzi was still alive. It’s been so long since I thought about my friend—her gentle manner and quiet rebellion. The way she loved Cook like a mother. She was another sister, even if not by blood.

  I miss her.

  “Girl.” The jinn woman’s voice brings me back to my predicament. “You’ve walked these lands before. How long do these storms last? Speak.”

  “A few hours at most.” My voice is a croak. “We’ll need to clean the horses’ eyes before setting off again. Or they’ll go sand-blind.”

  The jinn nods, but does not silence me again. Perhaps she is too tired from so many days of using her power on us. Or perhaps, as Novius suggested, she is at her weakest.

  To my relief, she stops staring at me and rises to walk among the soldiers. So slowly I am hardly moving, I reach for the scroll. Then I bend my head into my knees, as if shielding my eyes.

  I dare not give myself more light, so it takes me a minute to read the cramped writing. And once I’ve read it, I am baffled. I’d expected instructions on how to get the Mask’s lock picks. The outlines of a plan to break free.

  But of course, he couldn’t give me that. The jinn ordered him not to help me. Still—this makes no sense.

  No blade forged by human or efrit, wight or ghul or wraith, nor any object of this world may kill us. No matter how badly you want us to die, we cannot.

  What do the words mean? Why would he—

  The memory comes rushing back so quickly that I am dizzy from it. She spoke these words to me before—and ordered me to forget them. But the Mask was listening too, and she gave him no such order.

  The jinn is still among the soldiers, so I read the scroll one more time to commit the words to memory, and then let the wind carry it away. The second part of what she said is a lie. Jinn can be killed. I saw it with my own eyes.

  The Nightbringer killed Shaeva with a blade. And she was at least as old as the jinn locked in the grove. Perhaps older.

  I close my eyes and try to remember what the blade was. A black sickle that glittered like diamond, wickedly curved and attached to a short hilt. It was a strange metal—one I hadn’t seen before.

  But I have seen it since, I realize, staring down at the glittering chains binding me.

  No blade forged by human or efrit, wight or ghul or wraith, nor any object of this world may kill us.

  Jinn-forged then. Created out of a metal only they can access.

  Or perhaps the sickle has no special properties. Perhaps the Nightbringer used a weapon to stab Shaeva, but magic to kill her.

  But no—at the very least, these chains suppress my magic, and I am a mere human. What would they do to jinn, who are born of magic?

  I am so consumed with thoughts of the sickle that I do not notice the storm has passed until the jinn kicks me and orders me to my feet.

  It is early evening when I spot the strange dark splotch on the horizon. It looks to be a large lake of some kind, its currents flashing silver in the fading light. Then the wind carries the sound of horses, the smell of leather and steel. And I understand that it is not a lake but an army, that the flashes are not waves but weapons.

  The city of Aish is under attack.

  The jinn gives Novius orders to lead us toward the city before putting boot to flank and ranging ahead. A moment later, a whisper tickles my ear.

  “Laia.” Rehmat does not appear, but it sounds as if it is right next to me. “Let us get you free of those damnable chains.”

  “I thought you could not help,” I whisper back.

  “Khuri goes to speak with her kin. We have a few moments. First, you need your weapon—”

  “How do you know her name?”

  “I know many things you do not, child. Novius has your blade. Once you are invisible you can take it from him. Now—these chains. I think you can—”

  “The Nightbringer”—I cut Rehmat off—“used a sickle to kill Shaeva. Do you know anything of it?”

  “I know what lives in your memories.”

  I flush, thinking about the ot
her things it’s probably seen in my memory, but then push my embarrassment aside. Rehmat’s answer was . . . careful. Too careful.

  “Did Shaeva die because of the blade?” I ask. “Or the Nightbringer’s magic?”

  “The blade.”

  The Mask glances over and I realize I probably look mad, gabbling to myself. I lower my voice. “If all you know of the blade is what’s in my memory, how do you know it can kill jinn? And why the skies did you not tell me about it?”

  “The weapon will be impossible to take from the Nightbringer, Laia,” Rehmat says. “And it is not guaranteed to destroy him.”

  “But the sickle can kill other jinn.” I want to shout, but settle for a furious whisper. “The ones rampaging across the Tribal desert, leaving death and terror in their wake. The ones out there.” I nod toward Aish and the army inching ever closer to it.

