IT DIDN’T MEAN anything.
I kept repeating that to myself as we hiked through the rubbly moraine that bracketed Raksha’s enormous glacier. Though we were still miles from the glacier itself, we were in another world. We had left trees behind—all that existed now were rocks so battered and broken they could have fallen from the stars, and reticent tufts of grass speckled with tiny pink flowers. The sun beat down. It was too hot for walking and laboring under a heavy pack, and too chilly to rest for any length of time.
It was nothing. It didn’t mean anything. Sometimes I muttered it out loud to myself. The yak grunted, as if agreeing with me. River was far behind, walking with Tem this time, gesticulating every few seconds at some feature of the landscape and talking his head off. I had to keep myself from sneaking glances behind me as their voices drifted on the wind. Occasionally, I caught my own name, but I couldn’t make out the thread of the conversation.
He kissed you, but he was drunk. He probably doesn’t even remember.
And indeed, River hadn’t seemed to remember. He had been his usual self in the morning, making strange comments about how the yak was glaring at him and declaring that he had finally decided, after much consideration, that Ragtooth was in fact a raccoon crossed with a monkey. His only reference to the previous night was to ask, when I passed him a bowl, whether I planned to throw his breakfast over the cliff—but even that seemed offhand. Did he truly not remember kissing me, or was it simply unimportant to him? It made me wonder if I should throw his breakfast over the cliff.
“What did River say to you, anyway?” Tem asked that night, as we set up our tent in the shadow of an enormous boulder.
I started. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been sniping at him all day. I saw you two talking last night as I was setting the wards. Did you have an argument?”
“No,” I said, turning away. “It doesn’t matter.”
We were quiet for a while, the rustle of oilcloth and the hammering of spikes into the rocky soil the only sounds. We were quick at making camp now—it all came together in a few minutes, which was a relief, because it allowed more time to rest. We were only a day or two from Raksha, and were all paying the price of our grueling pace. My blisters had blisters, and my shins were peppered with bruises and scrapes from clambering up hills and over boulders. I tried not to complain, because I knew Tem was worse off. His chest pained him—more, I suspected, than he would admit. He had thrown up after the last uphill hike. More worryingly, his cough was now a near-constant presence, forcing the entire group to stop and wait during the worst bouts. I urged him to increase the medicine he normally took, but he refused, saying it made him tired. As he already had difficulty keeping up with us, I couldn’t bring myself to insist.
“I wanted to give you this,” Tem said after we had finished assembling the tent.
He drew something from his pocket: a bunched-up piece of soiled wool. He shook it out, revealing—
“A sock?” I said. “Thanks, Tem. You shouldn’t have.”
“It’s not mine,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I found it this afternoon, when we passed through that boulder field.”
My heart sped up. Gingerly, I took the sock, pinching as little of the fabric as possible between my thumb and forefinger. “Well, it isn’t Lusha’s, but—”
“But it looks about the right size for Mara.” Tem was smiling. I felt myself smile back. I tossed the sock aside and wrapped Tem in a hug.
“Thanks,” I whispered. I had been hunting almost constantly for signs of Lusha’s presence, with little success. River believed we were still on their trail, but I was beginning to panic. The terror that had accompanied our encounter with the fiangul had faded, but in its wake was a dark dread. I no longer fantasized about beating Lusha to Raksha—now, when I pictured her face, all I felt was fear.
I had never considered—really considered—what would happen if I didn’t find Lusha before they reached the mountain. But that possibility had become more likely with each passing day. They could easily be there already—setting up their base camp, or perhaps even starting the ascent.
Lusha can’t do this.
My sister had a talent for many things, but climbing wasn’t one of them. That wasn’t what frightened me, though—not exactly. I knew Lusha, and I knew that “can’t” wasn’t a word she understood. It was a quality I found equally frustrating and enviable, and it would serve her well when she became Elder—it already did. Lusha thought nothing of inserting herself into heated disputes between villagers, leading hunting expeditions, or devising complex building projects. She never doubted herself, because she had never failed before. If she met an obstacle on Raksha that was beyond her, would she have the sense to turn back? If she came face-to-face with her own limitations for the first time in her life, would she even recognize them?
Raksha wasn’t the real danger. Lusha was.
I lay awake long after Tem fell asleep, tossing restlessly. A rock dug into my back, which already throbbed where the straps of my heavy pack had pressed against it. I had been fantasizing about sleep for much of the day, and yet now that it presented itself, I found myself completely unable to relax. There were no owls here, no frogs or crickets. The ordinary nighttime noises had been bleached to lifelessness, like the landscape. All that remained was the sound of the wind sweeping, sweeping. Unease plagued me, and not just because we were at the edge of the Nightwood. I brushed my hand against the kinnika draped over Tem’s pack, stroking the edge of a skinny one with a tiny, unreadable symbol scratched into the side. It shivered under my touch. The black bell was silent.
