Neri allowed Ysira to help him climb up on a stone ledge. They crouched amongst cobwebs, shattered pottery, and fragments of bone. The floor glistened with a fine film of . . . something. A soft breeze whispered from a draft somewhere behind them, the lone sound in a silence that made Ysira’s flesh crawl. It wasn’t safe, but it was secluded, and she needed space to think.
Neri refused to let her. “Who are you? How did you know my name?” At least he had the sense to lower his voice.
“Your uncle Seth sent me. I’m Ysira.”
“What about Damir and Casandra? Shouldn’t we—” “They can take care of themselves.”
If the twins were smart, they would run back to Zivora. They would probably describe Ysira to Ged; that couldn’t be helped, but with any luck he’d assume she and Neri both fell prey to the beasts of the canyon. Now she only had to wait for the danger to pass, take a round-about path to the rim, and get Neri to Jacen’s chapel.
She’d begun to breathe again when Neri inhaled sharply. Whatever he sensed, he didn’t have time to warn her before something curled around her ankle—five knobby, grasping fingers.
Ysira scrambled back on her hands and heels. She aimed a kick at the Osuun’s skull. It dodged, pulling her toward it with inhuman strength, using her weight to leverage itself onto the rock shelf. It leaned down, jaws opened wide to reveal jaggedblack forcipules clicking together, starving for a bite out of her leg.
A thrown rock struck the Osuun in the temple. It screeched and let go. Neri gaped, as if he couldn’t believe he’d had the nerve to do that. The creature reared up and lunged at him. Ysira swung her glaive around in an arc, smashing into its skull.It staggered as though drunk. Its insectile mouth went slack. It fell against her, sweat-slick and heavy, the stench of rotten meat forcing her eyes shut and the breath from her lungs.
With a cry, Neri pulled his dagger from its sheath and leapt. He hung off the Osuun’s shoulders and drove the blade into its neck again and again. Too late. Ysira lost her footing. The creature and Neri toppled against her. All three of them went over the ledge.
They fell in a tangle of limbs, hair, chitin, fabric, and steel, tumbling down a slope of loose shale into a ravine. Ysira’s forehead smacked into a boulder. Stars flashed across her vision. She lay there, pulse throbbing in the back of her head, until the pain receded and she could see properly.
They had fallen far enough that she spotted water below. On the red rocks, it looked like flowing blood. She’d held on to her glaive but her satchel was gone—her medicinal kit, her tools, most of her provisions . . . everything but her knives, some cactus-fiber rope, and one canteen half-full of water.
Nearby, Neri scrambled to his feet. The Osuun’s corpse must have broken his fall. He prodded it with his bad foot and, when it didn’t move, yanked his dagger from its neck. He stared at the creature, watching blood seep into the dirt.
At least he was too distracted to see Ysira’s left shoulder, wrist, and two fingers crack back into place. Her passenger struggled to keep up with her injuries. It settled deep in her brainstem, restless in a way she had come to recognize as irritability.
When it was done, she asked Neri, “Have you ever killed anything before?”
He started to reply—then dropped his dagger and vomited. Ysira took that to meanno.She stood there like an imbecile while he emptied his guts, the only thought in her head,This will dehydrate him.
“You did well,” she told him.
Neri seemed to find her condescending. “I can handle myself. I know I don’t look like it, but Uncle Seth says there’s no such thing as a fair fight, anyway.”
Ysira almost laughed. “He’s right about that.”
Neri started to respond, still on the defensive, but something stopped the words in his throat. His eyes were fixed on the canyon wall behind Ysira. She followed him to where it slanted over them, steep as though poised to topple over.
Neri traced a hand over glassy patches of stone. “It’s here.” His voice was low, awed. “The arch.”
Dismayed, Ysira scanned the ravine. The rock formation lay cloaked in shadow, narrow and symmetrical like a doorway. She would not have noticed it if she hadn’t been looking—or if it hadn’t been marked with a long, sooty handprint. A handprint with four fingers.
“I have to go in there,” said Neri.
“You do not,” said Ysira. “I gave Seth my word I’d bring you back to Zivora.”
To her intense frustration, Neri insisted, “Something’s calling to me.
It wants me to find it.”
“Is it a red thing?” Ysira guessed, impatient. “You— How did you know?”
“You’re not the first telepath to hear it.” She waved a dismissive hand at his stunned expression. “I’m not with the Church. I don’t care.” Before Ysira was Harvested, she hadnever heard the “voice in the desert”—spoken of in whispers throughout the Knots. Ogden had to console the occasional patient who heard it and convinced themselves they were losing their mind. Low-tier telepaths, he speculated. Ysira suspected she could sense it now on account of her passenger, though she lacked the gifts to discern any meaning.
Presumably, her passenger understood the call better than she did—and it was terrified. She had never known it to fear anything else.
“It wants me to find it,” Neri repeated.
“It doesn’t wantyouto find it; it just wants to be found,” said Ysira. “You’re not special.” Neri looked wounded, so she amended, “You don’t know what it will do?—”
