She shrugged and turned her blade toward Pratik, who backed a step.

  Rhaif shifted in front of the Chaaen. “And surely you know I had a reason in freeing Pratik, chaaen-bound to Rellis im Malsh, a bastard who you know traded in alchymical secrets.”

  This was a lie, but he suspected she would not admit to being ignorant of something he claimed to know.

  He pressed the matter and pointed to Pratik. “This is his chief alchymist. He knows more about ancient mysteries and arcana than nearly anyone. He was the one who has kept Shiya moving, using alchymicals only he can craft to keep her fired and fueled.”

  Rhaif turned for acknowledgment, lifting his brows at Pratik, hoping the man would carry this lie forward.

  The Chaaen understood and crossed his arms. “Creatures such as Shiya are known to a few in the Southern Klashe. My master keeps a librarie of great import at his palacio in Kysalimri, stacked with the ancient tomes, some written shortly after Pantha re Gaas. The librarie is even visited by the Imri-Ka’s Dresh’ri.”

  “The Forbidden Eye,” Llyra translated with a squinted expression of distaste.

  Rhaif understood. Such a cabal was rumored to dredge through the ancient past, seeking dangerous knowledge. They were also said to employ cruel and bloody methods, even sacrificing infants, to achieve their ends.

  Rhaif studied Pratik, wondering how much of what he had just revealed was true. He knew it was difficult for a Chaaen to lie. So, he suspected there must be some level of truth to Pratik’s story.

  Llyra reached the same conclusion and lowered her blade. “Then what do you propose we do?”

  Rhaif was ready for this question. He pointed out the window. “We might not be able to reach the Hálendiian coast to the north, or even the swamps to the south, but the cliffs of Landfall are nearer at hand. With the wind at our back, we should be able to glide our way over to Cloudreach.”

  “To the east,” Pratik mumbled, glancing at Shiya.

  Rhaif nodded. “It might take time for anyone to realize a certain bronze treasure isn’t sunk deep into the sea. In the meantime, if you wanted to lose yourself, those misty greenwoods might offer the perfect refuge.”

  She turned to the raft’s drover. “Can we make it there?”

  He sighed heavily and fired the nose of the craft toward the cliffs. “Maybe, but just barely.”

  Llyra sheathed her sword but kept the blade in her fingers. “If you want to live, you’ll make that happen.”

  They all gathered behind the drover. The dark-haired man hunched his lanky form over the wheel, deftly working the pedals with small squeaks of hidden wires and gears. From the open patch on his upper sleeve, he was Aglerolarpok. His ranch brand was scarred over with an X, like the scribe at the larder. An outcast, banished to forever ride the winds. It was a sorry fate, but one that had honed a skill that Rhaif definitely appreciated at this moment.

  The sailraft continued to sink toward the seas. The cliffs rose ahead, as if intending to block them. But as they continued, the drover proved his skill. He finally reached that rising rampart and used the draft blowing up the cliff face to shoot them high over the edge of Landfall. Soon the keel of the raft was sailing smoothly above the mists that hid the greenwood below.

  Rhaif searched ahead, studying his mother’s homeland. He ignored the peaks of black cliffs near the horizon, marking the distant Shrouds of Dalalæða. Instead, he fixed on a pair of closer breaks in the white, fluffy sea. They marked the location of two forest lakes, the green Eitur and the blue Heilsa, known simply as The Twins.

  Rhaif pointed between them. “Can you reach Havensfayre?”

  “Aye,” the drover said. “With the winds blowing us toward there, we should just make it.”

  Llyra lifted a brow toward Rhaif. It was as much of a compliment as the guildmaster ever offered. Still, he was not fooled. While they might be uneasy allies at the moment, that could all change once they reached the woodland town.

  He turned his gaze back to Shiya, who stared ahead, too.

  Strange …

  He recognized the oddity of this. He frowned over her shoulder toward the open stern, to the west, the direction where she had always cast her gaze before. Pratik caught his eye, maybe noting his confusion. The Chaaen tilted his head back to the east as if he knew something.

