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The Nightbringer.
“Rehmat?” I whisper to the dark. “Are you ready?”
“He waits for you, Laia,” Rehmat says. “I implore you—do not do this.”
“You promised to help,” I say through gritted teeth. “You swore.”
“I am helping you. We will get the scythe. But this is not the way.”
My heart quails in warning, perhaps. Or weakness. The latter, I think. I make my way toward where I saw the jinn. I reach for my invisibility.Disappear, Laia!For a moment, the magic eludes me. But then I have it in my grasp and draw it over me quickly.
“You need to distract him, Rehmat,” I say. “Just long enough that I—”
“Laia.” A warm hand closes around mine, and I jump.
“No detours.” Elias looks into my eyes, his own magic piercing mine easily. “You didn’t get to the wagons.”
“How—”
“I saw you. With the boy who died.” Sorrow flashes across his face, and his hands shake. I think back to the night in Blackcliff’s barracks after the Third Trial. He looked just like this. Like his heart had been razed. “Come. We need to get out of here.”
“The Nightbringer has to die, Elias,” I say. “That scythe he wears is the only way to kill him. And it’s here. He’s here.”
“He expects you to take it.” Elias does not release me, though I tug at him. “Don’t do what he expects, Laia.”
I glance toward where I saw the Nightbringer, and the scythe flashes again. It issoclose.
Too close, I realize. Too obvious. Rehmat and Elias are right. The Nightbringer is trying to lure me in.
I turn from the weapon, clenching my fists so I’m not tempted to break free from Elias. The Soul Catcher wraps his arms around me, and we step into the wind. As we leave, half the camp is on fire and the rest is in an uproar. Even though I didn’t get to the supply wagons, our attack worked. The Martials—and the Nightbringer—have suffered a blow tonight.
Still, as Elias and I race through the desert, I think of the Scholars killed after escaping the pen. I think of the boy who died in my arms. I think of the scythe, out of my reach yet again. And it doesn’t feel like a victory at all.
«««
The Tribes hide deep in the Bhuth badlands, a maze of canyons and hoodoos, ravines and caves that are impossible to navigate unless you have traveled them before. The thousands of Tribespeople who escaped Aish are scattered through the caves, finding water, making camp, and keeping a close eye out for Martial outriders.
Afya, Gibran, Shan, and the others arrive back at the hideout a little while after I do. Mamie, Aubarit—everyone, it seems—are waiting and euphoric at the victory. They wish to know every detail.
Elias extricates himself quickly and disappears into the camp. It takes me longer, but after an hour or so, I leave the celebrations for Afya’s wagon. There, I strip off my armor and rinse away the blood in freezing-cold stream water. The Tribeswoman lends me a soft black shift that is small on me,but cleaner than anything I have. Then, perhaps sensing my disquiet, she throws me a sack of mangoes she filched from the Martials and leaves me alone.
But I am restless. I cannot forget the face of the boy who died, or the screams of the Scholars. I cannot stop thinking of the Martials who I put arrows into.
“You mourn the enemy, Laia.” Rehmat materializes beside me. “There is no shame in that.”
“Isn’t there?”
She fades, and I stand up. There is one person in this entire camp who might understand how I feel. One person as lost as I am. I grab the mangoes, pull on a long cloak, and wind my way through the caves until I find him.
He has not made himself easy to find. His tent is pitch-black and tucked into the shadows beyond two supply wagons, in the lee of a cave wall.
I understand why he hides. No one will look for him here. No one will congratulate him or clap him on the back, ask him to share how he took down so many sentries.
“Elias,” I call softly from outside the flaps, in case he is sleeping. For a long minute, there is no answer. Then:
“Come in.”
He sits cross-legged with a green mirrored pillow at his back, no doubt burgled from Mamie Rila’s wagon. A lone lamp burns low, and he tucks something away in his pocket, a small knife covered in wood shavings still in his hand.
