The Bones of the Earth

Prologue

Etarro’s fingers scraped along the wall, loose stones crumbling away and rough spots tugging at the pads of his fingertips as he ran. The path he followed made a circle around the inside of the mountain, and he was running fast enough that the circling was starting to get to him, making his head spin worse than it already was, making it harder and harder not to throw up. If it hadn’t been for the screaming, he would have stopped to catch his breath, to settle his head and his stomach. But there was the screaming, and his feet couldn’t stop moving.

He ran from one pool of dull light to the next. The low-crackling torches with their blue flames were the only thing keeping the inside of Mount Raturo from being tar-black. The spaces between the torches were tar-black, so dark his hand against the wall was the only thing keeping him from stepping over the edge of the path and turning into a splatter on the floor of the mountain. He stopped breathing each time the wall ended in one of the hallways that branched off the central spiral, and he didn’t start breathing until his fingers barked against the other side of the tunnel mouth.

There was no night or day here, but he tried to separate up the days nonetheless. The mountain had its own rhythm. It was dark, of course, but dark didn’t always mean night, not inside Raturo. That was the thing with the preachers; they were nocturnal, or they liked to be, when they were out in the world. But they always slipped back into normal sleep patterns inside the mountain, resting when the sun was down. If they were sleeping now, that meant it really was night. It wouldn’t be for much longer, though; the sun would poke up its fingers soon and wash away the night. He could imagine it, even over the distracting screaming: the sun touching the very top of the mountain first, so bright and warm it almost felt like he could reach up and wrap his arms about it. Avorra always scolded him when he went outside, cuffed him and told him he should know better—what if someone saw him? He almost turned around then—his twin was still sleeping; she wouldn’t wake for a few hours, so no one would know if he watched the dawn.

But the screaming. He had to help, and so he kept going, down and down the finger-scraping spiral. He was almost glad no one else could hear the screaming, that it was only inside his own head. Almost. Because if anyone came walking up or down the spiral to investigate, he probably wouldn’t have seen them. It wasn’t any kind of comforting to think that if he ran into someone, at least he wouldn’t be a lonely splatter on the mountain floor.

He’d forgotten his cloak, in the panicked waking and flight, and the cold tugged at him. It wound up along the path, riding along the insides of the mountain and nipping at his skin like a thousand tiny mouths. Avorra never minded the cold. The preachers were always so proud of that. They’d watch her dancing around the Icefall and they’d grin, and then they’d look at Etarro, bundled miserably in furs and cloaks and blankets, and their smiles would flip. Come, brother! Avorra would call, sounding to all the world like an innocent girl at play. They couldn’t hear the deeper tone, the warning in her voice, the threat. She’d told him once that she didn’t like the cold any more than he did, but they had their parts to play.

Avorra was still sleeping now, but soon she’d wake up and see that Etarro was gone. He wouldn’t know what to tell her when she asked. She never listened when he talked about the thumping, and she laughed if he brought up the voice. She would never believe the screaming—she didn’t believe anything she couldn’t see or touch. You’re getting too wrapped up in your part, brother, she would say. He said the words aloud, between raspy breaths, between the slaps of his feet against the ground, to try to convince himself of it.

The end of the spiral came on all sudden, his feet still trying to go down even though the floor was suddenly flat. He stubbed his toes against the ground and fell, palms and knees scraping against stone. The floor had been worn smooth by thousands of feet, but it was still rock, and it bit harder than the cold. The screaming got louder, like it was crying out in pain with him. It quieted back down when Etarro picked himself up, but it didn’t fade away.

He had to pass by the arch with its big carved figures, but he kept his eyes on the floor. He could remember the first time he’d really understood what he saw. Avorra had touched the face of Sororra, the goddess who fell from the heavens without looking back. Her brother, Fratarro, did look back, and he cried and begged for mercy and reached for his Parents, and because he was looking up and not down, he didn’t see the ground coming, didn’t have time to hold himself together. The preachers never showed Etarro any pictures of how Fratarro would look, with his arms and legs torn off, and they never promised Etarro they knew where to find the missing limbs—they just gave vague answers when he asked, said they were sure all would be made whole again. They didn’t seem to want him thinking about that part.

