“Tyleze,” Matka blurted as she stumbled up behind Otec. “You promised me!”

  Tyleze yawned and looked up at them. “You should be grateful, Matka. We could have used your help in the midst of battle—the clanwomen might have been unprepared, but they fought like hyenas. We very nearly lost.”

  “I should have been there,” Otec said to Matka under his breath, his voice the heat of embers right before they burst into flame. “Because of you I wasn’t.”

  She turned her face away from him.

  “Why isn’t he dead?” Tyleze said tiredly.

  The sentinels spoke Idaran in hushed voices, and Tyleze’s brow climbed higher with every word. Finally he turned his gaze to Matka. He asked a question, which she answered, her head held high and not a trace of fear on her face. Otec only understood one word: “priestess.”

  Tyleze grunted and gestured to Otec, who unconsciously stiffened. Matka answered the man, her voice more insistent this time, but he only waved his hand. The guards took hold of Otec’s shoulders, pulling him away.

  Matka shot him a desperate look, a tear spilling down her cheek. She brushed the moisture quickly away, so quickly he almost wondered if it had been there at all. Otec didn’t understand why she would betray him and then try to save him. He didn’t know why she’d dragged him into all of this in the first place. He only knew that whatever she had tried to do to save him had failed. He was going to die. But by the Balance, he would take some of them with him.

  “I mark you for the dead, Matka.” It was an old curse; yesterday he would have called it a superstition. Today, he hoped it was real. For it was the only way he had left that could hurt her. “I mark you all for the dead.”

  “I was marked a long time ago,” she said in a low, shaking voice.

  The guards wrenched Otec around, each holding one of his arms. He saw where they were heading—a small clearing with a dead, lightning-struck tree in the center. They shoved him to his knees. One held his hair and pinned his head down. The other raised his sword.

  The horror inside Otec sharpened, until he felt all his emotions bleed out of him, leaving a hollowed-out husk. He looked into the dark night, wanting the last thing he ever saw to be the forests of his homeland.

  But what he saw was the owl, staring past him to where Matka was standing. “Very well,” Matka said. “You have my word.”

  It raised its wings and dove forward. Otec craned his neck in time to see Matka toss a bag at the creature. It caught the bag in its talons. More owls flew from the trees, and Matka threw a bag at each of them before they disappeared.

  Then the man holding the sword over Otec grunted, the breath hissing out of him. The other guard gave a shout and reached behind him for his own swords. Matka charged, her blades thrusting into the guard’s belly. He dropped to the ground, his feet kicking.

  “Hold out your hands.” Matka’s voice was strangely calm.

  Questions tumbled in Otec’s mind, but right now there wasn’t time for any of them. He held his hands out and she shoved her sword between them and jerked it up. The blade nicked the sides of his palms as it snapped through the ropes. Otec didn’t feel any pain, only warm, sticky blood seeping between his hands.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  Matka reached down and hauled him up. “Move.” She shoved a knife into his hands.

  “We’ll never get away. We’re outnumbered five hundred to two.”

  She gave a slight shake of her head. “No. But their help will cost me. Goddess, grant that I might bear that cost.”

  Before Otec could ask what she meant, fire exploded through the trees in flames of green, blue, and purple.

  “Come on!” she cried as she darted forward without waiting to see if he would follow. As if she wasn’t afraid he would stab her in the back with the knife she’d given him.

  But even as the thought flitted through his head, he knew she was right not to fear him—he couldn’t harm her. And not just because she was a woman.

  More fire erupted as they skirted the camp. Raiders yelled and ran, trying to escape the flames that seemed to crop up everywhere. Everywhere except where Otec and Matka ran.

  Finally, they left the last of the fires behind and ran full tilt down the road in the smoky gray light.

  “What was that?” he gasped.

  “Luminash. Something only priestesses have access to.”

  “How is it everywhere?”

  “The owls.”

  Otec didn’t know how to respond, and by then he was breathing too hard to try.

  They slowed when he could taste blood in his mouth, but Matka did not pause to rest, simply trotted on and on as if she’d never stop. It took everything Otec had to keep up.

