“Shut up,” I mutter, delivering a particularly savage blow to the tree. A nearby crow squawks and flies into the clear winter sky.

You’re a fool, the voice hisses, deriding me as it has for the past week, ever since I left Laia at the edge of the Waiting Place.

My exhaustion is bone deep, a product of sleep riven with nightmares and waking thoughts consumed by her. I lift the chain, seeking that sweet oblivion that takes over when my body screams that it cannot go on.

Oblivion doesn’t materialize. As Cain promised, Laia remains in my mind. Every story she told. Her shaking body as we escaped the wraiths. Her hand against my arm as she tried to persuade me to see the Fakirs with her.

And her questions. How many ghosts have you passed, Elias? Since she left, I have scoured the Waiting Place for spirits, encountering a mere half dozen in as many days. Something is wrong.

I hear a low, animal moan, and turn to find a spirit reeking of death and wringing her hands at the edge of the jinn grove. Immediately, I move toward her. Mauth’s magic allows me to dip into her memory, and I see a fleet of ships off a fair gold coast. Invaders wearing Keris Veturia’s sigil. Sadh’s silver domes and slender white spires burning and falling. Its people fleeing and dying.

Speaking Sadhese, the spirit tells me her story in bits and pieces and I usher her slowly toward the river. Focusing on her calms my mind. This is my purpose. Not night after night of oneiric hauntings. Not helping a girl cross the forest. Not talking to a Fakir.

“My children,” the ghost says. “Where are they?”

“He leaves them,” I tell her. “They’ll find their way to the nearest settlement. Do not fear for them.”

“Did they see it?” The spirit belongs to a Tribeswoman, and she turns her dark eyes toward me. “The storm?”

“Tell me about this storm,” I say. “Release your fear.”

The ghost shudders. She holds too tightly to her suffering. I let my magic curl around her like smoke and try to ease her pain from her. But she will not let it go.

“It was vast. And hungry. It wanted to devour me.”

“When did you see this?” If she did get a glimpse of the storm, she will be the first ghost to mention it other than Karinna. My neck prickles. “Where?”

“When the Nightbringer came for me. He lifted his scythe. Our Kehanni said if you look into a jinn’s eyes, you see your future, so I tried not to look. But I couldn’t help it. Is that what will happen to me when I cross over? I will be devoured?”

“No,” I say. “It’s not.” But I do not speak with conviction. Before, I knew in my bones that the ghosts were moving on to something better. Now I am not so sure.

“Something took the other spirits,” the ghost says. “But I escaped. I don’t know where they went. I don’t know why.”

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore.” I force myself to believe it, for if I do not, how will she? “The other side waits for you, and with it, peace.”

She goes, finally, and when the next ghost appears, it, too, is from the invasion of Sadh. “I don’t want to go,” it screams. “Please—it’s waiting for me. It will devour me!”

For the next three days, every ghost who passes through speaks of the maelstrom. I expect more spirits, for it is clear Keris Veturia takes no prisoners. But then, Tribal ghosts have always been rare in the Waiting Place. Their Fakirs usually pass them on without any intervention from the Soul Catcher.

Those ghosts who do enter the wood grow progressively more difficult to handle. Day after day I hear the same story. I hold and painstakingly extract the same terror. A sinking feeling creeps over me—that I am doing something terribly unjust by passing the spirits.

Then, after passing a boy who is far younger than the Nightbringer’s usual victims, I go to swim in the River Dusk, to cleanse my mind of worries.

And I find that the rot has spread.

It smells worse than before, like the aftermath of a battle. The trunks of dozens of trees are crumbly with decay. The earth is raw and smoking, as if scorched, and dead fish lay stinking along the river’s banks. I taste the river water and spit it out almost in that same instant. It savors strongly of death.

Laia was right. Something is deeply wrong with the Waiting Place. And I can ignore it no longer.

XIX: The Blood Shrike

We try to keep word of the massacre in the kitchens from leaking out. But it’s impossible. Within a week, the news is all over Delphinium.

