If he’d been himself, at his old strength, he would have read the bones and known to expect Eklor in that palace. They’d have been able to be prepared. Instead, he’d failed them.
It had been kind of them not to point it out. He’d forgotten that people could be so kind. After the war, it seemed the entire world had expectations for what he could do, what he must feel, what he’d think and want. Keeping up with them had been exhausting—and impossible.
Concentrating on breathing, Marso tried to pull his mind out of the swirl of memories. There had been one lover he’d had who wanted him to use his powers as a parlor trick. All low stakes, so Marso hadn’t seen the harm: what will such-and-such restaurant offer for dinner, what will a friend wear to the night’s party, which runner will win the sprint. It was only when Marso realized that the young man was using the predictions to gamblethat Marso broke it off. His next lover had been fascinated by his gift, but she hadn’t pushed him to use it. He ended it because he read her death in the bones and couldn’t bear to tell her. He’d tried once, but she’d stopped him. She hadn’t wanted to know what the cryptic images in the mist had meant, and he couldn’t live with both her and the knowledge. He’d tried once more, with a beautiful man who wasn’t afraid of what Marso might see. It was with him, though, that Marso had first widened his gaze to read the plains and seen a glimpse of Eklor alive.
That time, the man broke it off with Marso.
I have failed so many,Marso thought.
He didn’t know whether it was the endless failure or the never-ending fear that had driven him to the fountain. His memories of that time were fogged, and he didn’t care to stare too closely at them.
He was not there anymore. He was here. And his mind was clearer than it had been in a long, long time. And though Kreya had not given him anything to do—and he had said he couldn’t do it—he felt the need to cast.
Perhaps it was seeing Eklor read the bones. It was disturbing to think that someone like that, a vector for destruction, should be gifted with the ability to summon the mist, while Marso, who had dedicated his life to the truth the bones could reveal, failed.
Reaching into a pocket, Marso drew out a handful of old chicken bones. They’d been polished smooth years ago and felt light and familiar in his hands. Even at his worst, he hadn’t been able to part with them. He spun them around, manipulating them with his fingers, twisting them over and under his knuckles until he was juggling them one-handed.
Marso had lost the knack of clearing his mind. It was a jumble of thoughts, fears, worries, and memories, but if he couldquiet it for just a moment . . . He focused on building up a picture of the plains in his mind, not as they used to be but as they were in the present, with tall grasses, wildflowers, and the rubble of the tower. If he could predict what waited for Jentt and Stran, that would be a help.
Bringing the bones to his lips, he whispered, “Prynato.”
He spilled them onto the floor.
Leaning over them, he let his eyes absorb the pattern as mist rose above them. Images began to appear both in the mist and in his mind. Earth, erupting upward. Machines, clawing their way out of the ground. Jentt, young, being hit by arrows—no, Jentt now, being hit in the shoulder by an arrow, which he had been, but he’d lived.He’s alive,Marso told his mind.
A dead soldier lurched to its feet.
Another old memory. He tried to cling to that fact, to separate past, present, and future, but the images assailed him. He heard screaming, and he clapped his hands over his ears. But it didn’t fade. The screaming was within him, echoing through his veins. He saw soldiers—innocent men and women who only wanted to defend their homes and their families—torn apart by Eklor’s army. He saw the grass trampled, steeped in blood. Then he heard the silence, the wind, the wails, all at once, and the plains were both empty and full.
Stop!
He tried to pull his mind back, and he was in Cerre, hovering above it like a hawk. Below, the city burned. Blackened bodies lay in the streets.
Future? Past? Imagination?
He didn’t know.
When the images fled and the mist melted away, he wept.
“Question is: at what point do I quit being civil?” Pacing back and forth across one of Zera’s lesser and more private salons, Kreya seemed to be talking more to herself than to Zera, so Zera didn’t answer.
I don’t know what the answer should be anyway,Zera thought. “No luck getting an audience with him?” she asked out loud. She knew Kreya had sent her initial request hours ago, with a follow-up each hour after. Zera too had sent out feelers to her contacts, paving the way to pry for information about the grand master. Both of them were waiting, though Zera privately thought she was being much more patient about it.
“Normally I’d insist, but that could be seen as an act of aggression,” Kreya said, before punching a pillow on a divan. “So I am politely and patiently waiting for my request to be honored. But there has to be a limit.”
With a clenched jaw, Kreya looked as if she wanted to bite someone, and Zera spent an enjoyable minute imagining her friend biting the crap out of Eklor. Obviously harsher punishments would follow, but that would make a delightful appetizer. Zera opened her mouth to suggest she consider it, and she heard a tentative clearing of a female throat.
“Not hungry, not thirsty, go away!” Kreya called. “Honestly, your servants think if I don’t try a ‘nibble’ every thirty minutes, I’ll starve to death. How many meals a day do you eat?”
“None and all,” Zera said airily.
A soft voice carried through the curtained archway. “It’s Amurra. I thought—”
Zera swung her legs off the couch. “Oh, goodness, girl, come in!” She crossed to the curtain and shooed her inside. “You’re always welcome, love.”
Amurra scooted inside. She was dressed in some of Zera’s clothes, since her farmwear wasn’t appropriate in the city, and she tugged at the blouse, trying to force it to cover the skin it bared. Zera thought she’d feel more confident if she added a few tattoos, but she wasn’t going to mention it. She herself had a lovely golden lizard skeleton inked on her left ankle. She’d gotten it at a time when she hadn’t felt as comfortable in her own skin. Getting it had felt like hanging a painting in a new house, claiming it as hers. She spent a pleasant few seconds imagining what kind of tattoo would look best on Amurra, as if Amurra were a blank canvas and she a painter. Perhaps an apple tree, in blossom.
“I’ve been to the lower tiers,” Amurra began. She twisted her hands as if she were a nervous student in front of two harsh teachers.
