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  "Leave her be. She will recover in time,” a man's voice calls out, haughty and imperious.

  Blinking away the tears, I look over, into the unsmiling face of a priest of Shanira. An indigo open-hand tattoo rides between his lowered brows, elegant in its stark simplicity, lacking the baroque ornamentation that is a hallmark of his order. He is still a Brother, then, still tasked with wandering the lands, healing all injury and sickness that comes into his sight. Priests of Shanira are never supposed to break that vow, no matter what, but I know that they can.

  He meets my gaze, and flinches at the sight of my eyes, his lip curling into a snarl. I find his reaction comforting, familiar, the sight of his prejudice recalling simpler, more orderly times. I slump back, reveling in the feel of warm flesh and clean silk.

  "You healed me?” I croak, eyes closed. I hear his grunt of affirmation. “Then I thank you."

  "I do not require your thanks for doing the Lady's work,” he says, biting off the words. “'All shall be made whole in Her sight, and in so doing, shall be made clean.’ There is no higher calling."

  "The priests of Ur would disagree,” I say, naming the red-handed God of War. Inside, my sister chortles, even as she scolds me for my rudeness. I hear the priest's indrawn breath, imagine his scowl deepening, before he stomps away.

  "That was a very poor way to treat the man who quite possibly saved your life,” the woman says gently. “Brother Ato takes his vows very seriously."

  "All of them do,” I sigh. “So very seriously."

  I open my eyes, gingerly, fearing the return of the pain. The morning sunlight, golden and newly minted, is still dazzling, but the terrible agony in my head is receding.

  Above me, the singer's face is a pale, lovely moon, and once more I find myself caught in her jewel-blue eyes. This close, I can see that the road has left its mark on her face, in the corners of those wide eyes and beside her compassionate mouth; she cannot have seen more than eighteen summers, twenty at the most, but already creases mar her porcelain skin, tracing down across freckled cheeks. Looking at her, I feel old. Old and so very ill-used.

  "Better now?” she asks, and I nod. She helps me to my feet.

  All around lie the bodies of the Mor, shattered, blackened things, leaking dark fluid from cracked, split armor. The smell of their burning is pungent and thick, a reek unlike anything I have ever experienced, more like burning reeds and charred fish and the stench of a smithy than anything else. The power that rent their lives and their inhuman flesh has also taken its toll on the walls of the fort, and a pile of freshly-fallen rubble fills a quarter of the central court, from which protrude more blackened, armored limbs.

  "You ... you did this?” I ask, gesturing to the fallen creatures.

  She nods, the smile trickling away like melting snow. The lines surrounding her eyes deepen.

  "I have received training in the Arts Elemental from the Western Academy,” she says, stammering a bit. “I only meant to stop them from harming you further, but I must have summoned too much..."

  "You did the right thing,” I say, holding up an unsteady hand. The smell and the smoke fill my head. The ground seems to tilt, ever so slowly. “They would have killed us all, without mercy. I have seen their handiwork. You did well."

  She beams at the compliment, as if my opinion mattered in some way, then, seeing my discomfort, takes my arm and leads me towards the shattered barricade. As I walk, I look for my sweetlings. Nothing remains of them, not even ashes. The wind has scattered the last traces. My sister's lament twists through my mind like a barbed hook, joining my own silent call of grief.

  "My name is Lia Cho,” my rescuer says, helping me past the overturned cart. The air clears outside the walls and I feel my strength returning. “My companion is Brother Daedalius Ato."

  "Kirin,” I reply, my eyes sweeping the trees. I see Brother Ato, eyes restless at the border of the forest. I appreciate his vigilance.

  "Kirin,” Lia repeats, turning my name into something sweet, like honey on her tongue. “It suits you.” My sister howls soundlessly and I shush her. I do not want this priest to suspect her presence in me, lest he think me possessed.

  "Kirin,” she continues, “when we came, when I called down the storm, I saw you, in the smoke, fighting. There were ... others with you."