  “Laia.” Rehmat flickers in agitation and I wonder if the creature is not an “it” but a “he,” for there is something irritatingly male about its obduracy. “We need to understand the Nightbringer’s weaknesses if we wish to stop him. We need his story. Your plan to find the Tribal Kehannis was a wise one. But to carry it out, you must escape. That is a war you ride toward.”

  “It is indeed,” I say, and the idea that comes to me is one Afya would approve of, as it is utterly mad.

  “Come, child. Do not be a fool—”

  “Why are you afraid?” Until now, Rehmat has seemed wise if a bit high-handed. I have never sensed its alarm, like I do now. “Because you think the Nightbringer will discover you? Destroy you?”

  “Yes,” Rehmat says after a long hesitation. “That is what I fear.”

  No, it is not. I know this immediately. The creature lies. Conceals. This is the first time I’ve felt it for certain, and an odd pang goes through me. Rehmat is like no one I have ever met or even heard of, but I have grown to trust it. I thought it was my ally.

  “Let me help you, Laia.” Rehmat modulates its tone at the last instant so it sounds calm and level-headed, instead of like an overlord. “You must not fall into the Nightbringer’s hands in the midst of a war—”

  “Falling into his hands in the midst of a war,” I tell the creature, “is exactly what I have to do.”

  XXIV: The Soul Catcher

  A horn trumpets from the southern buildings of Aish, echoing from guard tower to guard tower, a frantic blare. The wind picks up, carrying the stench of singed earth and blood.

  The Tribal encampment is in chaos. Men and women throw children into wagons and sweep up belongings. Cookfires spark. Camels and horses groan as their masters work frantically to buckle saddles and harnesses.

  But when the Tribespeople see me, many of them stop what they are doing, hope dawning in their eyes.

  “Banu al-Mauth! Are you here to aid us?”

  “Will you destroy the jinn?”

  I ignore them as Tribe Nasur’s guards converge on Aubarit’s wagon. “Fakira,” one of them says. “We must take shelter in the city before the gates are closed.”

  The Tribe’s silver-haired Kehanni follows them, frowning. “Better to flee into the desert,” she says. “The Martials will be occupied with Aish. They will not hunt us.”

  “Tribe Saif will flee,” Mamie Rila speaks. “Even if they pursue us, we can evade them.”

  She turns to me. “Help us, Banu al-Mauth,” she says. “There are too many jinn. Too many Martials. And a city filled with innocent people who did nothing to invite this invasion. You could use your magic to defeat the enemy—”

  “That is not how the magic works, Kehanni.”

  “But if you helped, fewer would die.” Aubarit grabs my arm, holding on to me even when I attempt to shake her off. “There would be fewer ghosts to pass—”

  But I do not seek fewer ghosts. I seek to understand what is happening to them.

  What if it is the Nightbringer’s doing? Laia’s words echo in my head. The few Fakirs who could have answered my questions were murdered by the Nightbringer. In the battles he has fought, where hundreds of ghosts should flow into the Waiting Place, none arrive.

  Perhaps this is an opportunity to see why.

  “Make for water.” I raise my voice, and the Tribespeople nearby fall silent. “The jinn hate it.”

  “The only water is in Aish’s wells,” Mamie Rila says.

  “The Malikh escarpment has water.” The information costs me nothing. “Stream is running high.”

  The horns of Aish call out again, a low thrum that elicits cries from across the encampment. The approaching fire is distant no longer. The jinn are here.

  Aubarit and Mamie’s questions fall upon the unfeeling wind as I stream away, past the Tribespeople scrambling to get into the city, past the refugees from Sadh looking for shelter where there will be none. Keris Veturia’s army will pour through Aish’s many gates. The wide streets that are perfect for Tribal caravans, open markets, and traveling players will become killing fields.

  Such is the world of the living.

  I pull up my hood so no one recognizes me and scan the horizon. Screams echo from the south, and flames light up the sky, moving like whirling typhoons. Jinn. The fear of the Tribespeople curdles the air, turning the cold night bitter.

