Tell me, Commander, how many disparate powers do the Kalima warriors possess?
How are they distributed?
Where will they be hidden?
His questions fire at me in quick succession, and I suddenly can’t breathe—my chest is too riddled with wounds from spear tips and daggers I failed to see coming, despite Kartok hurling them at me, plain as day.
He doesn’t need to kill my warriors or eradicate our powers to reach the First Gods.
He needs tocollectour powers.
Your warriorsarethe link!
“Stop!” I scream. “Stop using your powers!”
The glares the Kalima throw at me are more blistering than Serik and Weroneka’s combined heat.
“Why in the skies would we do that?” Serik snaps as he forges yet another flaming saber, just to spite me.
“He’s using us! We’re giving him exactly what he wants!”
“Why would hewantus to attack him?” Karwani demands.
“Because he needs our powers!” I’m speaking so fast, the words tumble and trip from my lips. “It’s the reason he tracked me here! He needs the full strength of the sky to access the realm of the gods.”
Cirina laughs. “What gods?”
“Why would we believe you?”
“You’re bound to him!”
“He’s probably whispering these lies into your ear!”
I can’t tell who’s yelling anymore. There are too many voices pelting me, silencing me. The only person who isn’t screaming is Enebish.
She’s fallen perfectly still and watches, horror stricken, as wind and lightning and snow and fog crash and swirl around the brigade of sorcerers, never inflicting a scratch. She looks down at her hands, then at me, and flings off the cover of darkness. The little Night Spinner, Ziva, tries to protest, but Enebish easily wrestles the invisible threads from the girl’s hands—as strong and determined as I’ve ever seen her.
“It’s true!” Enebish’s gaze darts from one Kalima warrior to the next, taking inventory.
“What?” Serik cries.
“He siphoned my darkness in hisxanav!” Enebish yells, as if that should explain everything.
But the Zemyan term means nothing to the Kalima.
And Enebish’s word means even less than mine.
We are the last two people on the continent they would listen to.
“We’ll finish this the way we were born to!” Cirina yells, and the wind picks up, slashing my face and stinging my eyes. Bitter cold and burning heat fill the cave in equal measure as the other Ice Heralds and Sun Stokers redouble their efforts. One by one, my former warriors unleash the full fury of the sky on Kartok.
Varren, the sole surviving Rain Maker, is the only one not fighting. And not out of loyalty to me, but because he’s sprawled out on the ground, overcome with pain. His eyes are closed, his teeth are clenched, yet still he tries to raise his hand.
“Please don’t summon the rain, Varren,” I beg as I slip across the ice. “I’m telling the truth.Look!Our powers have no effect on the sorcerer!”
Varren’s eyes slit a fraction. “Ghoa?” He coughs.
“Listen to me—” I start, but he shakes his head, the bulging cords in his neck distorting his tattoos.
