WE EMERGED FROM Winding Pass just as the sun was setting behind the mountains, stepping into the early twilight. The clouds that clung to the horizon, dark and threatening, had split like ice into smaller fragments, which were stained now with orange and gold.
I gazed across the landscape before us. I had never been east of the Arya Mountains—there were few who had. It was a world of foothills and valleys, dark and impenetrable, and beyond that the unexplored lowlands, where there lurked a vast expanse of trees as dark as pitch.
The Nightwood.
I shuddered. Even here, miles away, the witches’ forest stretched its tendrils toward the mountains. Rue pines, stout at this altitude, jabbed up from the rocky ground. I brushed my hand against a bough, coming away with a handful of needles. Though they looked black at a distance, they were in fact darkest green—a green that seemed to drink in the growing shadows around it.
“Kamzin,” River called, “we need to set up camp.”
I looked around. We were still at a considerable elevation, almost at the snow line, and the terrain around us was uneven with till and knifelike grasses. I recognized the place—at least, I thought I did.
“Just a little farther,” I said, even though my entire body ached with weariness. “There should be a stream up ahead.”
Sure enough, we soon came upon a hollow where a stream trickled down from a waterfall. We removed our packs and dropped them on the bank. Dargye and Aimo helped Norbu down from the yak, while Tem fetched water. Norbu was barely conscious. I spoke to him quietly, but he seemed unable to focus on me, and muttered something about the cold. Blood trickled from a wound above his collarbone, a sharp, circular tear with a bluish cast. Even after I cleaned it with snow, and bandaged it, the wound continued to ooze. I had never seen anything like it.
“Can you set the warding spells?” I murmured to Tem. I hated asking, for he looked so exhausted. His palms, I noticed, were riddled with cuts from gripping the sharp-edged kinnika so tightly. But he only nodded silently, took out the bells, and set to work.
When dinner was ready, Aimo helped Norbu with his food. A cup of tea and an hour next to a warm fire had given the shaman some of his strength back, though he still seemed out of sorts. He kept glancing over his shoulder, a puzzled look on his face, as if concerned someone was sneaking about in the shadows.
“He’s still cold,” Aimo said. Dargye seemed to edge back slightly, as if she had said he was contagious. The big man seemed nervous around Norbu, and kept wandering off to gather more firewood, though we had a healthy pile already. Whenever he looked at him, his hand returned to the single talisman he wore around his neck, a copper pendant of a type popular in Azmiri. His sister, by contrast, quietly kept Norbu’s tea brimming and hot, and even periodically attempted to rub feeling into his hands. I couldn’t help admiring Aimo’s fearlessness.
I touched the shaman’s arm, and found that Aimo was right. Despite the blazing fire and the blankets, he was trembling.
“Tem, try that spell you used on me that time I fell through the ice in Gau Lake. Remember?”
Tem shook his head, his forehead creased in a worried frown. “I don’t think it would help.”
“How is he?” River said, and we all started, as if a stranger had appeared in our midst. Sweeping his chuba out of the way, he crouched before the shaman and took his hand. “Norbu? Can you hear me?”
“He’s barely spoken since we left the pass,” I said. “And his wound is still weeping.”
“Perhaps you know a spell that could help him, River,” Tem said in an odd, quiet sort of voice.
“I’m afraid not,” River said, unnervingly calm. Several fiangul feathers were tangled in his hair. The wind caught one and sent it tumbling away.
“We can’t carry on with Norbu like this,” I said.
“Well, we can’t linger here,” Dargye said, combing his beard nervously. “This is witch territory. The edge of the Nightwood. I can see that foul forest from here.”
“It’s witch territory from here to Raksha,” Tem said. “We’re no safer carrying on than we are staying put.”
“How can you be certain of that?” Dargye snapped.
“There’s no way to be certain of anything,” River said. “Least of all witches. But we must push on. Mara is too far ahead. At this rate, he’ll beat us to the mountain for sure.”
I stared at him. Did he truly care more about besting his rival than the life of his traveling companion? I opened my mouth to retort, but fortunately, Tem cut in.