  She passed him her water skin. “Small sips.”

  She was obviously Idaran, so why would she help him? And since she was helping him, why hadn’t she warned him about the attack sooner? “Matka—”

  “As soon as the Idarans off the coast realized the Shyle had fallen, they would have struck.”

  “Attacking the clans from two fronts,” Otec choked out.

  Matka nodded, then took the water skin and drank deep. “Come on, we have to go faster.”

  He did as she asked, watching her study the road behind them. “If you’re Idaran, why are you helping me?”

  “Are you sure I am one of them?” she said, her words clipped.

  Her anger fueled his own. He grabbed her arm and wrenched her around, breaking open the shallow cuts on his palms. She didn’t fight him as he tipped her head toward the predawn light and lifted the strands of her short hair and saw the tattoos on her scalp. “I’m sure.”

  Otec shoved her away. “My clanmen are dead.” It hurt him to say it, down to the bones. “You could have prevented it if you had told me!”

  “You think you could have stopped five hundred Immortals?” She turned away and started up again. Otec had no choice but to keep up. It infuriated him that while he was out of breath and stumbling, she seemed completely unaffected.

  “I was trying to get them to call off the invasion—to realize Idara is not superior. That’s why Jore was angry that day by the forest. I’d pushed too hard too many times. He was afraid they would kill me for it. That night, Tyleze told me to go with you into the mountains. He said the ships were turning back because of storms at sea.”

  Matka wiped under her eyes again. “I was a fool for believing them, but I wanted to so badly.” She winced when she caught Otec glaring at her. “I won’t apologize for taking you away. They would have killed you, and then there would be no one to warn the rest of the clan lands.”

  After all the time he’d spent with her, he still didn’t know her. “Why would you, an Idaran, risk your life to help me?”

  An expression of exquisite pain overtook her face. “My mother was a highwoman slave. Only when I was taken by the priestesses did my father even bother to learn my name. So you tell me, Otec, whether I am an Idaran or a highwoman.”

  He was torn between wanting to believe her and wanting to hate her, yet the vulnerability on her face was unmistakable. “And Jore? Is he a highman too?”

  Matka shook her head. “No. He believes the world would be a better place if Idara ruled it.”

  Otec ground his teeth. “If ever I see him again—”

  “You don’t know everything about him.” Her head fell. “We had a sister like Holla once. She disappeared one night and we never saw her again.”

  “By the Balance.” Perhaps that explained Jore’s hatred of Holla. Whenever he’d looked at her, he must have been reminded of the sister who’d been murdered.

  “My other sister is an acolyte in the Temple of Fire,” Matka went on. “She’s too young to remember being a servant in my father’s house. Sleeping in the blistering attic while my father shared the lower levels with his wife and children, who hated and reviled us. Suka is determined to be the next high priestess. And she’ll probably get it.”

  “Are you really half highman?” Otec asked.

  “It’s the reason all of us were chosen for this assignment. We could speak and pass for highmen among the clan lands.” For a time, there was only the sound of the breathing and their footfalls. “I know you don’t trust me, Otec. I don’t blame you. But I am trying to help you.”

  He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have the words.

  And then something whooshed over their heads. It was the owl. Matka tensed, hesitating before ripping her satchel over her shoulder and thrusting it into Otec’s hands. “There’s luminash inside—you might need it.” Then she yanked her swords out and whipped around. “Keep going! I’ll catch up.”

  He turned to see Jore charging them. “Matka!” Jore growled, his swords held loosely in his hands. His mouth was compressed in a tight line, his expression thunderous with anger as he scolded her in Idaran.

  Matka answered in Clannish. “The king thinks he’s bringing order to chaos. Knowledge to ignorance—but the clan lands don’t need either! They’re good and kind and—”

  “Traitor,” Jore ground out as he stopped a few paces from them.

  She straightened her shoulders. “I am a priestess of the Temple of Fire. I do not serve Idara. I serve the Goddess of Fire. And this goes against her laws of life and growth.”