  A rooftop will offer a better view, and I spot a trellis I could climb. But it is blocked by a wagon with an old man and two little children inside. A woman struggles to hitch her horse to it while her daughter, barely tall enough to reach the harnesses, tries to buckle them.

  I look around for another place to climb. Finding none, I lift the child into the wagon and buckle the straps for her. The girl peers at me, and then offers me a brilliant smile. It is so incongruous with the panic around us that I freeze.

  “Banu al-Mauth!” she whispers.

  I put my finger to my lips and secure the wagon shafts. The child’s mother sighs in relief.

  “Thank you, brother—”

  “Make for Nur,” I tell her, keeping my hood low. “Warn them of what’s coming. Tell others to do the same. Go.”

  The woman climbs into the wagon seat and snaps the reins. But only yards away, she is slowed by people cramming into the streets. Her daughter looks back at me, hopeful, like I will clear the way for them.

  I turn from the child, climb the trellis, and head east, toward the sound of thundering Martial drums. A distant, unified shout follows: “Imperator Invictus! Imperator Invictus!”

  Keris Veturia has arrived. With her, an army to do the murdering and pillaging after the jinn weaken the city. Her forces are still a good distance away. But a vanguard of riders ranges out from the main force to cut down those Tribespeople who are unfortunate enough to be in their way.

  My mother leads them. She is easy enough to recognize, distinctive for her diminutive size—but more for the brutality with which she kills. She wears steel-and-leather armor and wields a long spear that allows her to impale easily from atop a swift-footed white mare. As I watch, she kills two women, an elderly man, and a child who stands paralyzed as she thunders toward him and mows him down.

  I should feel nothing. Emotion is a distraction from my duty.

  Yet my mind recoils at the sight of my mother blithely murdering a child. Though I rarely wonder about my father, I think of him now. Perhaps he, too, loved to cause pain. Perhaps that is why I care so little for the living. Perhaps my parents’ lack of humanity is why I was able to become the Chosen of Death.

  Suddenly, Keris wheels her horse about and scans Aish’s skyline. Her gaze settles on me. Strange. I could be an archer. A soldier. Anyone.

  Yet somehow, she knows it’s me. I feel it in my bones. We gaze at each other, connected by blood and violence and all our sins.

  Then she pulls her horse back around and disappears into the band of soldiers returning to the main army. Shaken, I turn away and windwalk the roofs toward the
jinn-spawned flames inking the southern sky. I streak past cookfires and rope beds, over pigeon coops and squawking chickens. The sounds of war fill my ears.

  I reach for my scims, forgetting that they’ve been in my cabin for months. I want to fight, I realize. I want a battle that isn’t in my head. A battle that can be won based on physical strength and training and strategy. I could find a weapon. Fight with the Tribespeople. It would feel good to do it.

  The slow weight of Mauth’s magic pulls at me, a reminder, and I shake myself. Battles mean death. And I have dealt out enough death. Nightbringer. Find the Nightbringer.

  The closer I get to the southern edge of the city, the worse the flames are, until I have to stop at a water pump to soak a kerchief.

  Screams echo from below me, and a building crumbles to dust before my eyes, a cloaked jinn man staring at it fixedly before turning away and bringing down another. Behind him, a fire-formed jinn hovers in the air as if it’s her own chariot. An unnaturally dry wind follows her, fanning the flames.

  Stalking the streets below is a jinn in full flame, her body pulsing with hatred. I recognize her instantly. Umber. Her glaive spins as she cuts down any who block her path, and others who are desperately fleeing from her. As I watch, she lifts one man in the air and crushes his windpipe—slowly.

  His spirit leaves his body and, for a moment, hovers near it. Then the air shimmers like a cat’s eyes flickering in the shadows. The spirit disappears.

  It does not go to the Waiting Place. Or the other side. I would feel it, if that were the case—I would know in my bones. So what in the ten hells am I seeing?

  I skulk along the rooftops, following Umber, watching as she kills. The air around her shimmers and flickers as soul after soul vanishes. Each disappearance leaves behind an emptiness, a void that weighs heavy on the air.

  Before Umber spots me, I windwalk away, making for Aish’s tallest building, the Martial garrison. Never have I wished more for Shaeva. For her cool competence and vast well of knowledge. She would know what is happening. She would know how to stop it.