That was when I heard it.
A snuffling, scratching sound. Soft at first, then louder. Its owner crept along the side of the tent, pausing every few steps, as if to sniff its way.
I sat up slowly. My heart was pounding, my throat tight. Tem, as usual, did not stir an inch, even as the noises grew closer. Ragtooth wasn’t there, having disappeared sometime after dinner, to hunt or prowl or whatever it was he did when he wasn’t at my side.
The noises passed the front of the tent just as I drew myself to my feet. For a second, I hesitated.
Then I reached into the pocket of my chuba, which lay across my blankets, and drew out my knife.
The witches are not entirely powerless, the Elder of Jangsa had said. Nor are their memories short. Was that what was out there? Was that what had been stalking us? I glanced at Tem, thinking about waking him. But no—I didn’t want to scare the creature away. I wanted to catch it myself.
Fingers tightening around the knife, I drew back the tent flap and stepped outside.
At first, I saw nothing. The moon had not yet risen, and the rubbly landscape teemed with shadows. But then I saw it—something moved through the darkness.
A loping, four-legged something, about the size of a dog. It crept from rock to rock, its nose to the ground. I snuck along behind it, my heart in my throat and my knife clenched tight in my hand. If I could only get close enough to see what it was—
The beast paused. It had passed Dargye and Aimo’s tent, and was now just outside River’s. As it tilted its head back, sniffing the air, a shiver crawled down my back. It was a wolf, and yet not a wolf. It seemed ill-defined, as if made from shadow or smoke. Only its pointed snout was sharp, sharp as the tip of the crescent moon. It sniffed the air a moment longer, then trotted into River’s tent.
River.
I broke into a sprint, heedless of stealth now. The creature’s shaggy tail disappeared behind the tent flap. Any moment, I expected to hear shouting, or screaming, as River woke to discover a monster gnawing at his limbs.
“River!” I yelled.
I shoved back the tent flap and charged in, wielding my dagger. River’s tent was large enough for several people. Within, there was light—a single dragon crouched in the corner, worrying a piece of yak meat. River himself sat cross-legged, fully dressed, on his blankets in the other corner. Crouched at his feet was the wolf.
Which was not a wolf at all, but a fire demon.
I knew it was a fire demon the second I laid eyes on it. Its body was half substance and half smoke, like all of its kind, and its eyes were the color of fire, as if a furnace burned inside its skull. Though it was wolflike in shape, with a soft gray coat, a plump tail as long again as its body, and tufted paws, its gaze held a strange, hungry intelligence.
“Kamzin?” River rose to his feet, holding one hand out slightly as if I were a wary animal. “It’s all right. Azar-at doesn’t mean any harm.”
Can I taste her, River? The fire demon’s voice was low as a whisper, and slithered in and out of my thoughts. Just one lick. I’ll be good.
“Be quiet, you bag of fleas,” River hissed. “Do you think that’s helpful?”
I staggered backward one step, then another, slowly emerging from the tent. I tripped over a rock and landed hard on my backside. It knocked the wind out of me, shocking me back to my senses.
River emerged from the tent and reached down to help me. I shoved his hands away, pulling myself shakily to my feet.
“What kind of game are you playing?” I was half shouting. “That was—that was a—”
“Calm down, Kamzin.”
“Calm down? It’s a fire demon!”
“Well, I can explain that.” River looked vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s mine.”
“Yours?”
“What’s going on?” Tem emerged from our tent, his chuba draped over his shoulders and his hair sticking straight up. “I heard yelling.”
“That’s just Kamzin, being dramatic.” River tapped a finger against his lips. “I’d rather not wake everybody else, so please keep it down—”
“I’m not going to keep it down,” I bellowed. “There is a fire demon in our camp. In your tent!”
Dargye leaned his head out. “Is everything all right, dyonpo?”
River heaved a noisy sigh. The fire demon poked its snout through the flaps, and Dargye recoiled.
“Spirits protect us!” He made a warding gesture.
“Stop that,” River said. The fire demon slithered out of the tent and stood by his side. Its mouth was half-open, its tongue lolling out. “As I assured Kamzin, Azar-at is harmless.”
“It’s been following us?” I said. I didn’t like looking at the creature. All I could think of was my dream. The witch. The forest. The hungry fire demon, creeping toward me, and no protection to be found anywhere.