The way deeper was almost hidden, a small hole in the wall where the blue torchlight didn’t quite reach. Etarro closed his eyes as he stepped through the opening, though there was no point to it. It would have been just as dark if he kept his eyes open. There was a difference to it, though. It was easier to walk in a darkness that was of his own making.

He knew when to open his eyes, knew where the first flickering ghostlight would be. Dirrakara had said that they must have been something of Fratarro’s creation, the purest light. The preachers had been trying for years to use the little moving lights to replace the blue torches, but they hadn’t had any luck. Out of the Cavern of the Falls, the ghostlights guttered and died.

Inside the big cavern, the screaming started to quiet. It didn’t go away, but it faded enough to make him feel less panicked, to let Etarro think about something other than the pain that wasn’t even his. He could breathe, could feel his heart slowing down. He reached up to touch one of the ghostlights, feeling the soft warmth against his palm. Not enough to make him stop shivering, or to keep his breath from frosting in the air, but enough to make him smile, even though the screaming still rattled around between his ears.

He liked to imagine Fratarro as the creator the preachers said he’d been, pulling Raturo from the earth so he could sit at its peak and shape an untouched corner of the world that could be his alone. He liked to think of Fratarro standing here, in the center of a big empty cavern, and wondering how he could make it beautiful. Even though it froze the tips of his fingers, sometimes Etarro liked to break off spines from the Icefall and shape them into castles or creatures, breathing on the broken-off ends until they melted enough to stick together. I am Fratarro, he would say then, trying to make himself believe it. He wondered if Fratarro could be put together so easily, breathing on his arms and legs until they stuck back on his body.

He walked out to the Icefall, not to shape anything but because the voice was always loudest there. He’d told Avorra that, once; she’d made him repeat it when more of the Ventallo were around. You can’t forget the audience, she’d reminded him.

This was a calm place, a powerful place. Even though they were still so far away, Etarro always felt like they were closer here, in the Cavern of the Falls. There was a small space, almost too small for him now, between the Icefall and the stony ledge it tumbled motionlessly from. He wedged himself into the space, shivering, and let out his breath in a slow fog. I’m here, brother, he said aloud, though he said it to the screaming in his head. The screaming didn’t stop, but little by little, across the immeasurable distance between them, Etarro felt the terror slowly begin to fade, leaving behind only the pain that was too great to be held back yet. Etarro sat there, cold burning through his nose and lungs, and offered what comfort he could.

Help me, the familiar voice finally came, smaller and weaker than usual, soft behind the screaming and the sobbing. Please. It has been too long. This is too much. Please. Find me.

We found your foot, he offered, though it wasn’t enough. One of the Ventallo, Tenso Ocdeiro, had shown him and Avorra five glowstones that he said showed the path to glory. The broken-minded mage, Anddyr, had made the stones so the Ventallo would know when their emissaries were successful. The five stones were laid out like a crooked compass on top of the giant stone bier, and Ocdeiro had lifted Etarro up so he could press a finger to each one. Four of them were just like normal stones, cold and lifeless, but the one that was slightly north of center had a soft light to it. When Etarro had touched that one, he’d seen the gnarled roots of an enormous tree, holding something huge and black. He hadn’t been able to see it as a foot, but Ocdeiro had been sure of it. He said Ebarran Septeiro would be back with it any day, and then they’d know for sure. He said the other stones would start glowing soon, too, that soon they’d have all the pieces of Fratarro. Soon they’d be able to put the poor lost god back together.

Find me, Fratarro said weakly, the same plea it always was.

Avorra had laughed at Etarro the first time, but she’d gotten scared the more he’d talked about the voice that begged to be found. She’d told him to ignore it, to never talk about it again. He hadn’t, he’d been good, but it had happened once when Anddyr had come slinking into their rooms. The mage had sat quietly in the corner and watched them play with eyes that were almost hungry, but he wouldn’t join them. When Etarro had heard the voice, he’d seen it roll through Anddyr as well. You hear him, too, he’d said, and the mage’s eyes had been even bigger than usual. Avorra had yelled at him for that, and then she’d started crying, sure they’d be in the sort of trouble that preachers sometimes disappeared for. Anddyr’s hands had been shaking, but he’d touched the top of her head, gently, comforting, his skin pale against the darkness of Avorra’s hair.