  What does he know?

  But now was not the time to address that question.

  Llyra had a more important one. “Are you sure we can make it?” She leaned threateningly over the drover.

  Rhaif focused forward again. The raft had drifted frighteningly lower. Its keel now swept through the clouds, like a ship sailing across a white sea.

  “Don’t fret. I’m seeking the strongest winds near the treetops,” he explained. “I need every push I can muster.”

  The skiff did seem to be going faster.

  Still, Rhaif reached to one of the hanging leather loops, expecting to hear branches scrape along their keel, for trees to grab their fleeing craft.

  “Hang on,” the drover warned.

  What do you think I’m doing?

  The ship suddenly shot higher, propelled by the winds out of the clouds. In another few breaths, they reached the northern break in the white seas and sailed high over the emerald waters of the Eitur, a lake that was said to be poisonous. Not a place they would want to crash into.

  But Rhaif didn’t worry about that.

  Instead, he caught glimpses of lamps glowing south of the lake, marking the misty town of Havensfayre. It looked like they were going to overshoot it. He began to question their trajectory, when the drover hauled the wheel hard. As they cleared the far end of Eitur, the sailraft turned sharply. Its keel skidded across the clouds. The skiff swung full around until its nose was pointed back the way they’d come.

  Rhaif recognized he should never have doubted the drover’s skill.

  The man now used the headwinds to slow them as he aimed back toward the hidden town of Havensfayre.

  “Well done,” Rhaif whispered, clapping the drover on the shoulder.

  The man grinned proudly.

  Another was not as enamored of his talent.

  A low groan rose behind him. He turned and saw that Shiya faced the stern, which now pointed east. Her countenance—what little that he could see of it—was a mask of pain. As they glided toward the west, she took a step in the opposite direction, then another.

  “No…” he called to her.

  She ignored him, drawn by whatever force pulled at her.

  He let go of his leather loop and rushed toward her.

  But he was too late.

  Without ever looking down, she walked straight out the back of the raft. He reached the stern in time to see her tumble away, toppling end over end, and vanish into the clouds.

  Stunned, unable to speak, he turned to the others.

  Llyra’s lips were stretched in a line of pure fury. She pulled her sword, ready to exact vengeance, clearly believing this was some ploy.

  “We have to find her…” he muttered lamely.

  Llyra crossed toward Pratik, thrusting her blade at the Chaaen’s exposed back. The only thing that stopped her from impaling the man clean through was Pratik’s next words.

  “I know where Shiya’s headed.”

  ELEVEN

  GRAVE SONG

  Let us shadd our teres, until the dirt be salt’d by our greef.

  Let us cast our laments heye, so the Father Above hears our sorrows.

  Let us rip our hairs, so our payne reaches the shroud’d Modron.

  Do all this—

  So the Mother Below takes what you cherish in

  Her warme embrace & preserveth it for all time.

  —Fourteenth Sonnet from The Book of Lamentations

  35

  AS THE GROUP rested in the depths of the cloud forest, Nyx cradled the limp form of Bashaliia in a thin blanket.

  My little brother …

  She knelt in a layer of brittle leaf litter and parted the wool to reveal a small furry face, his delicate nostrils, his fold of soft ears. She had carried him the past day and a half. He was so light, as if his bones were hollow or blessed with some magick that turned them to air.

  Or maybe the life has already left him, leaving only this weightless husk behind.

  She drew him closer and noted the barest flutter of those petal-thin nostrils. He still lived, which both broke her heart and warmed an ember of hope. She straightened enough to note Frell looking at her with concern. The alchymist had done all he could. He had plucked the poisonous spikes from Bashaliia’s thin neck and pulled the jagged stinger from under a wing. He had smeared a balm of herbal medicum over those wounds but promised no miracle. We can only hope the Mýr bats have some natural ward against the malignancy of the skriitch, he had offered.

  Jace sank next to her, sitting cross-legged, his face forlorn, mirroring how she felt. “Is there any sign of him reviving?”

