XXXI: The Soul Catcher

At first glance, the City of the Jinn looks as it always does. The wind scatters leaves and dirt down empty streets. The clouds above surge and heave, promising a storm. A hush blankets the spare buildings, heavy as the doors of a mausoleum.

In the distance, the River Dusk gleams a dull silver, more sluggish than normal. No doubt because it is choked with debris. After leaving Laia, I returned to find more dead patches along its banks. In the two weeks since then, those dead bits have only expanded.

I did not wish to come here. For nearly a fortnight, I put it off. But Mauth does not speak to me. The ghosts remain absent from the Waiting Place. And it all ties back to the Nightbringer. Here, in his home, perhaps I can learn why.

As I enter the outskirts of the city, it feels different. Awake. I slide through the shadows and spot the drift of a curtain in the wind. When I look again, it’s still. The edge of a cloak flits into view, followed by the low hum of voices in conversation. I follow the sound and find myself on a dead-end street. I think I smell cloves and coriander and apple on the air, but moments later the scent is gone.

I feel like I am chasing down memories, instead of reality.

The wind, which screamed through the trees of the Waiting Place just minutes ago, is muted here, and transformed into a melancholy music that echoes through pipes hidden among the buildings. The melodies are beautiful. They also mask the sound of my passage.

Mauth’s magic does not extend to invisibility, so I must draw on all that I learned at Blackcliff. I stick to the shadows and take my time, making my way to the center of the city. There, on a street lined with high buildings, I hear voices that do not fade. They come from a gate twice my height—or more specifically, from the courtyard beyond it. There is no way to approach directly—not without risking discovery. I glance up, but the rooftops of the city are sloped, and smooth as polished glass. I’ll break my neck if I try to cross them.

Ten hells. Curse the jinn for not planting any bleeding shrubbery around their buildings. I edge toward a deep archway, hoping to the skies no jinn choose to walk past.

The murmur of conversation clarifies. Still, at first I cannot make sense of it. Then I realize why. The voices speak in Archaic Rei. The language of the jinn.

But Blackcliff’s rhetoric Centurion made us study Archaic Rei. It’s the parent language for Sadhese and Old Rei, the Scholar tongue. Thank the skies that old goat was so in love with ancient languages. After a few moments, I can translate:

“—cannot fight, you have yet to heal. There is no honor in death by idiocy—”

“—bring hot water and neem leaf, quickly—”

“—will be here soon. But he fights so we may forever be free of the Scholar scourge.”

The voices fade. I catch enough to understand that I’ve stumbled upon some sort of hospital or infirmary. But for whom? Do jinn even catch illnesses? When I lived with Shaeva, she never so much as sneezed.

I inch closer, and at that moment, two shapes plummet out of the sky, thundering down to the street just yards away.

One is Umber in her shadow form, glaive clutched tight. The other is the dark-eyed, dark-skinned jinn who accompanied her before—Talis.

Umber collapses upon landing, her flame body dim and flaking to ash. I am surprised. She certainly did not seem so weak when she was trying to kill me.

“Surfraaz!” Talis calls out, and another jinn, pale with a jutting chin and dark hair, runs from the infirmary.

“I told you not to let her fight!” Surfraaz snaps. “Look at her—”

“You try telling Umber no.” Talis struggles to stand, and Surfraaz grabs Umber’s other side. Together, they carry her into the courtyard. “She faded too fast,” Talis says. “This time, we need to keep her unconscious for a day or two, lest she—”

His words fade as he disappears from sight. Curiosity tempts me to follow, but I dare not risk being spotted. Instead, I sneak out of the archway and back the way I came. This city is vast. If there is one infirmary, there will be another, where I can figure out what is going on.

“Who are you?”

The speaker appears without warning, from a doorway I nearly walked past. It is a jinn woman regarding me with curiosity instead of rancor. She tilts her head, auburn hair falling in a waterfall down her back.

“You smell strange.” She sniffs at the air but does not look directly into my eyes, which is when I realize that she is at least partially blind. “Very strange indeed—”

I take a step back. Her hand shoots out and closes on my wrist. She hisses.

“Human!” she screams. “Intruder!”

I wrench away and windwalk, streaking through the streets. But the jinn can ride the winds too, and in less than a minute, a half dozen trail me, their fingers clawing at my back and shoulders. “Usurper!” they scream, and their voices are layered, an echo that bounces between the walls until it seems as if the city itself is hunting me.

One of them grabs my wrist and unleashes its fire. Mauth’s magic does not protect me in time. Pain bursts through my arm, and I stumble out of my windwalk, rolling to a stop at the border of the jinn city. The land flattens out into a large, empty plain before hitting a low escarpment. At the top: the jinn grove. It’s a good quarter mile distant, but if I can make it there, the jinn may back off. They hate the grove.

When I scramble to my feet, though, the jinn trailing me are gone.

All but one.

Talis holds a Serric steel dagger loosely in one hand, his stance indicating both that the steel does not affect him and that he knows how to use the blade. He watches me with the curiosity one reserves for an unfamiliar if not particularly threatening dog.

I tug Mauth’s magic into a shield, but it responds listlessly, like it can’t decide if it wants to wake up or not. When the jinn approaches, I back away. I don’t fear him. But I’m not an idiot either. I can still bleed. Still die. And Talis knows it.

“Our father’s magic fades.” Talis circles, taking my measure. “Mauth is locked in a battle with the Meherya, and I fear Mauth will lose.”

“Mauth is Death. For the living, death is the only guarantee. It cannot be defeated.”

“You are wrong,” Talis says. “There are many things more powerful than death. Your kind wax eloquent about them in song and ballads and poetry.”

“Love,” I say. “Hope. Memory.”

“Sorrow. Despair. Rage.” Talis considers me, then casts his dagger aside. “Fear not, Soul Catcher. I used my magic on my brethren. The jinn who followed you are convinced you’re on the other side of the city.”

“What do you want?” I ask. “Unless you sent them chasing after a fake Soul Catcher out of the kindness of your heart?”