“Norbu needs rest,” he said. “We all do.” Dargye murmured agreement. His knee was bleeding again after another bad stumble while fleeing the pass, and the wound would need to be spelled with healing charms to prevent infection. With a soft gasp of pain, Aimo removed one of her boots, revealing skin covered in blisters and ugly, dark bruises.
“What Norbu needs is a proper healer,” I said. “We should go to Jangsa.”
The others stared at me.
“Jangsa?” Aimo’s brow knitted. “I heard it was abandoned.”
I shook my head. “My father knows the elder—he met him once, years ago, when they were both boys. They still exchange letters sometimes, using Lusha’s ravens. Father says he’s a good man, if a little odd. I think he would help us.”
Dargye made a skeptical noise. I didn’t blame him—Jangsa, the northernmost village in the Aryas, was situated in the foothills of Mount Zerza at the edge of the witch lands. The inhabitants were a mistrustful, superstitious people who never strayed from their village or sought contact with outsiders. While the southern villages were ruled by the emperor, Jangsa was outside his domain—protected by its isolation, the village stood alone, for better or for worse. Because of this, or perhaps some flinty quality they were born with, the villagers were known for a self-reliance that bordered on fanatical.
“We have no idea what will happen,” Dargye said. His hand was at his talisman again, as if merely speaking of Jangsa required warding magic. “They might capture us. Kill us. The people of Jangsa obey no emperor or lord. They answer to no one.”
“It’s our only option.”
Dargye opened his mouth again, but Aimo put her hand on his arm. To my surprise, he heaved a sigh, then fell silent.
“I can adjust our route to compensate for lost time,” I said.
River was quiet for a long moment. He gazed at Norbu, his brow furrowed. The shaman’s eyes remained fixed on a spot just beyond his shoulder.
“How far to the mountain?” he said.
“We’re on schedule,” I said. “It took five days to reach Winding Pass. It’s another ten to Raksha, twelve at most.”
“Not good enough,” River said, standing. “With this delay we’ll have to move faster. We’ll draw up a plan tomorrow.”
Dargye opened his mouth to argue, but River was already gone, and Dargye didn’t have the nerve to follow him. Norbu began to cough, and Aimo hurried to bring him more tea.
“Thank you,” I said. Dargye muttered something to his sister, but she waved his words aside. He let out a long sigh, then removed his talisman and placed it around her neck. She barely seemed to notice the gesture. I found myself gazing at them almost hungrily as they hunched together by the fire. They had each other, out here in the wilderness. In a way, they were home. A shiver of loneliness traced down my spine as I turned back to the darkness.
Had Lusha also faced the fiangul? If so, was she all right? Was she out here somewhere—perhaps nearby—as injured and afraid as we were?
I made my way to my tent, half-blind from staring so long into the fire, and so tired I could barely walk straight. I almost collided with Tem, who was tightening the tent ropes by the light of a single dragon.
“Look who just showed up,” Tem said, gesturing to a small lump in the shadows. The lump stretched, yawned, and wandered into the light.
“Ragtooth!” I lifted the fox, squeezing him against my chest. He nipped at my hand and let out an intimidating growl that I knew, from experience, was his way of expressing affection. “Where did you come from, you little monster?”
Tem secured a string of bronze beads over the entrance to the tent and glanced over his shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You have to be careful of River.”
“I know,” I said. “He’s reckless, even more than I realized. If we had taken shelter instead of—”
“That’s not what I mean,” Tem said, so quietly I could barely hear him. “That spell he cast—I’ve never felt anything like it.”
“Neither have I,” I said, putting Ragtooth down before he could sink his teeth into me again. “Though some of the stories do say he has a strange gift for magic.”
“‘Strange’ isn’t the word I would use,” Tem said. “It’s unnatural. Uncanny. Did you see a talisman?”
I frowned. “I didn’t notice—I was too busy trying to avoid being clawed to bits by the fiangul. For a snow spell like that, it must have been wood—bamboo, maybe, or ebony.”
“It wasn’t ebony. It wasn’t anything. He didn’t use one.”