“Yes, he always travels with me.” River scratched the creature’s ears. “I asked him to stay out of sight, of course, but I didn’t count on you being such a light sleeper. You’ve almost stumbled upon him more than once.”
“You’ve bound yourself to him, then?” Tem said. His voice made me jump—I hadn’t noticed that he had come to stand beside me. He fixed River with a hard, scrutinizing look.
“He’s mine, if that’s what you’re asking.” River’s eyes narrowed as he held Tem’s gaze. I was suddenly conscious of a heat crackling between them, cooler than anger but more intense. Perhaps it had always been there, just beneath the surface, but I had not noticed it.
“So the answer is yes.” Tem’s tone was flat. I knew as well as he did what this meant. River had made a contract with a fire demon. It was a rare feat, and an immensely dangerous one. In the old days, some of the more powerful shamans would form such bonds, but I knew of none in recent memory who had risked doing so. A fire demon could amplify a shaman’s spells, combine them with its own powers, but the creatures were unpredictable, impulsive. The only way to ensure a fire demon’s loyalty was to form a magical contract with it, which bound you together for a fixed length of time. In exchange for power, the shaman would feed it. But a fire demon didn’t consume ordinary food. It drew its sustenance from the shaman’s soul—or, more specifically, small scraps of it, broken off piecemeal like crumbs of bread.
Who is this one, River? The fire demon was gazing at Tem. He smells of salt and starlight. Such power for one so young.
River muttered something, and Azar-at sat back on its haunches. It didn’t take its eyes off Tem.
River, on the other hand, was looking at me. “I’m sorry I had to keep this from you. I thought it would be for the best.”
“It’s fine.” I turned. I felt an overwhelming urge to be away from River, as far away as possible. “I’m sorry I ambushed you like that. I thought—well, it doesn’t matter.”
I thought that you were in danger. It seemed so stupid now, looking back on it. River wasn’t in danger.
If anything, the opposite was true.
I glanced back at the fire demon. It panted lightly, its belly moving in and out, its tongue lolling, looking for all the world like a large gray wolf, but for the eerie hunger in its gaze. It was no ordinary, animal hunger. It was something very different.
“Well, since you clearly don’t need any help,” I said, “I guess I’ll go back to bed.”
River tried to catch my eye. “Kamzin—”
But I was already walking away. Dargye hovered for a moment, but soon disappeared into his tent. I heard him muttering to Aimo.
Tem watched me as I climbed back under my blankets. He started to speak, but I cut him off.
“You don’t have to say it.” I rolled onto my back, so that I was staring up at the tent rather than at Tem. “You were right not to trust him. All right?”
“I was a long way from right. I can barely believe it. A fire demon—how could he be so stupid?”
“I don’t know.”
“At least I understand what I felt now, when he cast that spell in Winding Pass.” Tem coughed, shaking his head. “Fire demons don’t require talismans—their magic is of an entirely different kind. Elemental magic. Wild magic.”
I was barely listening to him.
Tem let out his breath. “This changes everything.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “The fire demon is bound to River. That means it can only do his bidding. It can’t hurt us, or disrupt the expedition.”
“Unless River wants to disrupt the expedition. Have you considered that? What if he wants to do something that puts us all in danger?”
“Like what?” I let out a humorless laugh. “We’re already in danger.”
He muttered something.
“What did you say?”
Tem blew out his breath. “I said, you’re still defending him. How long are you going to keep doing that?”
I made no reply. After a moment, I heard Tem settle back into his blankets. There was a pause, longer than usual, and then finally, there came the faint sound of his snores. That was when I allowed the tears to slide down my cheeks.
I wasn’t sure why I was crying. So River had lied to me. So he had concealed something so enormous, so frightening, that it would make any sane person recoil from him if they found out. I could understand lying in a situation like that.
But I didn’t think I could forgive it.
It wasn’t just that he had invited an unpredictable creature of unfathomable power along with us. It was that he was the danger. He had made himself that way, by his own choosing. That was the unforgivable part.
I shuddered. How much of his soul had River already given the fire demon? How much more would it take before he went mad? For that was the only outcome I knew of, for people who bound themselves to such creatures. They became powerful—frighteningly powerful—but only for a time. Until the fire demon took everything from them, and left behind something that was not quite human anymore.
My tears had stopped. They had not been many, after all—I was too overwhelmed to cry. My thoughts were in such a jumble that I didn’t think I would ever fall asleep. Eventually, I gave up trying, and simply listened to the moan of the wind.