“Give her my best,” I tell him. “And tell her I hope she’s practicing her bow.”

After he leaves, I congratulate myself on resolving the issue so neatly. But then Musa of Adisa arrives. He’s followed by Corporal Tibor, the spy we sent to the Mariner capital who has already given me his report.

“I could not get through to Marinn,” Tibor says. “And I couldn’t reach our people inside. No one can get in. I took the northern route, past Delphinium and out through Nerual Lake. As soon as I got to the Mariner coast, the weather was so bad I had to turn back.”

“Was it bad up until that point?” Musa’s chiseled face is as tense as I’ve ever seen it, and Tibor shakes his head.

“Gray skies, a bit of snow. Typical for late winter. But the seas raged near Adisa. I tried to get through. But I ran into a dozen others who said their ships couldn’t so much as approach the coastline. I thought it was more important to tell you than to keep trying and failing.”

When Tibor has left, I turn to the Scholar. His arms are crossed to hide his clenched fists.

“Does Marinn usually have storms so bad that the kingdom is completely cut off?”

“Never. And I’ve tried to spy on the Commandant, to see if this is the Nightbringer’s handiwork. But there are jinn all over the south, and the wights refuse to go near them.”

“My spies are more afraid of me than they are of jinn.” I rise, because if I’m going to rally five hundred troops to travel south, I must tell the Empress. Musa follows me out the door and into the busy hallway.

A window stands open and I breathe in Antium’s scents. Rain and mountain pine, roasting meat and clay-oven flatbread drizzled with butter and cinnamon. I glance out at the gardens, where a dozen Masks patrol. Amid the drizzle, Dex walks with Silvius, their shoulders touching as they pass a cup of some steaming drink back and forth. The wind carries the sound of Dex’s laugh, rich and joyful.

What would it be like to walk with Harper that way? To share a mug of cider. To touch him without feeling like I will come apart?

“Shrike?”

I snap back to Musa. “I’ll send my own spies south to infiltrate Keris’s network,” I say. “We’ll get news soon. I promise. I hate unsolved puzzles. I have too many as it is.”

“More?” Musa says. “Do tell.”

“Just the blather the Karkauns were spewing. Ik tachk mort fid iniqant fi. Haven’t been able to get a translation of it, but—”

“‘Death wakes the great sea,’” Musa translates, nodding a greeting to a group of Scholars as they pass. “Or—no, wait. ‘Death feeds the great sea.’”

I stop in the middle of the hall, ignoring the irritated grunt of a Mask who nearly runs into me. “Why didn’t you tell me you spoke Karkaun?”

“You didn’t ask.” Musa keeps walking, and now I am trying to keep pace with him. “The Mariners used to trade with the barbarians, before Grímarr became their high muckety-muck. The crown felt that Nikla’s prince consort should speak the languages of her trading partners.”

“Is that how you learned to fight too?” I ask. “Because Quin Veturius gives out compliments once a decade or so. If he’s feeling generous.”

“Perhaps that’s why I like him.” Musa stares off thoughtfully. “My grandfather taught me to fight. He was a palace guard. Saved old King Irmand’s life when he was a boy. Got a beekeeping estate for his trouble. My father became a healer, but I spent more time with the bees. I think they both thought training would toughen me up.”

“Did it?”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He grins suddenly, and I turn to see Harper coming down the hallway. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s rain in his hair and glistening along his cheekbones. No distractions, Shrike. Do not stare at his forearms—or his face—

“Shrike, Musa.” He doesn’t slow, or even meet my eyes, and then he’s past. After he turns the corner I realize two things: First, that my heart is thudding so loud, I’m stunned people aren’t turning to stare at me. And second, that Musa is staring at me.

“You know—” he begins, but I wave him off.

“Do not,” I say, “give me some sad story about love and loss and your broken heart.”

Musa doesn’t laugh as I expect him to. “I saw your face,” he says. “During the attack on Cardium Rock. When Harper went down. I saw.”