I let out a short laugh. “That’s impossible.” And it was—everyone knew that. Even the strongest shamans could not pull spells from the air.
“It should be.”
“It is. What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense. In all my lessons with Chirri, she never spoke of the sort of magic you’re describing.”
“Kamzin, you hardly ever pay attention to your lessons with Chirri.” There was a disapproving note in his voice, and suddenly, I felt combative.
“What did you mean before?” I said. “That I have to be careful? Don’t we all have to be careful of River?”
“You especially,” Tem said. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
I glared at him, furious. Though a small part of me was glad that the darkness concealed my blush.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, “but I have half a mind to tell Ragtooth to bite you right now.”
“I’m sorry. But I just don’t think you’re seeing reason where River is concerned.”
“I am seeing reason,” I protested. “That’s why we’re going to Jangsa.”
Tem turned away. “If you were seeing reason, we’d be on our way back to Azmiri.”
“Azmiri?” I stared at him.
“Don’t you understand what happened back there?” Tem gestured south, toward the now-invisible pass. “We nearly died. Didn’t you see what we’re up against?”
“I saw,” I snapped. “Lusha is facing the same dangers. Am I supposed to abandon her? Am I supposed to abandon the Empire?”
“Is that really what you’re worried about?” Tem said. “Or impressing the Royal Explorer?”
My face reddened, this time with anger. But underneath it, I felt a stab of some other emotion—something close to shame.
Something tinkled faintly, somewhere just behind me. I turned. Tem had hung the kinnika from one of the tent poles. The moonlight gleamed off the bells, illuminating the flicker of movement.
We were still for a long moment.
“Which one was that?” I murmured.
Tem looked uneasy. “I don’t know.”
I let out my breath. “Great. Now I’m going to jump out of my skin every time they make a sound.”
But Tem didn’t reply. He was staring at something just past my shoulder. “What’s that?”
“Where?”
“Up there, in that tree.”
I followed his gaze and saw something dangling from one of the branches that hung over the stream. It was pale in the moonlight, and gossamer thin. The starlight shone right through it.
I splashed through the shallow water and snatched at the garment. It was snagged on the branch, and tore slightly as I pulled.
I had known what it was before I even touched it. But when I held it in my hands, it was undeniable.
It was one of Lusha’s scarves. Woven from yak wool, it was soft and warm, with a line of tiny red and blue stitches along the edge. I remembered she had worn it at the autumn bonfires last year—when she saw me shivering she had tied it around my neck, quietly chiding me for forgetting my chuba.
Tem touched my arm. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. To my surprise, my eyes were wet with tears. I brushed the back of my hand across them.
“Hey.” Tem touched my face. “This is good. It means they made it through the pass.”
I nodded, the tears blurring my vision. I couldn’t stop staring at the scarf. For a moment, all thoughts of Raksha dissolved. I just wanted Lusha to be there in front of me, even if it was with a quip on her lips about my melodramatic tendencies or disheveled appearance. To know that she was all right.
Tem sighed. Then he kissed me gently, beside my mouth. “Come on. Let’s get some sleep.”
We set off the next morning just as the horizon began to blush with light. Tem kept the kinnika ready, and there was little conversation—even Dargye seemed to lack the energy to register his usual complaints.
My dreams had been dark, plagued by faceless specters that chased me through a howling storm. From the looks on the others’ faces, their sleep had been similarly troubled. Something had changed since the fiangul attack—a shadow lay over us that couldn’t be explained entirely by Norbu’s strange illness. Though I tried to shake the unease, it clung to me like dew, prickling my skin.
I had thought I understood the dangers we faced. I knew now that the journey before us was bigger than I had imagined, the dangers darker and stranger. The fiangul we had fought in Winding Pass were no longer shadows in the night, stories told by a fire. The monsters were real, and we could face them again.
Or worse.
I glanced at Tem. He seemed more alert this morning, scanning the terrain, his hand absently brushing the bells looped through his belt. After Winding Pass, he seemed changed in some indefinable way. Was it only my perception? While I had always known of Tem’s power, it had never been tested in Azmiri—as a lowly herdsman’s son, he had never had much reason to use it, except to keep his animals healthy. The spell he had cast in Winding Pass went beyond what I suspected even Chirri was capable of—though I could tell that, in his thoughtless modesty, Tem was untroubled by any reflections of this nature.