There was a crack, the sound of ice breaking. Etarro’s head snapped up, and there, among the ghostlights near the entrance to the cavern, he could see them. A line of preachers was filing into the cavern, fifteen of them in their black robes, and the ghostlights picked out the red points sewn over their hearts.

Etarro thought of squeezing out from his hiding place, standing and greeting the Ventallo so they would know he was there, so they would let him go somewhere else quiet to share Fratarro’s pain. Then he thought of Avorra, and how she knew every secret passage and hiding place in the mountain, and how she always said with a toothy smile, Anything worth hiding is worth knowing. She didn’t always share the things she learned. It was the having of secrets that mattered to her; the using and the doing could be saved for later. She gathered secrets around her like a shroud, or a shield. She might listen to him for once, if he had a secret to offer her. So quietly he wedged himself deeper into the crevice, and he watched through the holes and the thin places of the Icefall.

They had stopped at the edge of the frozen lake, all the Ventallo except the ones who’d gone out searching. Valrik Uniro stood before them, as always, with Illo Duero and Ildra Trera on either side. Some of the Ventallo gazed up at him with red sockets that were an empty mirror of Uniro’s own missing eyes. Many of the preachers had been desperate to follow his example in blinding themselves, though it was hard to tell whether it was because of renewed faith or the fearful following that took over in times of change. They’ve all got their own parts to play, Avorra had murmured. She’d told him how she’d heard Duero and Uniro talking, how Duero had begged to keep his eyes because he was the historian, the recorder of times. She’d lowered her voice in a poor imitation of Uniro and rumbled, In the darkness, we have no need of the past. In the darkness, there is only the now, and to write of it is to waste it. Duero still had his eyes, though, so he must have won the argument. Trera, too, still had every part of her hard, unhappy face.

I have had a dream this night, Uniro said, his voice made louder in the big space. Many of you know, my dreams have become sharper since I embraced the darkness. There was some murmuring of agreement among the ones who’d also blinded themselves. "It was a dream that unsettled me deeply, my brothers and sisters, for it was a dream that rang with truth even as it showed me hard choices. We stand now at the center of a crossroads, and the path forks in many directions. Which to choose? Which is right, and which is best, and which hurts the least?

In my dream, I took each path in turn. I have seen all the endings, my brothers and sisters, and I have spent long hours thinking on what I saw at the end of each path. If it has been given to me to choose the path of the Fallen, then I must make sure I choose wisely. Uniro bowed his old head, and was silent for a long while. The silence sent a chill tiptoeing up Etarro’s spine. Etarro had true-dreams, had them almost as often as he slept, and Uniro’s words had had the sound of truth.

Etarro wrapped his arms tightly around himself as he shivered in his cocoon of ice. He wished he’d left when he’d had the chance. Avorra would have thrilled to be where he was, giddy with spying on the Ventallo, but Etarro only wanted to be far away from this place.

Trera’s voice was gruff as she asked, What is it to be, brother? What path will you choose for the Fallen?

Uniro took a heavy breath, and lifted his face to her. Tell me, dear sister. What is it we always say the Twins will do? What is their goal?

To pull down the Mother’s Sun, she said, slightly uncertain, as though such an easy question must be a trap. In the darkness, all are made equal.

Precisely. And yet . . . Uniro spread his arms wide, like he meant to embrace the Ventallo standing before him. "What are we? We are leaders. First and second and twelfth and twentieth among the Ventallo, and the Ventallo are first among the Fallen. We are rulers, when the Twins would have no rulers in the Long Night.

If we find the Twins, if we go to them as the Ventallo, we shall surely be among the first to be struck down. I cannot bear this thought. There must be change, and it must begin with us. Uniro’s empty eyes looked out over the Ventallo gathered before him, and his voice was like a deep drum. I, Valrik Uniro, eighty-seventh leader of the Fallen, do hereby disband the Ventallo.