  “Let the flames consume the dross so that only the pure remain,” Jore said as if by rote.

  Matka briefly closed her eyes. “I’ve made my choice, Jore. I will serve the Light. Now you must make yours.”

  “Matka,” he began in a softer tone, “let me kill him. No one will have to know you helped him. We’ll tell them he killed Bez and Harim and then escaped, and you went after him.”

  “They’ll never believe it.” Her voice shook, but her swords did not. More softly, she said to Otec, “He won’t harm me. Go, before the rest of them come.”

  “We’ll subdue him together,” Otec said.

  “I’m not going to let you ruin your life for a man whose country won’t even exist in a few months,” Jore growled. And then he lunged, but Matka met his thrust with a lightning-fast parry.

  All Otec had was the knife she had slipped him, and he dared not throw it for fear of hitting her. He searched for a stick long enough to whack Jore on the back of the head.

  Jore and Matka danced around each other, their blades twisting sinuously around their bodies, which were backlit by the coming dawn. Jore feinted to the right, reversed, and came at her from the side. She blocked him. Barely.

  Jore was faster, stronger, better. Matka was going to lose. Abandoning his search, Otec gripped the knife and tried to sneak up behind Jore. The man turned suddenly, his sword arching for Otec’s side. Matka jumped between them. Jore’s eyes widened and he tried to pull back, but it was too late to stop his momentum.

  The owl dove between them, taking the full thrust in its middle. Pinned to Matka’s chest by Jore’s sword, it looked up at Matka as it died.

  She met its gaze, her expression shocked and wary. Jore stepped back, shaking the dead bird from his blade. Otec tried to tackle him, but Jore sidestepped, his swords arcing down.

  Matka darted between them and locked blades with Jore. She managed to throw him off. Barely. “Stay out of the way,” she growled at Otec, sweat pouring down her temples as she charged.

  He backed away, feeling horrified and useless—his “help” had almost gotten Matka killed. His head came up at a shout from the direction of the enemy camp. It was close enough he knew he would see Raiders any moment.

  “Go,” Matka gasped as she retreated. “The others won’t be far behind. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

  Otec opened his mouth to reply when he heard another shout, even closer this time. He hesitated, not wanting to leave her. “Go to Argonholm,” she ordered between breaths. “Get help.”

  Otec thought of his family. Enemy or friend, Otec couldn’t save Matka. Not if he was going to save his family. He started running.

  At midday, Otec kicked the horse he’d demanded from a farmer into Argonholm. “Raiders! Raiders!” Otec cried out as he went. All around him, doors were thrown open, and people in the streets stared after him. He saw no warriors—they too must have gone to defend against the Raiders on the coast.

  As Otec reached the clan house, Seneth hurried out to meet him, coughing violently in his hand. The only son of the Argon clan chief, Seneth was around the same age of Otec’s oldest brother, Dagen.

  Seneth’s wife, Narium, who was heavy with child, hurried after him, reaching out as if to catch him should he fall. “Your fever’s only just broken. Come back inside.”

  He held out a hand to silence her. “Otec?” he managed through his wheezing. “What is it?”

  Otec jumped down from the horse. “Raiders attacked the Shyle two nights ago.”

  Seneth shook his head. “Raiders couldn’t have come this far inland.”

  A crowd was forming around them. “The visiting highmen were actually Raiders. They plan to hit us from two fronts.”

  “That’s impossible!” Seneth cried.

  Otec forced himself to meet the older man’s gaze. “Shyle has fallen.”

  Seneth glanced back at the clan house. “My father—the other men—they’re all gone.”

  Narium stepped forward and spoke low. “Come inside. You’re scaring the children.”

  Otec looked around and realized she was right. The Argons were mostly a scattering of wide-eyed children, steel-eyed women, and older men. Seneth motioned for Otec to follow him as they turned toward the clan house.

  “Gather up anyone who can fight,” Narium called back to her people. “Meet in the great hall.”