I kicked at a pebble, watching it skitter over snow and grass before tumbling over a ridge and vanishing from sight. Who would Tem be, when our journey was over? Who would I be?
River walked behind us, his strange eyes narrowed as he scanned the landscape. He too was quieter this morning, whether from weariness or concern for his friend, or something else entirely. We had sat together by the fire that morning, our knees touching as we bent our heads over Mingma’s map. Despite Tem’s warnings and my own disquiet, when River and I were alone I often found myself forgetting everything beyond the tenor of his voice and the movement of his strong, sun-darkened hands as he traced the lines of the map.
By midafternoon we had reached the terraced farms that stretched out from Jangsa. The landscape was lush but rocky, boulders jutting up from the dark green grasses, painted with moss. Drizzle began to fall as we passed a spirit shrine cut into the slope of the mountainside. Dozens of bronze music bowls lined the roughly built shelves. The rain pooled inside them, creating a strange, watery melody that seeped through the air, and could be heard long after we left the shrine behind.
Soon we began passing people. A man drawing two yaks behind him; a child watching from the hillside; a woman with a jug of water strapped to her back. Each stared at us as we went by. Tem called out greetings at first, but soon stopped. The villagers’ clothing was composed of simple shifts and trousers, mostly undyed. They were all thin, even the children, and pale, and there was a hardness in their expressions that made me shrink instinctively from their eyes.
Norbu, trailing behind with Aimo, stumbled and nearly fell. Two men watching us made a warding gesture, pressing the tips of their fingers together, and retreated into one of the huts. Their door did not open again.
Finally, the hills parted to reveal the village, which crept along the base of Mount Zerza. It was an eerie sight. Easily half the stone structures were little more than ruins. These lay mostly against the lower slopes of the village, but there were some higher up, closer to what was certainly the elder’s walled home, that were roofless and crumbling, overgrown with vegetation.
“What happened here?” Tem said.
I shivered. “The witches. Father said they used to raid the village for livestock, or sometimes just for amusement. They laid curses on the houses of those who fought them—most had to be destroyed. When Father visited Jangsa years ago, he said they still hadn’t recovered from those times. I guess that hasn’t changed.”
“They say some of the villagers have witch blood themselves.” Tem cast a nervous glance at a woman lurking in the shadows of another hut, who darted back inside as their eyes met. “I wonder if there’s any truth to it?”
“I don’t know. But I won’t be sorry if we don’t linger here.”
The dirt path broadened as we entered the village. The stone houses lining the streets were unpainted and weathered with age. They had the appearance of dissolving back into the mountainside, returning to the earth from which they had been hewn. As we climbed, villagers stopped what they were doing, emerging from their homes to watch our progress. A small crowd formed ahead, enough to stop us from advancing farther. Their expressions were not friendly.
River was suddenly at my side. “Perhaps this would be a good time to introduce yourself,” he muttered in my ear.
I turned to the villagers. “I’m Kamzin of Azmiri, daughter of Elder Thaken. I’m here to ask for your help.”
Silence. The villagers regarded me as if I had spoken a different language. I swallowed, unable to read past their blank stares.
“We don’t want to intrude,” I said, “but our friend is injured. We are on an expedition to Mount Raksha, but we were ambushed in Winding Pass. This is River Shara. He—”
There was muttering at that. River groaned under his breath.
“What?” I hissed at him.
River only rolled his eyes. A woman approached suddenly and wrapped a welcoming scarf around River’s neck. She was followed by another, and another. Soon River was engulfed in so much fabric he appeared to be drowning in it.
He waved another woman back, yanking away the white squares. “Thank you, thank you. That’s not necessary—really.”
I shook my head in astonishment. Even in a place as isolated as this, people had heard of River Shara.
A man stepped forward. He was tall, nearing middle age, and dressed in a green-and-blue chuba that formed a stark contrast to the villagers’ plain clothes. Apart from this, though, he wore no signs of rank or ornamentation.
