Within the hour, the area around her wagon is crowded with people. Some are vaguely familiar, like a tiny woman with black-and-red braids and a beautiful face. Her arms are crossed over a mirrored dress of gold and green, and she stands with a young man who looks like the taller version of her. Afya. I remember her from my memories of Laia. And her brother, Gibran.

I find I am relieved to see him. A memory ricochets through my mind—him attacking me, possessed by a ghost. Trying desperately to stop him, and the fear that in doing so, I’d damaged him irrevocably.

Mamie Rila arrives with a cauldron of tea and passes cups around to ward off the chill wind blowing in from the north. She nods silently to me, but keeps her distance. A tall man steps out from beside her. His curly hair is half-hidden beneath a scarf, and his skin is lighter than mine. He closes the distance between us in two steps, arms wide for a hug.

“Ilyaas—brother—”

I extricate myself from him carefully.

“Ilyaas,” he says. “It’s me—Shan—”

I know the name now. He is my foster brother. Mamie’s other adopted child. I nod at him stiffly. He wears the tattoos of a Zaldar, freshly inked. Behind him are other faces I recognize. Mamie’s cousins and brothers, her nephews and nieces. My old family.

They eye me with awe and a touch of wariness. Only Shan looks at me like I am one of them.

Mamie Rila touches his arm gently, whispering something into his ear, and his smile fades. After a few moments, he steps back. “Forgive me, Banu al-Mauth,” he says. “If I overstepped.”

You didn’t, the trapped voice inside me calls out. I crush it.

“Fakira Ara-Nasur.” I find Aubarit speaking to Gibran. “Is everyone here?”

At her nod, I look out at the crowd. Conversations hush, and the only sound is the sand susurrating restlessly against the canyon walls.

“The Nightbringer steals spirits,” I say. “He keeps them from crossing over.”

Gasps arise and Aubarit looks sick. Afya Ara-Nur’s hand goes to the blade at her waist. “Those in Aish—” she says. “All of our dead?”

I nod. “All have been taken, and—” I stop before mentioning the maelstrom, my old Blackcliff training kicking in. Share only what is necessary. Telling them what the Nightbringer is using those spirits for will frighten them. And frightened people make poor foot soldiers.

“Why?” Mamie Rila says softly, her tea forgotten in her hands. “Why do such a horrible thing?”

“The jinns’ strength is more limited than it appears.” I let them draw their own conclusions. “They are powerful, yes, but in short bursts only. When their power is spent, they heal slowly. A side effect of their imprisonment, perhaps.”

“So—they are feeding off the spirits?” Shan says.

“In a manner of speaking,” I say. “The Nightbringer seems to want ghosts who have suffered. Those who would have come to the Waiting Place. That is why it is empty. He is taking them.”

“But what does he do with them?” A young Fakir I don’t recognize speaks up from the back of the crowd. I can barely see him—the torchlight near Aubarit’s wagon does not extend so far.

“I do not yet know,” I say, because Talis did not explain the mechanics of the Nightbringer’s plan. “But the jinn need the ghosts, which means they need dead humans. The jinn terrify a city, make a populace panic and capitulate. Keris Veturia sends her army in to butcher at will. The Nightbringer gets his suffering, and Keris claims another city.”

“What can we do against the jinn?” Gibran says, and his sister answers.

“It’s not the jinn we’re after.” She glances at me. “You want the Martials. If the jinn don’t have their foot soldiers, there would be less butchering. Less suffering. Fewer ghosts for the Nightbringer to steal.”

Beyond the ring of Zaldars and Fakirs and Kehannis, the crowd expands. Their fear spreads like an insidious fog.

“If we battle the Martials,” Mamie Rila says, “will that not simply make more ghosts?”

“Soldiers rarely enter the Waiting Place,” I tell her. “Especially Martial soldiers. Perhaps because they go to battle prepared for death. In any case, it is suffering the Nightbringer wants. Agony. We won’t give it to him.”

“What do you propose?” Shan asks.

“We fight.” My hands fist and my battle rage stirs, restless in my blood. “We attack in small groups, insurgency style. We aim for their food stores, their livestock, and supplies. We empty out the villages in their path. If Keris’s men are going to walk lands that do not belong to them, we can make that walk as difficult as possible. And we can do it without creating a glut of new ghosts for the Nightbringer to thieve.”