  "Yes,” I say, meeting her gaze. For the first time, she frowns looking into them. Perhaps she knows what my black eyes mean, perhaps not. Ato knows, I am sure of it, and I see no benefit in lying. I cannot fight the two of them if they decide that my sins have earned the penalty of death, nor would I. I am too weary to fight.

  "They were my champions,” I say. “My children. When the men ... when they died, I needed them to fight for me.

  Alone, I was no match for the Mor. Even with their help, I stood no chance. You saved my life."

  "Those ... were your children? I don't understand,” she says, looking back at the smoking gates. She frowns, an expression of confusion, not judgment, worlds distant from the stern look that Brother Ato gave me. I find myself not wanting to see his expression in her eyes.

  "It is complicated,” I say, gently. “But not unnatural, no matter what the priests say. Some day, perhaps, I will explain it to you. But not now. There might be more of the Mor, somewhere close. We should go."

  Lia nods, still frowning. I think of the lightning, the colossal force that brought low the Mor. Such power, to be held in such an innocent vessel; it beggars imagination.

  I have heard much, over the years, of the Academies, all little better than rumor, yet still endlessly fascinating to the common man and woman. Tales passed like semiprecious stones from speaker to listener, detailing a secret order.

  The tales all agree on the existence of four monastic schools located in the remotest parts of the world, each dedicated to the study of one of the four Aspects. Cold North, house of Earth, Eastmost Water, Southern Fire and, last, the Western Academy of Air: each both temple and school all dedicated to the training of the rare and powerful Elemental Mages.

  Never in my life had I hoped to meet one such as Lia, a human trained in the sublime arts of adjuration. Graduates of the Academies, without fail, were said to join the Empire's bureaucracy, taking up residence within the walls of the Imperial Palace, working their magics at the behest of the Emperor himself.

  I burn to ask Lia why she is here, why she wanders the Mor-infested roads, alone save for an itinerant priest.

  But now is not the time. I follow my own advice and hold my tongue. There will be time to talk, later, when we are far away from here. Away from the place that Jazen Tor met his final death, and where Hollern's ill-placed piety led to so much ruin.

  "Brother Ato and I are headed for the City,” Lia says, looking around with wide eyes. “I must meet my father. It is very important."

  Behind us, Brother Ato falls in line, searching along our back trail. I frown as a thought occurs to me.

  "Does something follow you?” I ask him, my voice loud in the still morning air.

  "No, I...” he says. “I'm just cautious. As you said, there may be more of them."

  I glance at Lia, see her frown of worry.

  "Lying is not a skill that they teach you in the monastery, is it, Brother? You're very bad at it,” I say.

  Ato begins a sputtered denial, his peasant's face turning bright red, but falls silent when Lia holds up a forestalling hand.

  "You are very observant, Kirin,” she says. “Brother Ato does fear pursuit. I left the Academy without permission."

  "I see,” I say. “So, you think they might send someone to fetch you back?"

  "It is possible,” she says with a shrug. “Before all this, before the Mor, I am certain that they would have, but now...” She shrugs. “They have much to do. The Emperor has need of every mage. The Mor are attacking everywhere, or so I hear. Many have been killed. It is said that none who have stood before them have managed to even slow them down."

  "I know,” I say, images of
Gamth's Pass flashing in my mind like lightning. Memories of soldiers, torn asunder like dolls or burned, charred, until their own mothers would not know them. “I've done my fair share of fighting. But that still doesn't explain why you ran away."I did not run away!” Lia says hotly, sounding in that moment very much like the young girl she is. “I did not! But I cannot just sit behind high walls, going to classes and memorizing the seven hundred and seventy-seven names of the lesser zephyrs as if nothing is wrong! My father needs me."

  "He needs you to complete your training,” Brother Ato says. I can tell this is a familiar argument, one worn smooth through countless revisitations.

  "He needs my help! Now! Before the Mor reach the palace!"

  I remember the sight of the Mor, dancing as the lightning thundered down, boiling from within as the elemental energy coursed through their bodies, and nod. Such power would be very useful on the battlefield, might have even helped tip the scales at Gamth's Pass.

