The shaman twisted, bending backward, his supple body nearly parallel to the ground, and suddenly a simple wooden staff was in his hand. He spun the staff, turning it into a blur, planted it into the ground, and clawed at the sky with his free hand. The glowing coals from the bonfire rolled to him, forming a narrow scorching path to the blaze.

The shaman froze, poised on his toes, leaning back slightly, rigid, every muscle on his body tight, like a genius ballet dancer frozen in a moment just before the leap. His eyes glowed with deep purple, otherworldly, as if the distant planet itself stared through him. He held out his left arm to the side.

The Khanum emerged from the shadows and came to stand next to him. She wore a simple tunic. Her feet were bare. The shaman’s hand clamped her shoulder.

A wave of translucent purple dashed through the green light of the coal path. A shadow appeared in the heart of the bonfire.

The Khanum stepped onto the coal path and walked quickly to the blaze. With every step, the shadow became clearer. Arms formed, the lines of the shoulders and the neck streamlined, hair sprouted, and features formed in the oval of the face. A young otrokari man stood in the flames. He looked like Dagorkun.

They were so close now, she could almost touch him. The Khanum stood still on the coals, one hand raised, as if trying to touch her dead son. Her bare feet burned, but still she refused to move.

Dagorkun moved in from the side and took his mother by her hand. The shadow in the fire nodded to his brother. Dagorkun nodded back and gently led the Khanum away, back to the others. The shadow melted into the light.

I realized I was crying.

Another otrokar stepped to the shaman. A second wave of purple, a second shadow, another trip down the coal path. A woman this time, older, wearing the otrokar armor.

One by one the otrokari came, each finding another loved one in the fire. Dead wives, dead husbands, fallen parents, children taken before their time… Some only stayed for a brief glance, but most lingered, enduring the pain for a chance to see someone they lost one more time.

Finally the last otrokar stepped aside, letting the ghost of her past fade into the light. The shaman moved, his staff drawing a complicated pattern in the air. An otrokar woman began to sing, her voice soft, but rising, a challenge to the stars above us.

The shaman thrust his staff into the ground and opened his arms.

The fires turned white. Tiny sparks swirled within them like ghostly fireflies.

The woman’s voice rose, stronger and stronger, her song holding the darkness at bay like a shield.

Fear not the darkness

Fear not the night

You are not forsaken

We remember you

The fire exploded. Thousands of white sparks floated through the air, swirling, drifting among the otrokari. The shaman held out his hand, letting the glowing dots brush against his skin, and smiled.

The myriad of glowing lights floated up, pulled to the sky by some invisible current, and rose high, toward the greater universe beyond.

Chapter 12

Four long tables stood in the main ballroom, arranged into a rough letter m: one table across for the Arbitrator, the heads of the delegations, and special guests which included Caldenia and Sophie, and three longwise, with about twenty-five feet of space between each to make sure nobody happened to trip and accidentally fall into a slaughter. We put the otrokari on the left, the Nuan Clan in the middle, and the Holy Anocracy on the right. I took a position to the left of the main table. I was starving, but food was out of the question. I had asked Orro to save me a plate, because this banquet would require my complete attention. The tension in the air was so thick, you could cut it with a knife and serve it with honey for dessert.

The three delegations took their places, with the leaders arranged at the main table on both sides of George, who sat in the middle. One seat, next to Nuan Cee, remained empty. Cookie’s seat at the Merchants table was orphaned, too. Nuan Cee had sent him to wait in the field in the back for his guest. I still hadn’t found the emerald. With everything that happened, the search for the blur-thief had been pushed aside. I would get on that tonight.

George rose in the center of the main table. “I was going to make a long inspiring speech, but everyone is clearly hungry. I have visited the kitchen and the chef has outdone himself, and I have very little willpower left after all of these strenuous negotiations.. Thank you for being here. Let’s eat.”

Everyone applauded and stomped in approval. The tables sank into the floor and reappeared, bearing a variety of starters. Orro stepped through the doorway.

“First course,” he announced. “Spicy tuna tartare in a cone of miso encrusted bacon, spring vegetables in a cucumber wrap, and vine-ripened tomatoes with basil and mozzarella.”

He stepped back. I glanced at the table. He had twisted bacon into tiny cornucopias, the cucumber wraps looked like delicate blossoms filled with bright paper-thin slices of something red and green, and the vine ripe tomatoes were sliced into wedges, stuffed with basil and mozzarella and drizzled with something that smelled tangy and delicious. My mouth watered. The delegates fell on the delicate starters like starved wolves onto a lame deer. The food was disappearing at an alarming rate.

The magic tugged on me. Someone had just landed in the back field. Nuan Cee’s guest finally arrived. I reached out with my magic and sensed Cookie and him moving toward the house.

The tables sank down. We were going much faster than expected, but the guests were devouring the food. A moment passed and the dining tables reappeared, filled with more dishes.

“Pasta course,” Orro announced. “Agnolotti with fennel, goat cheese and orange.”