  She shook her head and moaned, “No…”

  Kanthe stood several steps to the side, his bow in hand. He had crafted a few crude arrows by sharpening sticks and using clipped leaves or stray feathers as fletching. He had learned such a skill from a former teacher, a scout of these same greenwoods.

  Even Jace had fashioned a spear from a long stiff branch. It rested next to him. So far, they had encountered no dire threat in these woods, a misty forest said to be home to panthers and Reach tygers. On the first night, they had lit a fire, which might have helped ward off any predators. Still, distant yowls and screams warned of their presence. Otherwise, the only large beast spotted had been a curl-horned boar that had traipsed across their path, but it had run off when Jace yelled, his scream more of fright than anything.

  Kanthe had offered an unpleasant reason for their safe passage: Maybe the beasts know to stay clear of this corner of the Reach because of what lurks behind us. He had glanced significantly at Bashaliia in her arms.

  She swallowed down her grief, leaving only despair.

  Frell approached. She closed her eyes, knowing what he had come to say. She drew Bashaliia closer to her bosom.

  “Nyx…” He settled to a knee next to her. “It’s been nearly two days since he was attacked. By now, the eggs inside his body are likely already hatching. We know his venomous slumber will not spare him the agony to come.”

  She also knew this. This morning Frell had pinched the tender webbing between Bashaliia’s wing and body. While her brother had not moved, his breath had puffed harder, plainly feeling that pinch.

  “What comes next will be unimaginably painful,” Frell warned. “It is no mercy to keep him alive when we cannot help him.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  No matter how much she wanted to deny his words, she suspected she had waited too long already. She hadn’t told anyone, but Bashaliia’s breath had been growing more strained, as if the worst was already starting.

  She stared down at his head, no larger than her fist. She could still picture those same eyes, glassy now, staring across at her from the warmth of loving wings. She had already lost so much. Her dah, her older brothers gone missing. Even abandoning Gramblebuck had torn a hole in her heart that had not mended.

  Now this …

  She feared she could not survive it.

  Kanthe came over. He slipped his dagger from its sheath at his waist. “Let me take this burden from you.”

  Anger flashed through her despair. “He’s not a burden,” she snapped at him. “Never a burden.”

  A sob shook through her. She regretted her words, knowing the prince had only been trying to be kind. But she hadn’t the strength to apologize. It took all that was left inside her to lift an arm toward him.

  “I will do it.”

  Kanthe hesitated. Her hand began to shake. She looked up at him. Tears blurred her sight. He nodded and placed the dagger’s hilt into her palm. She firmed her fingers around it, anchoring her will to the heft of its steel.

  “I … I’d like to be alone,” she whispered.

  The others didn’t argue and retreated. Jace touched her shoulder in sympathy, then slipped away.

  She took a deep breath and gently lowered the blanket to the bed of leaves. She peeled back its edges, revealing the fold of wings, cocooned around a frail body. Bashaliia’s head lolled back, exposing his throat, as if asking for her help.

  Tears dripped to the wool, to the fur of his chest.

  She clutched the dagger, unsure if she truly could do this. Still, the image of the dwarf deer, the violation of its body, welled through her. She recalled her earlier admonition when she heard the thylassaurs being attacked: No creature deserved such a cruel end.

  She reached a finger and brushed the velvet under Bashaliia’s chin.

  Especially you.

  She continued to rub the spot that often made him purr in contentment when they had nestled together in the sledge. She lowered the knife’s blade to his throat—and still hesitated. She remembered Frell pinching her brother’s wing.

  You still feel pain, so you will feel what I must do.

  Her hand tremored. She knew a quick sting was better than a labored agony. But she hated to inflict even that. Bashaliia had saved her many times, maybe more than even she knew.

  She lowered her chin, her shoulders shaking. She felt another wracking sob building. It rose from her throat as a low moan. When it reached her lips, it came out as a keening, a quiet song of grief. She did not fight it or question it. She sang to her brother, vaguely remembering doing this in a dream as they nestled in slumber together.