There were shouts and cries from some, Trera and Duero the loudest . . . but some of the Ventallo stayed silent and still, their faces smooth as ice, as if they weren’t surprised at all.

They fell silent when Uniro lifted his hands again. I feel your concern, brothers and sisters. Change can be a frightful thing, and I can feel the anger glowing in some of you. Trust me when I say you do not wish to face the Twins as Ventallo. Trust me, for I shall lead the way along this path.

Lead? Trera snapped. Who are you, to stand above the rules you would yoke us with?

Valrik seemed to study her with his empty sockets. Who am I? he repeated. I shed the name Uniro, for I am first among none. I am only a man. Yet . . . a flock has a shepherd, an army a general. Though the night sky is full of stars, still there is the moon. I am no longer Uniro, but I have seen the dark that sits at the end of some paths and the light that covers others, and I shall be the moon to show the way through the night. I shall lead, for someone must, and I shall face the judgment of the Twins when I stand before them. I will spare you all that much, at least. His old face, grizzled with long beard and longer hair, looked so sad in the glow of the dancing ghostlights. It is time, brothers and sisters, for the first judgment.

From his hiding place, Etarro didn’t see the men until they were almost behind the Ventallo. He recognized them, five of the big swordsmen Valrik had been collecting as bodyguards. Blades for the darkness, he called them. Etarro saw them before the Ventallo, who didn’t even have time to turn and scream before the swords went through them. Five fell instantly, and then three more. Etarro had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, and pressed both hands over his mouth. Only four of the Ventallo were left standing before Valrik and Duero and Trera. Only four, three blind and one sighted, among the bodies and the blood that began to spread slowly over the cold ground. They stood with their backs straight, faces tight but fearless. Etarro had seen that look before, on new preachers fresh off the mountain—they’d already faced their death half a dozen times, and weren’t afraid of it anymore.

Etarro wished he could be that fearless, but he was shaking, and there were tears warm in the corners of his eyes.

The blades looked to Valrik, who gave a small nod, as though he could see their gazes. Two of the blades stepped forward, to his sides, and gave two more bodies to the pile. Trera had time to scream and name them all traitors before her voice was cut off. Duero died as quietly as a page being torn free from a book, the sickly, surprised look never leaving his face.

Etarro wrapped his arms around his head, and shook silently. He couldn’t bear to see any more, but from where he hid, there was nowhere else to look. Still, he couldn’t hide his ears.

Valrik sounded almost sad as he spoke again to the fallen Ventallo. I have judged you more kindly than the Twins would have. Even had you stood before them not as leaders but as common men and women, they would have found you wanting. May they find you more worthy in your next life than you have been in this one. He blinked and looked up from the scattered bodies, and it was like he forgot about them, easy as breathing. When he talked to the four who were left living, his voice came harder. You have your own paths to choose. In my dream, I saw each of you walking at my side down this path . . . but you were shadows, wisps of cloud, indistinct and impermanent. I hope that you would choose to solidify your places at my side, that you will prove your faith time and again. I hope that you will not prove my judgment in you wrong, for when the Long Night comes, there will be no mercy for liars and blasphemers. Then he clapped his palms together three times, the sound loud enough to shiver the icicles hanging from the ceiling, to make the Icefall vibrate around Etarro’s curled form.

Etarro wanted to keep his face hidden, to pretend he was somewhere else . . . but he thought of Avorra. If she were here, she’d have her eyes pressed against the Icefall, lips stretched back in a dog’s grin. All secrets are worth knowing, she’d say. A secret pays better than gold. Etarro lifted his head again and pressed his forehead against the cold of the ice. Great big shivers rolled through him but he didn’t look away.

A dozen preachers and half as many shaking blue-robed mages came down the tunnel at a slow pace. They went to stand next to the four survivors, in the spreading blood. No one looked down, but they were very careful not to step on the bodies, even the ones who’d blinded themselves and couldn’t possibly see the sprawling limbs.

