“I cannot speak of my time with him. If I could, I would tell you all. What I can say is that he was the Beloved. His strength is in his name. And his weakness. His past and his present. You must understand both to defeat him.”

“To defeat him,” I say, “I need that scythe. And if you want me to trust you again, you’ll help me get it. You know how he thinks. You know him so well you spent a thousand years hiding just for the chance to defeat him.”

“I do not know him anymore.”

“Then I suppose we are finished,” I say. “And I’m doing this alone.”

I walk swiftly away from her, the soft sand dragging at my feet. A gust of wind blows the smell of roasting meat and horse to me. When I get to the top of the hill, I spot dim lights far ahead—the Tribal encampment.

“What if your theft of the scythe is part of his plan?” Rehmat comes around in front of me, so that I cannot walk forward without going through her. “A trap, a way to outwit you.”

“Then you will help me outwit him first.”

She considers me, drifting like a dandelion in the wind. Finally, she nods.

“I will help you get the scythe,” she says. “This, I vow. And—and kill him if that is what you wish.”

“Good.” I nod. I am glad then that she is not in my head anymore. For if she was, she would know that for all of her persuasive words, I no longer trust a single thing she says.

XXXVII: The Soul Catcher

The Tribes who escaped Aish left many of their wagons and fled into the labyrinthine desert canyons north of the city. It requires not inconsiderable skill to track them.

Still, after a couple of days, I manage it. Which means their enemies could follow them too.

I find Aubarit on the edge of the camp, sitting atop her wagon seat. She picks at a bowl of stew, listless despite the fact that it smells of cumin and garlic and coriander, and sets my stomach to growling. The walls on either side of the camp are high and the nearby stream rages, heavy from the rains.

“You need to hide your trail,” I tell her, and she glances up in surprise as I step out of the dark. “The only reason the Martials haven’t found you is that they’re too busy burying bodies.”

The Fakira does not smile, and her shoulders are stiff. “I thought matters of the human world were not yours to worry over, Banu al-Mauth.”

“They aren’t,” I say. “But matters of the Waiting Place are. And right now, the two are one and the same.”

The Fakira calls over one of her Tribesmen and speaks to him in Sadhese. He glances at me curiously before leaving.

“Junaid will see to our tracks,” she says. “You have not asked about Mamie Rila, Banu al-Mauth, or Tribe Nur or your own Tribe.”

“I have no Tribe, Aubarit,” I remind her. “However, I do have a problem. One that only the Tribes can help me with.” Admitting it is frustrating. But it is the truth and cannot be avoided. “Who escaped Aish?”

“Tribe Nasur. Tribe Nur. Tribe Saif. Tribe Rahim. A few others. They are scattered through the canyons, wherever the water is. In the immediate vicinity, there are perhaps three thousand.”

“Call the Kehannis and the Zaldars.” I refer to the Tribal leaders. “Call the Fakirs and Fakiras. Tell them the Banu al-Mauth has need of them.”

“Many are still in mourning.” Aubarit cannot hide her shock at my callousness, but I shake my head.

“There is no time to mourn,” I say. “Not if they wish to survive and not if they wish their dead to pass on in peace instead of torment. Harness their anger, Fakira. Call them to me.”

Within the hour, the area around her wagon is crowded with people. Some are vaguely familiar, like a tiny woman with black-and-red braids and a beautiful face. Her arms are crossed over a mirrored dress of gold and green, and she stands with a young man who looks like the taller version of her. Afya. I remember her from my memories of Laia. And her brother, Gibran.

I find I am relieved to see him. A memory ricochets through my mind—him attacking me, possessed by a ghost. Trying desperately to stop him, and the fear that in doing so, I’d damaged him irrevocably.

Mamie Rila arrives with a cauldron of tea and passes cups around to ward off the chill wind blowing in from the north. She nods silently to me, but keeps her distance. A tall man steps out from beside her. His curly hair is half-hidden beneath a scarf, and his skin is lighter than mine. He closes the distance between us in two steps, arms wide for a hug.

“Ilyaas—brother—”

I extricate myself from him carefully.

“Ilyaas,” he says. “It’s me—Shan—”

I know the name now. He is my foster brother. Mamie’s other adopted child. I nod at him stiffly. He wears the tattoos of a Zaldar, freshly inked. Behind him are other faces I recognize. Mamie’s cousins and brothers, her nephews and nieces. My old family.

They eye me with awe and a touch of wariness. Only Shan looks at me like I am one of them.

Mamie Rila touches his arm gently, whispering something into his ear, and his smile fades. After a few moments, he steps back. “Forgive me, Banu al-Mauth,” he says. “If I overstepped.”

You didn’t, the trapped voice inside me calls out. I crush it.

“Fakira Ara-Nasur.” I find Aubarit speaking to Gibran. “Is everyone here?”

At her nod, I look out at the crowd. Conversations hush, and the only sound is the sand susurrating restlessly against the canyon walls.

“The Nightbringer steals spirits,” I say. “He keeps them from crossing over.”

Gasps arise and Aubarit looks sick. Afya Ara-Nur’s hand goes to the blade at her waist. “Those in Aish—” she says. “All of our dead?”

I nod. “All have been taken, and—” I stop before mentioning the maelstrom, my old Blackcliff training kicking in. Share only what is necessary. Telling them what the Nightbringer is using those spirits for will frighten them. And frightened people make poor foot soldiers.

“Why?” Mamie Rila says softly, her tea forgotten in her hands. “Why do such a horrible thing?”

“The jinns’ strength is more limited than it appears.” I let them draw their own conclusions. “They are powerful, yes, but in short bursts only. When their power is spent, they heal slowly. A side effect of their imprisonment, perhaps.”

“So—they are feeding off the spirits?” Shan says.

“In a manner of speaking,” I say. “The Nightbringer seems to want ghosts who have suffered. Those who would have come to the Waiting Place. That is why it is empty. He is taking them.”