  Idiot! You were defeated before you even took the field,my sister whispers, her voice acid. Nothing human is a match for the Mor.

  "And yet she killed them. She killed them all. She is the vessel for much power,” I whisper back.

  "What was that?” Brother Ato asks. I wave away the question, cursing myself for speaking aloud. Ato gives me a long, contemplative look. I do not like the questions I see in his eyes.

  "In any case, I have made my decision, and I do not ask you to accompany me,” Lia continues, oblivious to our exchange. “I can take care of myself."

  Ato turns his attention back to her and shrugs. “I made a promise to see you to the City walls,” he says with a sigh. “I no longer have a choice in the matter."

  "And you?” Lia asks me. “Will you accompany me? There is much need for skilled hands on the walls of the Armitage, I am told. It is only a matter of time until the Mor finish their attack on the hinterlands, and when they do, the Imperial City will be all that stands between them and the South."

  I shrug, nodding. I have no plans to accompany this willful child all the way to the City, but keeping her near will certainly help my chances for survival. If you can teach her to stop making so much cursed noise, my sister hisses. She moves like a pregnant yak.

  I push aside a chuckle that threatens to bubble past my lips. Lia's grace is anything but yak-like, but her footsteps are much nosier than mine. She could use a bit of woodcraft, if she hopes to avoid future conflicts.

  We walk all that day. I head southeast, along the riverbank, where the route is clearest. Just after mid-day, we rejoin the road, and our pace increases further still. The trees make me feel safe and sheltered, muffling sound and hiding us from view.

  We stop frequently, to refill water skins and to take meals, but even so I am surprised by Lia's pace. She is slower than a soldier, to be sure, but the vigor of youth is still in her step.

  Her curiosity seems to almost overflow her, and she moves from one fascination to the next—a ring of delicate, crimson mushrooms; a cliff overlooking the rushing river; an ancient, weatherworn stone padu marker—chattingbrightly all the while. Ato and I both remind her repeatedly to speak softly, lest unfriendly ears overhear.

  When darkness finally begins to dim the bright vault of the sky, I search for a spot to make camp. I find a dry ledge beneath an overhanging cliff, sheltered from view by thick bushes. The overhang will do much to hide our campfire's smoke. By the time full dark has fallen, we sit around a small fire. I put my back to the flames, listening for anything out of the ordinary, as Brother Ato prepares a sparse meal of bread and hard cheese. Lia gives a delighted laugh as he produces an apple from his pack.

  "Come join us,” Lia says to me. “Brother Ato is always telling me how food is not only a necessity, but is also medicine for the soul."

  "And I look like one in need of healing?” I say, the words emerging harsher than I had intended.

  "You need to eat,” Lia mumbles, flinching away from me. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

  The thought of this child advising me about the road ahead amuses me. What can she know?

  She knows how to call down the storm, my sister reminds me. Do not take her lightly.

  I shrug and move towards the fire. Anything large enough to endanger us will make noise coming up the wooded trail. Later, after I have eaten, I will scout out a perimeter, perhaps lay some concealed lines along the approaches to our shelter.

  Lia settles herself beside the flames, making herself comfortable, her eyes closing in rapture as she bites into the fruit. Ato smiles indulgently to see her reaction, then turns, reluctantly, to offer me some of the cheese.

  Although I am not particularly hungry, I eat the proffered slice. It is dry and sharp, and almost unpleasantly warm, and I find myself envying Lia's apple."Eat your fill,” he says to Lia, offering the cheese to her.

  "We don't know how long it will be until we can rest like this again. With the Mor on the roads, we must be ready to travel long and fast if need be."

  Lia nods and takes a slice, then frowns. She turns to me. “Do you know why the Mor have come?” she asks.

  "I have no idea,” I admit. “All I know is that two months ago, give or take, they began emerging from their caves and started burning. They haven't stopped since, not even when faced by five thousand men at Gamth's Pass."

  "This has happened before, you know,” Ato says. He nods at Lia's questioning look. “Oh, yes, mankind and the Mor have never really gotten along. Our shared history is written in blood. Always has been and always shall."