“If she can get to the kitchens, she can get to anyone.” Pater Cassius paces the throne room. Sleet hammers the roof, and though it’s early afternoon, the storm clouds are so thick it looks as if night has fallen. We’ll have snow by morning. I can smell it.

A dozen men nod or grunt in agreement with Cassius—nearly half of our advisory council. Musa and Darin, here to represent the Scholars, exchange a glance.

“She hasn’t yet gotten to the Emperor.” Livia straightens upon the ornate seat that serves as a throne. “Not even close.”

“Because she’s distracted by her campaign in the Tribal lands,” Cassius says. “We must consider a truce. Ask for clemency—”

“There will be no clemency from the Commandant,” I say. “I trained with her for fourteen years. She doesn’t understand mercy. If we give in, we die.”

“Do you not remember what she did to Antium?” Darin, quiet until now, stares down Cassius. “Thousands of your people were slaughtered. Thousands of mine too.”

“Silence, Scholar! You think because that fool Spiro Teluman trained you—”

“Do not invoke his name.” The steel in Darin’s voice reminds me of his mother. “Spiro Teluman was ten times the man you are. As for silence—we are done being silent. Without us, you can’t hope to ever take the Empire back from Keris. You need the Scholars, Pater. Keep that in mind.”

Cyrus Laurentius, a diplomat like my father, steps in. “Keris betrayed Antium to the Karkauns. She is the real enemy, Cassius. Skies only know what our people are suffering.”

“And what have we done to help them?” Pater Cassius glares at me.

His censure rings in my head as the argument rages. I circle the room, ignoring the Paters. And what have we done to help them?

Zacharias must take the throne. But he is a child with no power, and there is nothing any Martial respects more than power. Keris wields hers like a blade. It is why she insisted she be hailed as Imperator Invictus, instead of merely as Empress. It is why she is fixated on conquering and plundering the Tribal lands.

We need a victory just as resounding. One that will send a message of strength not only to the Paters of the Empire but to our people.

“Blood Shrike,” Harper murmurs from my shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

I answer him loud enough that the room can hear. “Pater Cassius is right about one thing. Our citizens in Antium have waited for liberation long enough.”

“How the hells do we take on the Karkaun army when we barely have enough men to hold Delphinium?” Pater Cassius asks. “I thought you studied war theory, Shrike.”

“We don’t use the army we have. We recruit the one in the city. There are fifty thousand Karkauns in Antium.” The shape of a mission coalesces as I speak. “To quell a population of well over four times that. Many women and children yet live. I know our people, Paters. If we can remind them that they are not alone, they will rise up. And if we take back the city, we can show Keris’s allies our strength—and win them over to our side.”

Pater Mettias, who until now has observed the proceedings from beside the fire, looks at me askance. “How can women fight against those monsters? How will you arm them?”

“Have you forgotten that the Shrike is a woman, Mettias?” Livia examines the young Pater with enough asperity to make him fidget. “Do not bore us with old prejudices. You are a better man than that.”

“We have weapon caches hidden in the city.” I glance at Dex, who nods. “Our spies tell us that Grímarr’s men have not discovered them all. And Darin here can make Serric steel.”

A scuffle at the door has all of us turning at once. A guard flies into the room, and scim rings against scim. I grab Livia, shoving her down beside the throne as the Paters close ranks in front of us.

“Don’t you dare tell me I need to prove my identity to you, boy,” a voice rings out. “I was wearing Karkaun finger bones for a necklace before your dog of a father ever made eyes at your mother.”

A tall, broad-shouldered figure marches into the throne room, and I release my weapon. His armor gleams, he has not a hair out of place, and he looks as if he’s just come from a military inspection instead of what was likely a multi-month trek.

“Greetings, Shrike.” Quin Veturius strolls toward me, nodding imperiously at the other Paters. “What’s this I hear about stealing allies from my daughter?”

* * *

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