“Stop talking,” I say. “I don’t need advice from a—”

“Go on, insult me,” Musa says. “But you and I are more alike than you know, and that’s not a compliment. You’re in a position of great power, Shrike. It’s a lonely place to be. Most leaders spend their lives using others. Being used. Love isn’t just a luxury for you. It’s a rarity. It’s a gift. Don’t throw it away.”

“I’m not throwing it away.” I stop walking and pull the Scholar around to face me. “I’m afraid, Musa.” I don’t mean to blurt the words out—especially to a man whose arrogance has vexed me from the moment I met him. But to my relief, he does not mock me.

“How many in Antium lost those beloved to them when the Karkauns attacked?” he asks. “How many like Dex, who hide who they love because the Empire would kill them for it?” Musa runs a hand through his black hair, and it sticks up like a bird’s nest. “How many like Laia, betrayed and then left to claw her way through her pain? How many like me, Shrike, pining for someone who no longer exists?”

“There is more than love of another,” I say. “There is love of country—love of one’s people—”

“But that’s not what we’re talking about,” Musa says. “You are lucky enough to love someone who loves you back. He is alive and breathing and in the same vicinity as you. By the skies, do something about it. For however long you have. For whatever time you get. Because if you don’t, I swear that you’ll regret it. You’ll regret it for all your years.”

XXXIX: Laia

The Martial army is smaller than I expected. After Aish fell, I imagined tens of thousands of soldiers. But Keris has managed to take much of the Tribal lands with a mere ten thousand men.

“Three hundred of whom are Masks,” Elias says to the Tribespeople he’s appointed as platoon leaders for our first mission. We’ve gathered atop a small butte in the rugged lands between Taib and Aish. The Martial army is sprawled a half mile away, their outermost sentries moonlit glimmers beneath a cloudless night sky.

“It’s the Masks who walk the perimeter of Keris’s army,” Elias says. “I’ll take care of them. At my signal—”

He goes through each leader’s duties, and they buzz with adrenaline and anticipation. But I feel numb with anxiety for everyone here: Afya standing beside her little brother, Gibran; Mamie Rila’s younger son, Shan, and his group of Saif Tribesmen; Sahib, Aubarit’s uncle and the taciturn Zaldar of her tribe.

The rest of Aish’s survivors, including Mamie Rila and Aubarit, have decamped to a labyrinthine cave system a few miles to the north. We cannot fail them tonight. We cannot fail those in Taib and Nur, who will suffer Keris’s violence if we do not slow her and her army down.

Out in the darkness south of us, the Martials’ fires light up the horizon. Ten thousand is not so many, I tell myself.

But one hundred—the size of our force—is even less.

Focus, Laia. Elias assigned me a duty for this raid, but I have my own mission to carry out. The Nightbringer will likely be with the army. Which means the scythe will be there too.

A gold glow at the corner of my vision stiffens my spine. Though I am at the back of the crowd, I slip deeper into the shadows.

“Well?” I ask.

“The Nightbringer is in the camp with Keris,” Rehmat says. “I wish you would not seek him out, Laia. There are Kehannis in these lands. Seek stories instead.”

But all of the Kehannis who escaped Aish walked away the moment they heard what I wanted. Only Mamie Rila was brave enough to speak with me.

We draw our stories from the deep places, Laia. I sat in the lamplit warmth of her wagon, but the air grew cold as she spoke. They are not just words. They are magic. Some are potent as poison, and strike you dead upon speaking them. The woman you met in Marinn—the Kehanni of Tribe Sulud—she knew this. It is why she could not tell the Nightbringer’s story right away. It is the reason the wraiths killed her. I fear the words you seek, Laia, Mamie whispered. I love life too much to utter them.

“If the story kills the Kehannis,” I tell Rehmat, “then it isn’t worth it.”

“The weapon alone will not defeat him.”

“Laia. Laia!” Afya pokes my side. The entire group stares at me. Elias, arms crossed and head tilted, meets my gaze, bemused. I flush under his regard.

I realize we’re reviewing the plan of attack. “I’m to poison the food stores. Without being seen.”