  They stepped into the clan house’s kitchen, which was larger than the Shyle’s, even though this was home to fewer people. Otec thought of all the times he’d sat at his family’s ancient kitchen table, wishing for silence. Now he’d give anything to be home, with dozens of children running and shrieking around him.

  After pushing Otec into a chair, Narium handed him a cup of the Argon’s legendary beer, and gave Seneth a cup of something that smelled like honey and licorice.

  “Send a couple of pigeons to High Chief Burdin. He’ll tell my father and Hargar.” Seneth took a careful drink. “I can’t believe I had Raiders as guests at my clan house.”

  Narium set bread and cheese in front of Otec, then took out some fibrous paper, cut it into two strips, and began writing, her characters small and tight.

  “Tell them there are five hundred Raiders,” Otec said without looking at her. Once his father and brothers were here, everything would be all right. They would defeat the Raiders and free his family.

  Seneth gasped. “There weren’t that many before!”

  “The women were fighting alongside their men,” Otec said.

  Seneth sat back in his chair, clearly dumbfounded. “That’s—”

  “I saw it myself.” Otec took a deep pull of his beer, the bitterness fanning across his tongue. He heard people filtering into the great hall.

  Lips pressed into a thin line, Seneth made to stand up. Narium put her hands on his shoulders to keep him down. “There’s no point until they’re all here.”

  Seneth cast her a look. “I’m going to have to talk to them eventually.” Trying not to cough had turned his face red.

  “Push too hard and you won’t be any help to anyone,” Narium shot back.

  “Don’t coddle me,” he growled, but she was already halfway to the door that led outside. Seneth turned to Otec. “Tell me everything that happened.”

  Otec relayed the important parts. Then he pulled out Matka’s satchel, which he’d gone through earlier. The food was long gone. Left were her drawing tools—charcoal, board, vellum, and extra paper—worthless bits without the magic of her touch. A few of her drawings, mostly plants. But there was also the drawing of the Shyle. Otec’s village would never be the same, now that the Raiders had burned and violated it.

  The flower Otec had carved for Matka was gone; she must have kept it with her. He was glad. He had a piece of her, and now she had a piece of him.

  Her satchel also contained some small bags of a sharp-smelling powder, which Otec explained must be luminash. Seneth rubbed it between his fingers. “It doesn’t look like it’s going to explode.”

  Otec took a pinch between his thumb and finger and tossed it onto the coals. It flared a hot, bright white that quickly faded. He and Seneth stared at the fireplace as if they’d never seen it before.

  They tried each of the four pouches. One burned bright and hot, one burned for a long time, one burned in a multitude of beautiful flames, and the fourth burned orange and long, like an ember.

  “This could be very useful,” Seneth said, rubbing his throat as if it pained him. “We’ll have to send scouts to warn us if the Raiders come out of the pass.”

  Otec gestured toward the village. “I saw nothing but women and children. Who will you send?”

  Seneth hesitated. “The boys the militia left behind. They’re faster and lighter than the men anyway.”

  “They’re children,” Otec choked out.

  “It’s that or send the women,” Seneth growled. He shot Otec a sheepish look. “I’ve been sick abed for over a week—it’s why I’m here being hounded by my pregnant wife instead of at the front lines with the others.” As if to punctuate his words, Seneth started into a coughing fit.

  Otec dropped his head, the shame of being purposely left behind burning through him.

  Narium reappeared at the doorway. “It’s done.”

  Imagining the fate of his mother and sisters, Otec told Seneth, “You should evacuate the women to Tyron. They’ll be safer there.”

  Seneth stared at his hands before looking up. “They won’t be happy about it, but I’ll see it’s done.” He looked at Narium for confirmation. After a brief hesitation, she nodded.

  Otec watched them, a sudden pang for Matka’s safety shooting through him. Was she dead? Were all the women he cared about dead?

  Seneth lumbered to his feet. Legs shaking from exhaustion, Otec followed him into the massive great hall. It was packed with adults, mostly women and a scattering of elder men. All of them stared at him, but he didn’t get the familiar sick lump in his stomach. Being intimidated by crowds suddenly seemed a small thing after all he had been through.

 

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