The tent, which has been a whirlwind of activity, is suddenly still, other than the harsh draw of my breath. Outside, the voices of soldiers rise and fall in laughter and complaint, the din of the camp masking the ruckus of my attack.

Someone in the Martial camp will discover the Masks soon enough, so I slip out the way I came, making for the edge of the camp, where I steal a horse. By the time the first alarm sounds, I’m well away and heading west, toward the closest drum tower.

I make quick work of the legionnaires standing guard out front. One of them is mid-complaint when I shoot an arrow into his chest, and the other only realizes what is happening once he has a scim poking out of his throat. The killing comes easier now, and I’m halfway up the stairs of the tower, almost to the sleeping quarters, before a better part of me cries out: They didn’t deserve death. They didn’t do anything to you.

The final man in the tower is the head drummer, and he sits on the top floor, beside a drum as wide as he is tall, his ear trained toward another drum tower in the north. He transcribes whatever he hears on long scrolls, so engrossed in his work that he doesn’t hear me. But by now, I’m far too tired to sneak. And I need him frightened. So I simply appear in the doorway, a nightmare spectacle covered in dried gore with unsheathed weapons stained with blood.

“Get up,” I say calmly. “Walk to the drum.”

“I—I—” He glances over the top of the tower to the door below, to the guardpost.

“They’re dead.” I gesture with a bloody hand, “in case you couldn’t tell. Move.”

He picks up his sticks, though fear makes him drop them twice.

“I’d like you to drum something out for me.” I get closer and raise one of my Teluman scims. “And if you change it—even one bit—I will know.”

“If I drum a false message, my commander will—he’ll kill me.”

“Is your commander a tall, pale-skinned Mask with a blond beard and a scar running down his chin to his neck?” At the drummer’s nod, I reassure him. “He’s dead. And, if you don’t drum a false message, I’ll gut you and throw you over the tower. Your choice.”

The message orders the legion preparing to attack the Tribes back to a garrison forty miles from here and demands the order be carried out immediately. After the drummer is finished, I kill him. He had to have known it was coming. But still, I can’t look him in the eyes as I do it.

My armor is disgusting, and I cannot bear the stench, so I shed it, steal clothes from the storeroom, and turn back to the Waiting Place. The closer I get, the more relieved I feel. The Tribes should have many hours before the Martials realize that the message they were given is false. My family will escape the Empire. And at last, I have the understanding I need to pass the ghosts through. To begin restoring the balance. It’s about bleeding time.

My first clue that something is wrong—deeply wrong—comes when I approach the border wall. It should be high and gold, shimmering with power. Instead, it appears wan, almost patchy. I think to fix it, but the moment I am past the tree line, the ghosts’ pain blasts into me, a barrage of memory and confusion. I make myself remember not why I killed all those Martials but how it felt. The way it deadened me. I push the Tribes and Mamie and Aubarit from my mind. Mauth rises now, tentative. I call to the closest ghost, who drifts forward.

“Welcome to the Waiting Place, the realm of ghosts,” I say to him. “I am the Soul Catcher, and I am here to help you cross to the other side.”

“I am dead?” the ghost whispers. “I thought this was a dream . . .”

The magic gives me an awareness of the ghosts that I did not have before, an insight into their lives, their needs. After a moment, I understand that this spirit needs forgiveness. But how do I offer it? How did Shaeva do so—and so quickly, with nothing but a thought?

The conundrum gives me pause, and at that exact moment, the ghosts’ howling reaches a nadir. Quite suddenly I’m aware of something strange: a shift in the Forest. The land feels different. It is different.

After consulting the map in my head, I realize why. Someone’s here—someone who shouldn’t be here.

And whoever it is has found their way to the jinn grove.

XXXVIII: The Blood Shrike

I am hunched at my desk, deep in thought, when I feel a hand on my shoulder—a hand I nearly take off with the blade that jumps into my hand, until I recognize Harper’s sea-green eyes.

“Don’t do that again,” I snarl at him, “unless you want to lose an appendage.” The mess of pages on my desk tells of days spent obsessively poring over Alistar’s reports. I stand, and my head spins. I might have missed a meal—or three. “What time is it?”

“Third bell before dawn, Shrike. Forgive me for disturbing you. Dex just sent a message.”

“About time.” It’s been nearly four days since we heard anything, and I was starting to wonder if some misfortune had befallen my friend.

I hold the parchment to the lamp in Harper’s hand. That is when I realize that he’s shirtless and disheveled, every muscle in his body tense. His mouth is thin, and the calm that usually emanates from him is absent.

“What the hells is wrong?”

“Just read it.”

Karkaun force of nearly fifty thousand gathering in Umbral Pass, led by Grímarr. Call up the legions. They are coming for Antium.