Darin stands slowly, reaching for his scim. I drag myself to my feet beside him, leaning against the wall as dizziness makes the world tilt. The Jaduna will no doubt arrest us now. And there’s no way we can outrun her. Which means somehow, I have to find the strength to fight her.

The Jaduna does not approach. She merely observes me for a moment.

“You saved my life,” she says. “The efrit would have killed me. I owe you a debt.”

“Please do not arrest us,” I say. “Leave us be—that will be repayment enough.”

I expect a retort, but she only watches me with that inscrutable gaze. “You are young to stand so deeply in the shadow.” She sniffs at me. “You are like him—your friend. The one they call Musa. I have seen him in the city, whispering his stories, using the sway in his voice to create a legend. Both of you—tainted by darkness. You must come to my home, to Kotama, in the east. My people can help you.”

I shake my head. “I cannot go east. Not when the Nightbringer is still a threat.”

The woman shakes her head, bemused. “The Meherya?”

“You said that before,” I say. “I do not know what it means.”

“It is his name, Laia of Serra. His first, truest name. It defines all he has done and all he will do. His strength is in his name, and his weakness. But”—she shrugs—“that is old magic. The Nightbringer’s vengeance has long been foretold. You would be wise to leave here, Laia of Serra, and go to Kotama—”

“I do not care about Kotama.” I lose my temper, forgetting that I am speaking to a woman who can probably kill in a dozen ways with a twist of her hand. “I have to stop him.”

“Why?” She shakes her head. “If you stop him, do you not know what will happen? The consequence, the devastation—”

“I do not know how I will stop him now, in any case.”

The wind rises, and screams echo from the street beyond—the fire is in danger of spreading to the city. The Jaduna frowns and looks over her shoulder before snapping her fingers. Something small and rectangular appears in her hands. “Perhaps this will help.”

She tosses it to me. It is a thick, heavy book with silver letters embossed on the side. A History of Seers and Prophets in the Martial Empire by Fifius Antonius Tullius.

“That,” the Jaduna says, “is sufficient repayment of a debt. Remember my offer. If you come to Kotama, ask for D’arju. She is the finest teacher in the Bay of Tears. She will help you control the darkness, lest it grow beyond your ken.”

The Jaduna disappears. I open the book to find a gilded image of a man in a dark robe. His face is hidden, but his hands are bleached of color and his red eyes look out from his shadowed cowl. An Augur.

Darin and I exchange a glance and then hurry away from the place before the Jaduna changes her mind.

* * *

Two hours later, my brother and I tear through Adisa’s streets. I hope to the skies Musa is back at the forge, because I have no time to hunt him down in the refugee camp. Not now. Not after what I’ve just read.

To my relief, the forge is lit when I go tearing in, and Musa sits in the main room, Zella tending to a burn on his arm. He opens his mouth, but I do not let him speak.

“The Shrike survived an assassination attempt,” I say. “Do you know how? When it happened? What the circumstances were?”

“Sit down, at least—”

“I need to know now, Musa!”

He grumbles and disappears into his room. I hear him rifling around and then returning with a stack of scrolls. I grab for one, but he smacks my hand. “These ones are in code.” Long minutes pass as he reads one after another. “Ah—here. She was stabbed by one of Keris’s minions,” he says. “One of her men transported her to the barracks. The Nightbringer was seen leaving her quarters, and two nights later she was back to issuing orders.”

I flip the book about the Augurs open to a page I’ve marked. “Read,” I say.

“The blood of the father and the blood of the son are harbingers of darkness,” Musa reads. “The King shall light the Butcher’s path, and when the Butcher bows to the deepest love of all, night approaches. Only the Ghost may stand against the onslaught. Should the Lioness’s heir claim the Butcher’s pride, it will evanesce, and the blood of seven generations shall pass from the earth before the King may seek vengeance again. Curse the Augurs, this makes no sense.”

“It does,” I say, “if you know that the shrike is a type of bird known for impaling its prey on thorns before it consumes it. I read it in a book once. People call it the ‘butcher bird.’ That’s where the name Blood Shrike comes from.”

“This prophecy can’t be talking about her,” Musa says. “What about the other prophecy? The Butcher will break, and none will hold her.”

“Maybe that part hasn’t happened yet,” Darin offers. “We’re looking for a piece of the Star, right? Do those reports say anything about the Blood Shrike wearing jewelry? Or is there a weapon she always has near her?”

“She has—” Musa rifles through the scrolls again before cocking his head and listening. One of his wights chitters swiftly. “A ring? Yes—she has the ring of the Blood Shrike, received in the fall of last year, when she assumed the office. And she has the ring of Gens Aquilla.”