Meherya. The Nightbringer.

D’arju shakes her head vehemently. “She must be one with you—”

“She must choose me. If a falcon refuses to fly, can she be one with the aether?”

Now A’vni speaks up, clasping her hands together so they do not tremble. “But—but no vessel can hold you, great one.”

“I need no vessel, child. Only a conduit.”

Oh skies. That doesn’t sound promising. I fight for control of my own mind, my body. But they both remain firmly in control of this voice. Rehmat. A strange name—one I have never heard of.

“Will it hurt her?” A’vni asks, and if she had not helped kidnap me, I might have been thankful for her concern.

“I live in her blood.” Rehmat sounds almost sad. “Yes. It will hurt. Hold her.”

“What in the skies—” For a brief moment, I return to myself and thrash against the Jaduna. A’vni winces, but pins me down with the others.

When Rehmat speaks again, it is only to me: I am sorry for this, young warrior.

Fire tears through me, up and down every limb, as if my nerves are being ripped from my skin and salted. If I could scream, I would never stop. But the Jaduna have gagged me, and I strain against them, wondering what I have done to deserve this. For surely, this is my end.

A vaguely human figure emerges from my body. It reminds me a little of when the ghuls took my brother’s form to frighten me long ago in Serra, at Spiro Teluman’s forge. But where ghul-spawned simulacrums are bits of night, this creature is a slice of the sun.

My muscles turn to jelly. All I can do is squint against the brightness, trying to make out details of the shape, but it is not a she or he or they, and it is neither young nor old. With one last flare, its glow dulls until it is bearable.

D’arju drops to her knees in front of the apparition. When it offers the Jaduna a glowing hand, D’arju’s fingers pass right through it. Whatever Rehmat is, it is not corporeal.

“Rise, D’arju,” Rehmat says in that same deep voice. “Take thy kin and go. A human approaches.”

I try to sit up and fail. What human? I try to say, but it just sounds like “Whhffff.”

The Jaduna file out silently, all but A’vni. “Can we not aid her?” she says. “It is a lonely battle she must fight, Rehmat.”

“Your kindness does you credit, A’vni,” Rehmat says. “Fear not. Our young warrior is not alone. There are others whose fates are twined with hers. They shall be her armor and her shield.”

I do not hear A’vni’s response. For when I blink, the Jaduna are gone. Rehmat is gone. I do not feel tired, or weak, and the pain that wracked my body minutes ago has faded to a dull ache. I am still in the villa—from the jewelry scattered on the dresser, it must belong to the Jaduna.

Was it a dream? If so, how did I get to this room? Why do I not have any marks on me from my fight with the Commandant and the Nightbringer?

Forget it. Get out of here.

Alarm bells still blare and the shouts from the street are so loud I can make them out through the shuttered window. “Search the next street. Find them!”

The door slams open, and a woman walks in. I drop into a crouch behind the chair, blade in hand, but the woman throws back her hood.

“Laia! Bleeding hells.” The Blood Shrike has changed into Mariner sea leathers, and though her hair is still covered, she looks more like herself. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What happened?”

“I . . . I was—”—taken by Jaduna, who performed some sort of rite that led to a . . . thing coming out of me, but now it is gone and I have no idea what any of it means.

“I got into a fight with the Nightbringer,” I say. “Escaped out a window.”

The Shrike nods approvingly. “Same. The window bit, that is. Tell me what happened on the way. We need to meet the others at the gate. Guards all over the place—”

I raise my hand, for I’ve seen a flash of iridescence—one of Musa’s wights. A moment later, a scroll appears between my fingers.

Northeast gate compromised. Soldiers everywhere. What the bleeding hells did you two do? Get to the harbor. I’ll find you.

“Nice that he managed to fit in a scolding but not which harbor,” the Shrike mutters.

“It’ll be Fari Harbor,” I say. “Where we disembarked when we first got here. But we have to get through half the city first. And if the streets are crawling with soldiers—”

The Shrike offers a grim smile. “Streets are for amateurs, Laia of Serra. We’ll take the rooftops.”

VIII: The Soul Catcher

The jinn tear Cain from my hands and the Augur crashes to the ground a few yards away. I’m certain the force of it will break his frail body in half. But he rises to his elbows as three jinn close in around him, blocking his escape.

“He belongs to us.” The jinn in command steps between the Augur and me. Rain sluices down her heavy cowl and her flame eyes burn with hate. “Go back to your ghosts. He is not worth your trouble, Soul Catcher.”

Perhaps not. But Cain knows something about the dreams. He knows about a threat to the Waiting Place. He has information I need. Curse you, old man.

“The Augur was once human,” I say. “He is thus in my charge. He will be removed from the Waiting Place. But not by you.”

One of the jinn steps forward. His hood falls back to reveal a human form, hair braided close to his head, skin a deeper brown than mine. He is vaguely familiar, but I cannot place why. He snorts. “Big words for a little boy.”

My hackles rise at the mockery in the creature’s voice. No boy now, but a man, with a man’s burden upon your shoulders. The words are from my old life, spoken to me by Cain, though I do not remember when.

I do, however, remember how to read an enemy, allowing me to shift aside just in time to avoid the blast of heat the jinn leader levels at me.

My reprieve is short-lived. She strikes again and this time, I am enveloped in flame. I have no shirt or cloak to protect me. Mauth’s magic rises, saving me from the worst of the attack. But there is the faintest sluggishness to the shield. Battling a monster of his own creation, Cain had said.

Now isn’t the time to be distracted, Mauth, I shout in my mind. Unless you want me barbecued.

Mauth doesn’t respond, but the effort to kill me appears to have tired the jinn out—at least momentarily. Regular weapons do not do much against jinn unless they are coated with salt. In any case, I only have my fists, so I throw a punch. My fist slams into solid, burning flesh, and part of me crows in satisfaction as she rears back, screaming.