  She closed her eyes, letting her song become her vision. She whispered into Bashaliia. Each note carried her down a dark well inside him. Somewhere deeper, he answered, a faint pining, like loonsong over still waters.

  I hear you …

  She keened back to him, not to draw him closer, but to gently push him farther away from his wracked body. She did not want him to feel even the sting of this blade. As she sang, he tried to stay, refusing to leave her, but she wrapped him in her song, letting her love and ache, her sorrow and joy, be his blanket now. She lifted him and carried him away.

  As she did, ancient eyes opened at the well’s dark bottom and stared back.

  She ignored them, focusing all her love on the spark she cradled.

  Find peace, my little brother.

  Knowing he was free of this body, she slit his throat.

  * * *

  KANTHE HEARD HER footsteps stumbling toward them. He and the others had retreated to a nearby patch of briarberry, both to give Nyx privacy yet still be close at hand in case she needed them. He had intended to collect berries while they waited. But he didn’t bother. No one did. They stood with their heads bowed, each in his own thoughts.

  He had listened to Nyx keening, nearly singing, at her tiny brother. He recalled hearing something similar as the girl had drowsed with the bat in the sledge. Only now, it was more refined. He heard the love and pain in each note.

  Finally, she returned.

  Jace crossed to her, but his steps stumbled.

  Kanthe saw why. Nyx’s palms were covered in blood, as was her tunic and the edges of her cloak. He pictured her cradling her brother’s slaughtered form.

  “I … I need your help,” she moaned.

  As she stopped, she weaved on her legs, drunken with shock and grief. He hurried to her and caught her before she fell. She slumped in his arms but pointed back.

  “I want to bury him, but … but…”

  “We’ll do it,” he said, and glanced over her head to Jace and Frell. “We’ll all do it.”

  He carried her over to the wrap of blanket resting in a bed of leaves. He lowered her to one side. He and the others parted through the leaves and mulch to reach soil. They dug a small grave. He reached to move the body to the hole, blanket and all, but Nyx shifted over, refusing to let anyone touch her brother.

  She seemed to draw strength as she settled Bashaliia into the grave. She gave them a firmer nod and let them cover his body with soil and leaves. Once done, without anyone saying a word, they all gathered small stones and built a cairn atop it, marking the spot, honoring his sacrifice.

  “Thank you,” Nyx said, seeming to encompass them all with her gratitude.

  Kanthe nodded to the large tree crowning the small grave. The trunk was white, with a bark that curled in paper-thin slices. The leaves were green on one side, silver on the other. These trees were rare. It was why he had asked for the group to rest here. The surrounding forest was a mix of dark spruce, green pines, but mostly giant golden-leafed Reach alders, which vanished into the clouds.

  He placed a palm on the curled white bark. “The tribesmen of these greenwoods call this tree Ellai Sha, or Spirit’s Breath.” He ripped a piece of bark off the trunk and held it out to Nyx. The curl looked somewhat like a skrycrow’s scroll. “You carry this with you. If you wish to speak to those who have passed, you whisper into the curl, then burn it at a camp’s fire, where the smoke will carry your message high.”

  Nyx took the curl, tears welling, and clutched it to her heart. She turned to the cairn and mumbled her thanks.

  They gave her another few moments alone at the grave, then Frell finally spoke. “The day is already half gone, and we have a long way to trek to reach Havensfayre. We should continue while we still can.”

  Jace stepped to Nyx. “Or we can stay longer here, if you wish.”

  She faced them, her countenance sad but resolute. “No, Bashaliia gave his life for ours. I won’t waste the gift he gave us. We keep going.”

  Kanthe studied her. He had long given up searching for any resemblance in her, trying to discern if she might truly be his half-sister. What did it matter? Only seeing her now, covered in blood yet still strong, he could not imagine she shared his lineage.

  Not even Mikaen had ever shown such hidden steel.

  Surprisingly, such a realization made him happy for her. And if he was honest, he hoped Nyx wasn’t his sister. For more reasons than just—