“I am Chonjor, the Elder of Jangsa,” the man said. “You are truly the Royal Explorer?”
River extricated himself from another scarf and gave me a look. “Yes.”
The man took half a step forward. A strange look flitted across his face, something more potent than the amazement that shone in the villagers’ eyes. But it was gone too quickly to identify.
“You honor us with your visit,” the elder said, bowing.
River beckoned Norbu forward. The shaman, leaning heavily on Aimo’s arm, looked even paler than he had yesterday. “Can your healers attend to my friend?”
The elder bowed his head. “Of course, dyonpo. Follow me.”
The crowd parted, and we fell into step behind the man. River stayed back to help Aimo with Norbu. I suspected, however, that he was merely trying to use the shaman to shield him from the curious villagers. Many made warding gestures as they caught sight of Norbu, and seemed little inclined to go anywhere near him.
“Kamzin,” the elder said as we mounted a steep path that cut across the mountainside, “you must forgive us for not giving you a warmer welcome. Jangsa rarely receives visitors, and as you probably know, we prefer it that way. But a daughter of Thaken is always welcome here. I have heard of your sister Lusha—I didn’t know Thaken had other children.”
I suppressed a sigh. “That’s all right.”
He gave me a sharp look, a smile tugging at his lips. Despite his stern mouth and hawkish features, he had warm eyes, bright and keen. I sensed a quick intelligence behind them, that of a man who observed more than he let on.
“You’re following in your mother’s footsteps, I see,” he said. “And traveling with the Royal Explorer himself.”
“Yes,” I said, “but this is no mapmaking expedition. The emperor has sent us to find something very important to him. To the Empire.”
“I see.” He nodded, as if this vague explanation made all the sense in the world. “It’s a dangerous path you’re following.”
I gave a short laugh. “There are no safe ones, where we’re going.”
He gave me another look. “But that doesn’t trouble you, does it?”
“I—” My voice faltered. He smiled at me.
“Forgive me, child,” he said. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot. When you get to be as old as me, you start to recognize certain kinds of people.”
“Kinds of people?” I repeated, nonplussed. “What kind of person am I?”
“The kind that seeks out danger.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “The kind that laughs at it. Your mother was just the same, or so your father told me. I’m sorry to say I never met her.”
I stared at the back of his head. I could not think of a response to this. I felt suddenly exposed—as if in the space of a few seconds, this strange man had seen right through me.
We wound our way through the village along roads that were little more than dirt tracks, in some places washed by the rains to a precarious thinness, passing villagers bearing lanterns. A shaman paced back and forth across a square, his head bowed over a censer of incense. Anticipation hung thick in the air.
“What’s going on?” I said, eager to turn the conversation away from myself.
“The Ghost March,” the elder replied. “We’re just beginning the preparations. Tonight there will be dancing and music. You’re welcome to attend, if you wish.”
“The Ghost March?” I stared at him. “But that was weeks ago. You celebrate it now?”
“We celebrate it every month, on the ninth day,” the man said. He seemed to notice my surprise, and added, “we have more spirits to appease than you southerners, you see.”
We passed a row of ruins, tall and skeletal, and a shiver traveled down my spine as their shadows fell across me.
“Your ancestors suffered greatly because of the witches,” I said.
“Our ancestors were foolish,” the elder said, in the same offhand way in which he had appraised my motivations. He caught my stunned expression and gave a small shrug. “It’s true. Yes, the witches stole from us, and worked their dark magic on those who crossed them. But it was the Elder of Jangsa at the time who turned all this into a war. He ordered us to shoot upon sight any witch or wild creature who strayed near our village. The witches retaliated, of course. Our village was very nearly destroyed.”
“By the witches,” I said, emphasizing the last word. “They were the ones who tried to destroy you—you can’t possibly believe that was your elder’s fault? For protecting you?”
The man laughed shortly. “Protecting us? Yes, I suppose he was protecting us. You can see the results for yourself. Violence leads to one thing only, and that is more violence.”
We passed a temple—little more than the foundation and part of a wall, with an array of talismans draped across it.
