Including Uncle Akbi.

“No—oh no—” I rush to him. Where in ten hells is the rest of Tribe Saif? Where is Mamie? How did this happen?

“Banu al-Mauth!” Aubarit appears behind me, bursting into tears at the sight of me. “I have been to the Forest a dozen times. You must help us,” she wails. “The Tribes have fallen to madness. There are too many—”

“What the bleeding hells happened?”

“A fortnight ago, just after you left, another Tribe arrived. They kept coming, one after another. Some had lost their Fakirs, and all were struggling to move on their dead—the same struggle I had with my grandfather. And then, two days ago—”

She shakes her head. Right when I disappeared into the Forest. “The ghosts of the dead stopped moving on altogether. Their bodies will not die, and their ruh—their spirits—will not leave them. Even those with grievous injuries linger on. They—they are monstrous.” The Fakira shudders. “They torment their families. They are driving their own kin to suicide. Your—your uncle was one of those. But you can see what has happened. Those who try to kill themselves also do not die.”

A thin figure materializes from one of the wagons and throws herself in my arms. I wouldn’t have recognized her had I not heard her voice, tired but still rich, still filled with story.

“Mamie?” She has wasted away to nothing. I want to curse and rage at the frailty of her once strong arms, the gauntness of her once beautifully rounded face. She looks as stunned to see me as I am to see her.

“Aubarit Ara-Nasur told me you dwell in the Forest, among the spirits,” she says. “But I—I did not believe it.”

“Mamie.” Tradition demands that I mourn Uncle Akbi with her. That I share her pain. But there’s no time for such things. I take her hands in mine. They are colder than I’ve ever felt them. “You have to disperse the Tribes. It’s dangerous having them all here in one place. Do you hear the drums?” From the mystified look on her face, I realize that she—and likely most of the rest of the camp—has not noticed the frenzy of Martial activity.

Which means the Empire is planning something even now. And the Tribes have no idea.

“Aubarit,” I say. “I need to find Afya—”

“I’m here, Banu al-Mauth.” Afya’s formality stings. The Tribeswoman shuffles toward me, shoulders slumped. I want to ask her how Gibran is, but part of me is afraid to find out. “News of your arrival spread quickly.”

“Get scouts out to all points other than the Forest,” I say. “I think the Martials are coming. And I think they’re going to hit hard. You need to be ready.”

Afya shakes her head, and her old, defiant self appears. “How can we be ready when our dead won’t die and we are haunted by their spirits?”

“We’ll worry about that when we know what we’re up against,” I say quickly, though I have no idea what the answer is. “Perhaps I am wrong and the Martials are just carrying out drills.”

But I’m not wrong, and Afya knows it. She moves off quickly, and her Tribesmen surround her as she begins giving orders. Gibran isn’t among them.

I consider the Tribes—there are so many. And yet . . . “Aubarit, Mamie,” I say. “Can you get at least some of the Tribes to head south—to scatter?”

“They will not go, Elias. Your uncle called a majilees. But before we could have it, three of the other Tribes’ chieftains were driven mad by the spirits. Two threw themselves into the sea, and your uncle . . .” Tears fill Mamie’s eyes. “Everyone is too afraid to leave. They believe there is strength in numbers.”

“You must do something, Banu al-Mauth,” Aubarit whispers. “The ruh of our own people are destroying us. If the Martials come, all they will have to do is round us up. We are already defeated.”

I squeeze her hand. “Not yet, Aubarit. Not yet.”

This is the work of the bleeding Nightbringer. He is sowing even more chaos by destroying the Tribes. Destroying my friends. Destroying Tribe Saif, my family. I know it, as surely as I know my name. I turn to the Forest, reaching out to Mauth.

Then I stop. Reaching for the magic to save the lives of people I love is exactly what Mauth doesn’t wish me to do. For us, Elias, duty must reign over all else. Love cannot live here. I must curtail my emotions. My time in the jinn city taught me that. But I don’t know how.

I do, however, know what it is to be a Mask. Cold. Murderous. Emotionless.

Aubarit speaks up. “Banu—”

“Silence.” The voice is mine, but sharp and cold. I recognize it. The Mask within, the Mask I thought I’d never have to be again.

“Elias!” Mamie is affronted by my rudeness. She taught me better. But I turn my face to her—the face of Keris Veturia’s son—and she takes a step back before drawing herself up. Despite all that’s happening, she’s still a Kehanni, and she will brook no disrespect, least of all from her children.

But Aubarit, perhaps sensing the storm of thoughts in my head, puts a gentle hand on Mamie’s wrist, quieting her.

Duty first, unto death—Blackcliff’s motto, which returns now to haunt me. Duty first.

I turn my mind to Mauth again, but this time, I consider. I need to stop the ghosts so that the Tribes can move them on. So that I can return to the Forest to do my duty.