Welcome, brothers and sisters, Valrik said softly when they stood before him. You have been chosen, but know this: you are not Ventallo. You are not leaders among the Fallen. In the darkness, there are no kings and queens. You are guides, only. Stars in the darkness, to give our brothers and sisters enough light that they do not stumble, or fall. If you came here seeking greatness or power, leave now. You will not find them here. No one moved. Only the blood, creeping out slowly onto the frozen lake, stretching out toward Etarro where he hid. Valrik nodded his head. Know this, too: I am Valrik, and I am not Uniro, but I will lead the Fallen to our destiny, and I will face the Twins’ punishment for placing myself above you. I will bear this burden, so that no others have to. If you cannot abide this, speak now.

There was silence again, broken only by the creaking leather armor of the blades, who stood with their arms crossed at the waist, ready, waiting. No one spoke against Valrik.

Good. Then, my brothers and sisters, there is something we must begin here, word you must spread among the flock. We have found powerful allies in our friends, the mages. But Delcerro Uniro—may his spirit rest at ease among the stars—was not wise in their deployment. The mages are spread out among us, and we keep them as servants, as assistants. They can be so much more. We must correct the mistake of my predecessor. United under one hand, our mages will be a powerful force indeed. Neira.

A woman stepped forward from the group, the hem of her robe heavy with blood. She’d been one of the ones to stand still and silent as her brothers and sisters died around her, her empty eyes fixed on Valrik. She stepped to his side now, her feet sure and her steps steady, and she lifted a small jar before her. It was the same as so many other jars in Raturo, full of the black paste called skura that made the mages . . . helpful. Neira held the jar like it was something holy as she said, Our sister Dirrakara was the one to create skura, but she did not unlock all its uses. She gave us the key to binding a mage to one preacher, but . . . I’m sure you remember Gerthis.

Etarro shuddered. Gerthis had been a mage serving Serteno, one of the oldest preachers in the mountain, and old Serteno had died in his sleep. Gerthis had gone slowly mad—or more mad than all the mages were—and his screaming had echoed through Raturo for days until he’d finally died in his sleep, too. At least, that was what everyone said had happened to him.

Neira smiled faintly. We won’t have that problem again. I’ve found that skura is quite versatile. We can change its binding powers. She lifted her other hand with a flourish, and Etarro could hardly see what she held between her thumb and forefinger—something small like a bead, and deep-ice blue. She dropped it into the skura, and then pulled out a small knife. Valrik held his hand out to her and she pricked his thumb, letting a few drops of his blood fall into the skura jar. She stirred it all together, and then she called the mages forward to spread some of the black paste on each of their tongues.

There were a few heartbeats where nothing happened . . . and then, one by one, the mages collapsed, screaming and screeching, hurt-animal sounds that made Etarro’s teeth ache. He screwed shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his ears and tried not to add his own screaming to theirs.

It felt like it went on for hours, shaking the Icefall so that he was sure it would crumble around him, fall to pieces so that they’d all see him curled there, cowardly and snooping, and the blades would come forward with their star-bright swords and his body would join the others on the cavern floor, his blood creeping along the ice . . .

The screams stopped suddenly, though the echoes were slow to fade. Etarro peeked one eye open and saw that the mages were sitting up slowly, holding or shaking their heads, groaning and muttering. He couldn’t see any kind of wound that would make them scream like that, and they seemed to be fine now—or as fine as the mages ever were.

Rise, Valrik said, and the mages got to their feet as quickly as they could. Valrik went on. You see that they’re still obedient, still helpful. They’ll still aid any who ask it from them. But . . . Neira?

The woman stepped forward to stand right in front of one of the mages, tapped his forehead to get his attention. She pointed to one of the black-armored blades and, holding the mage’s gaze with the empty pits of her own eyes, said slowly and clearly, Kill him.

Etarro could see the panic touching the blade’s face as the mage began to twist his fingers in the shapes of sigils, murmuring the spell under his breath. The spell built and built, and Etarro could feel the pressure of it behind his eyes. The blade drew his sword, and then couldn’t think what to do with it, he just stood facing the mage and the glow of the killing spell building between the mage’s dancing fingers. The mage made the final flourish and was halfway through throwing it at the blade when Valrik said softly, Stop.