“Why not empty our cities?” Afya says. “Scatter into the desert and the Serran Range? The Nightbringer wants death, no? We could simply deny him that by hiding.”

“How long will you hide for?” Mamie says. “Keris Veturia will not give up. It might take longer, but she will hunt us down. And not just to kill us.”

Now Shan speaks up. “Her Empire has need of slaves. She killed too many during the Scholar purges.”

“We have a treaty with them—” a voice calls out, but Mamie snorts.

“Keris sold her own city to the Karkauns,” she says. “Do you think treaties mean anything to her?”

“We should fight,” Gibran says. “If the cost of staying in the Tribal lands is too high for the Martials, they’ll leave. Keris has another enemy to the north. The Blood Shrike and her nephew.”

“Yes, but if Keris defeats her,” Afya says, “she’ll send her armies back for us. Then what? Do we keep fighting? Living in canyons and gulches? When will it end?”

The crowd shifts, small conversations and arguments breaking out and echoing off the canyon walls. I am losing them.

Then a dark-haired, gold-eyed figure steps from the crowd into the firelight. She wears an embroidered Tribal tunic that brushes her knees, and her hair is freshly braided.

Fate will always lead you back to her, for good or for ill.

“Laia.” Mamie Rila is by her side instantly. “You should be resting—” But Laia shakes her head, a new sadness rounding her shoulders.

“All this sorrow. This suffering.” Her gold eyes fix on me. “All of it is because of the Nightbringer. Afya asks when will it end. It will end when the king of the jinn is dead.”

The Tribes nod and mutter in agreement.

“Killing him is not simple,” she says. “It will require the theft of a weapon he carries, and powerful magic. Until we can get that weapon, we must find other ways to hinder him. Stripping him of his allies is one such way. Keris is his strongest ally. To that end, Elias’s plan is sound. And he knows the Martials. He knows how they think. With him, we have a chance at victory.”

The Tribespeople glance at each other when she uses my old name, though I spot Mamie hiding a smile. I consider correcting Laia, but she has them mesmerized, so I keep silent.

“The Martials crushed my people,” she says. “Keris would do the same to you. And her master, the Nightbringer, would inflict that indignity upon your dead. So do we stand with the Banu al-Mauth and fight them? Or do we roll over like cowed dogs and let them do what they want with us?”

“Tribe Saif will fight.” My foster brother stands, but he doesn’t look at me. “For our land and our dead.”

“Tribe Nur will fight,” Afya says after a nudge from her brother. “If the other Tribes join,” she adds.

“Tribe Nasur will fight.” A silver-haired Zaldar steps forward. “And if the Banu al-Mauth’s plan works, we will continue fighting. If not . . .” He shrugs.

The sentiment spreads, and one by one, the Tribes agree to my plan. Laia turns to me, tilting her head as if to say, What next?

“We’ll meet in the morning,” I say. “To discuss the first attack.”

As the group breaks up, Laia approaches. She looks exhausted, covered in scratches and cuts, with a large bruise on the side of her face. I get an odd prickly feeling in my chest.

She puts her hand to it when she sees me looking. “It was a river,” she says. “So unless you strangle a force of nature, you cannot do much. Besides, you’re the one who left me stranded in the desert. If you want to be angry at someone, go find a mirror.”

“I am sorry. But—”

“No.” She puts a finger to my lips. “I am sorry was the perfect place to stop.”

She stands close enough for me to see the myriad tiny scratches all over her face. I brush my fingers against one lightly.

“The river that did this to you,” I say. “I don’t like it.”

Her smile is a lightning flash in the dark. “Are you going to find the bad river, Elias? Make it pay?”

“It’s Soul Catcher. And yes.” My thoughts toward this river turn baleful. “Maybe I can divert it down a canyon, or—”

The fire turns her gold eyes molten, and she throws back her head and laughs. Watching her is like watching a waterfall thundering down a gorge. Like watching the Northern Dancers illuminate the sky. I cannot describe it. I only know that a tightness in my chest loosens, and I am different—lighter—for witnessing it.

“That’s good,” she says. “That’s a start.”