They had landed somewhere south of Zivora, in the eclipse’s penumbra. The lonely, long-dormant volcano called Otavok was a dark mass on the red horizon. Rust-colored pebbles skipped along the cracked plain with the wind, harbingers of a dust storm brewing in the distance.
The storm was a gift; it would conceal their whereabouts, but when these winds picked up, they could flay skin from bone.
Ysira dug through the smoldering wreckage, searching for anything useful. She gritted her teeth through the blistering of her palms and the singeing of her already-tattered clothes. She would heal and there was no time. She salvaged meager provisions: a handful of tacky rectangles that smelled vaguely like food, a canister of hot water, and a box of medical supplies—some of which she recognized.
Ysira used rolls of gauze to wrap Neri’s and her own bare feet. With the sharp metal tools, she removed the chip beneath his consecration scar. If only she’d known to do this the day Casandra died. Neri held out his arm for Ysira with no reaction, even when she cauterized the wound with a scalding piece of wreckage.
“They’ll know there’s a good chance we survived.” Ysira tossed Neri’s chip into the embers. “We need to find shelter first, then?—”
“Who’s feeding Dusty and Sparrow?” Neri finally blurted.
Ysira started to check his pupils, concerned about a head injury, but he said, “My cats.”
“Your—” Ysira opened her mouth, then shut it. “Seth will care of them.”
“He won’t,” said Neri, in a hollow voice. “Tharanoth was inside my head. They’ll be looking for Seth because ofme.”
Whatever Tharanoth had subjected him to must have been more invasive than what he’d done to Ysira. She wrestled backher revulsion enough to say, “They’ll be looking forusfirst. We can still get to the Shrouded City, but we have to go now.”
She touched Neri’s shoulder. The gesture felt awkward, artificial, and it seemed to alarm him. She withdrew her hand. “Seth is the best warrior I’ve ever known. He can take care of himself. And your cats . . .” Ysira knew precious little about cats. “They’re resourceful.”
Neri looked like he might be sick, before his face went horribly blank once more. “They got inside your head too, right? They know where we’re going.”
“They might guess, but they can’t know where the Shrouded City is.
Have you ever heard of a telepathic trigger?” No answer.
“The Church uses a very basic version on acolytes when they erase their names,” Ysira explained. “It’s not permanent. When the name is told to them again, it’s like it was never forgotten.” She struggled to recall the way Elyas had put it. “My friend placed a trigger inside my mind, too. It will reveal the way to the Shrouded City. Tharanoth can’t have seen it, because I don’t know what it is.”
“Then how will you find it?”
“I’ll know it when I see it. And I know where to look.” They were far from the deepriver, but alternatives remained. “We have to find a place where the wind stands still.”
Think of it as a key,Elyas had said. A necessary safeguard, in case she were to be telepathically interrogated. The Shrouded City had hidden from the Church for longer than she had been alive. She and Neri would be safe there. They had to be.
Six years had passed since Elyas told her how to find the triggers, scattered throughout the Scar, but Ysira had never forgotten. How many times had she imagined making this journey? How many times had she changed her mind out of cowardice or jadedness or simple inertia?
Dozens, probably. But the time for that was done.
“Come on, before the storm picks up.” She offered Neri a hand and pulled him to his feet. “If you’re angry—at the gods, at me, at your father, I don’t care—use that. If you want to see Seth again, or your cats,use that.Let it bury the fear.”
If Neri took her words to heart, he did not show it.
As for Ysira . . . she would use vengeance. Nothing else mattered now. As they trekked through the endless desert, headed north, she began to plot.
Ten thousand people on this station,the scientist had said. Zivora had two million, some of them far better warriors than Ysira, and she had proven that she alone was worth twenty of the so-called Firstborn Empire’s soldiers. The rebels of the Shrouded City had never tested Zivora’s might, never dared to truly try, but circumstances had changed.
There had to be a way back to the station. The people who’d shot at Ysira, in the fortress under Zal Fel by the Gate—they must know. What was it they’d said before she lost consciousness?Call a transport.If Ysira could get just a dozen people up there with proper equipment and preparation . . . behind Neri, in full control of his demon’s power . . . she had hope now, blending with fury like fire in her veins.
The wind intensified. In the gathering dust, Neri began to wheeze. As the storm swelled at their heels, Ysira worried she’d been mistaken. But then, at last, she saw it—a cluster of mushroom-shaped rock formations, huddled together like petrified giants. The people of the Scar had marked many such places, never more than a day’s journey apart from one another. They had marked the chalky stone with their writings and pictograms through the ages, untouched by centuries of stillness. The earth vibrated, and beyond, the billowing dust rose like the world was folding in two.
Between the rocks, though, the winds stood still.
Ysira and Neri made camp in a hollow at the center of the space, where the air had a muffled quality. The storm roared outside. Whether it was by some bizarre natural phenomenon or lost technology, Ysira could not say, but she had no trouble hearing Neri as he said hoarsely, “Are we in the right place?”
He was still short of breath. Though he tried to hide it from her, she noticed him flexing his bad foot, massaging the connecting muscles as if they caused him pain.
“I was told any of these places would have an image, maybe something in writing to activate the trigger.” Ysira paced around the hollow, examining the rock faces. One line, indeed, stood out to her: blood-red jedaat glyphs, fresher than the rest, drawn large and bold.