“But it must be better,” I persisted, “now that the witches have lost their powers.”
“In a way,” he said musingly, and again I couldn’t help staring at him. I had never met anyone who didn’t speak reverently of the spell that had bound the witches’ powers.
“It is easier, of course,” the elder added. “Though there are few among us who do not gaze out at that forest and wonder. The witches are not entirely powerless. Nor are their memories short.”
I swallowed. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see the outskirts of the dark forest looming on the horizon.
The rain was letting up, a few sunbeams shafting through the clouds. At last, we arrived at the elder’s house, which was long and squat, huddled against the mountain. Though it looked in need of repairs, like all the houses in the village, the shutters had been painted in bright reds and blues, and there was a well-tended garden along one side. The door was an even brighter red, with a colorful tassel dangling from the handle.
We left the yak to graze on a patch of grass, and followed the elder inside. Beyond the doors was a small reception room—a fire burned in the hearth, and woven mats had been laid on the floor for guests. Everything was finely made—from the mats to the painted scenes on the walls to the row of wooden spirit wheels, but also worn and faded, as if belonging to another era. A woman greeted us as we entered. The elder spoke to her in a low voice.
“We will send for our healer,” the elder said, turning back to me. “While she sees to your companion, you and the others are welcome to rest and eat, as my guests.”
“Thank you,” I said. My stomach rumbled at the mention of food—real food, not our tasteless rations. Perhaps Ragtooth sensed a meal too, for he poked his head out of my pack and sniffed the air. The woman started.
“It’s all right,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to stuff Ragtooth back into the pack, and receiving a bloody thumb for my troubles. “He’s harmless. Mostly.”
“You have a familiar?” the elder said, his eyebrows disappearing beneath his hair.
“Yes.” I stopped wrestling with Ragtooth and allowed him to hop onto the ground. He wandered to a sunbeam and began to groom himself. The elder and the woman stared at me, and I began to feel uncomfortable. I was so used to Ragtooth’s presence that I often forgot how rare familiars were.
“Where’s River?” Dargye said suddenly.
I turned. Norbu, his face sweaty and pale, was being helped by Aimo and Tem onto a low bench. Dargye stood by the door, as if hesitant to proceed farther. River was nowhere to be seen.
“Some kids surrounded him on the road,” Tem said. “All begging for stories of his legendary adventures and grabbing at his chuba. I guess news that River Shara is in town travels fast.”
I snorted at the image of River being swarmed by runny-nosed children. “And you didn’t think to help him, Tem?”
Tem gave an exaggerated shrug. “For some reason, it didn’t occur to me.”
The healer arrived soon after, a slight, older woman with a guarded smile, who took one look at Norbu and murmured something to the elder. He nodded. Two men appeared and helped Norbu to his feet. They disappeared through another doorway.
“Will Norbu be all right?” I said.
The elder gave me another sharp look. “You didn’t tell us about the fiangul.”
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“No matter.” The elder waved his hand, though his brow was furrowed. “You shouldn’t have taken Winding Pass. We avoid the place. The fiangul grow stronger, and venture farther afield, with each passing winter. And they are not the only dark things stirring in the mountains again.”
“I thought those were just rumors,” I said, recalling what Mara had told us about the fiangul sightings in Lhotang.
The man turned back to Norbu. “It’s fortunate you brought him to us. The healer believes we have caught it in time.”
“Caught what in time?” Tem said. But the elder was speaking quietly to the healer, who disappeared after Norbu.
“Do you know how long this will take?” I said, suddenly nervous at the thought of being delayed here for long. The elder was kind, if a little odd, and the people were not as unfriendly as I had feared. But still, there was something about Jangsa—its brokenness, perhaps, or its atmosphere of decay frozen in time—that repelled me.
“Don’t worry, Thaken’s daughter.” The elder’s sharp features relaxed into a smile. “There’s no healer wiser than Yachen. Now you must eat. You will be hungry, after journeying all the way from Azmiri.”
I glanced at Tem. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug.
Smothering my anxiety, I nodded and followed the elder into the house.