  "Honestly, before Gamth's Pass, I always thought that stories of the Mor were just that—stories.” I say.

  "That's because they're wont to disappear for decades, if not centuries at a time. But where I come from, even the smallest child knows the old tales. They are passed down, from parent to child, faithfully, lest we forget."

  "Forget what?” Lia asks.

  "Forget that the Mor have always been man's enemy. The Mor know nothing of mercy, or of compromise. Every time they have ever come out of the dark, the only way to stop them has been to defeat them so thoroughly that they no longer have the means to wage war."

  "Where do you come from?” I ask.

  He smiles and pokes the fire with a stick, stirring the coals. Sparks rise like a swarm of amber fireflies, swirling into the dark canopy above. “My family lives in a small town called Rudarth. It's a small place, just a few dozen families, high in the mountains north of the great city of Lu,” he says, smiling fondly. “They are miners, and have been for generations. Tin, mainly, although I'm the only one in memory that hasn't followed in my family's footsteps. In Rudarth, a man's not a man until they first descend into the black and come back out again."

  "And when is that?” I ask.

  "Twelve, usually. That's when I—and all my brothers—first made the descent, pick in hand. If the Lady had not called me to her cause, I'd be there still, although by now, I'd most likely be dead. Most menfolk that make their living in the deep black don't live to see their grandchildren grow up, I can tell you that.

  "We pass on the tales of the Mor so that we're always ready,” he continued, poking the fire more urgently. “Ready for when they come back, as they always do."

  "But why? Why do they come?” Lia asks. “What did we do to them?"

  "Who knows?All I know is that when our people first came to this land from across the great sea, they thought this land was empty. Oh, there was game aplenty—everything you see that has six legs rather than four was native to these shores—but the Mor, they were nowhere to be seen, at first. They lived in the deeps, you see, and never came to the surface world.

  "No, we were all here, our ships broken down to make our settlements, forever land-bound, by the time the first miners discovered the Mor. We tried talking to them, or so the tales all say, but they could not, or would not answer. It was only a matter of time until we came into conflict with them. By then, we could never go home. It was either them or
us."

  "But they must have some reason, certainly,” I say. “They're not immortal. As strong as they are, they can be killed. Why leave their homes to march to war?"

  Ato shrugs. “If they have one, they've never told any man. When they come, they kill. We don't even know that they think as men do. For all we know, they might simply be animals."

  I think of the tools I have seen the Mor use, of the surprisingly delicate and lovely fittings on their gear, and shake my head. That cannot be the product of simple instinct.

  "My father had a book in his library with an image of a Mor in it,” Lia says, her eyes heavy and filled with firelight.

  "It always frightened me as a child. Their claws looked so fierce."

  The priest nods. “Aye. Sharp and strong enough to bore through stone as if it were clay. The tunnels they left behind were round and smooth, wide enough for three men to walk abreast and a joy to work in. I admit that, in rockcraft, their wisdom far surpassed ours."

  "You should have tried harder to reason with them, then,” Lia says. “They would have been useful allies."

  "Never!” Ato says, his lip curling. “I would sooner lay down with a demoness than trust a Mor at my back,” he says, shooting a look my way. Any lingering doubts I have that the priest does not know what I am evaporate. Oh yes, he knows.

  "The power of Shanira will always be my shield against evil,” he continues, his eyes never leaving my face, “but the Mor are relentless and unstoppable and altogether inhuman. Those dragged into the depths by them are never seen again. Who knows what torments they inflict on their prey, in the deep, cold black? Even the gods’ sight, it is said by my people, cannot penetrate such a weight of implacable stone, and what the gods cannot see, they cannot prevent. Or avenge."

  I shrug and turn away, bored by his pious mouthings. Hollern learned just how powerful his god was, calling forth Loran's name under the open sky as the Mor's blade slid through his body. I wonder if, as his last breath was borne aloft on a cloud of steaming blood, the words were a last prayer to Him, and if the Lightbringer found the sacrifice sweet.