The mage scrambled to pull the spell back, curling into himself, frantic fingers weaving wildly. The spell shattered, knocking the mage to the ground with its force, and Etarro nearly choked as the sudden change in pressure made his nose begin to bleed.

Kill him, Neira said again to the mage, who was sprawled and gasping, but he didn’t move, didn’t raise a finger to obey her, and she smiled.

Through this process, Valrik said proudly, they will heed my word above all others.

No one argued aloud against one man having such power, and the silence almost—almost—spoke clearly enough for them. But Etarro knew better than anyone that a silence was easy to ignore.

We must bring everyone home now, all our wandering brothers and sisters, Valrik said. We will need our full might for what is to come. Each of us has our part to play, and we must be ready. So go. Send messengers, send the faithful to find our brothers and sisters who have spread the word of the Twins far across the land. Bring them home. We must stand together, tight as family, tight as blood, for we walk a new path. Hear me when I say we step toward power, and greatness, and eternal acclaim. These are our first steps on the road to a glorious present.

They cheered him, the Ventallo who remained and those Valrik had named shepherds for the Fallen. If they were unhappy about the mages, the unhappiness faded away quickly. They praised his name, and he bade them to go forth and spread the word that all should prepare, that their time was nigh, that the faithful would be rewarded beyond their dreams and the judgment of the Twins would not be a gentle thing for the faithless.

And then they left, preachers and mages and blades walking unerringly on the icy and stone-scattered ground. The blades took a body over each of their shoulders, and then the Cavern of the Falls was empty of all but Etarro and the freezing blood.

He didn’t know when the screaming in his head had stopped—sometime after the Ventallo had come, he’d been so focused on them. There was a final sob from distant Fratarro, a lament for the piece of him that had been destroyed and would never be restored, and then he piled it all behind a wall again, to keep the fear and the pain trapped. No one, not even a god, could feel so much pain and survive it. Fratarro had learned to keep his locked away. Etarro wanted to offer some last comfort, but his throat was tight and, now that he didn’t have to hold them together to keep quiet, his teeth were chattering so bad he didn’t think he could speak anyway. In small movements, he gingerly unwedged himself from behind the Icefall. The blood had stilled, frozen with its fingers stretching halfway across the lake. He wondered if Valrik would send someone to clean up the blood, of if he’d have it left there as a reminder, or if it was even something he’d thought about behind his sightless eyes.

He had to climb over rocks to avoid the blood, but there was no getting around the red boot prints. There was only the one way out of the cavern. He closed his eyes as he always did, and wrapped his arms around his shaking body, and tried not to think much as he left the cavern. When his mind couldn’t stay still, he repeated over and over to himself, A part to play. A part to play.

You have to be the people they expect you to be, Anddyr had whispered to him and Avorra, in one of the times when his pupils weren’t so big that you couldn’t see any color around them. Think of it like a game. Do the things they’d want you to do, always. Even when it’s just the two of you. Play the part so well that you forget it’s a part. Be what they need you to be. It’s the only way. And then he’d twisted up, hands grabbing at his stomach, his legs crumpling. Avorra had held his head in her lap, to keep his shaking from making his head thump against the floor, and she’d cried for him. You have to be what they need, Anddyr had hissed, his fingers like claws around Etarro’s arm. If they don’t need you, they’ll kill you. Etarro had run off to find Cappo Joros, and when they’d got back Avorra was across the room, far away from where Anddyr lay shaking, and Etarro hadn’t known the look in his sister’s dry eyes.

Avorra had looked at him differently, after that. Her face had gone hard. He couldn’t remember if they’d ever really been young, either of them, but if she ever had been, Avorra wasn’t after that. You’ll have to tell them, she’d said the first time he’d heard Fratarro after what Anddyr had said. She could always tell when it happened. It’s one of the things they’ll want to hear. But . . . you have to act like it’s real. You can’t tell them you’re just pretending. There had been a question in her face, and a hope, and a need he wasn’t used to seeing. She’d wanted to believe so bad. So he’d nodded and told her he’d keep pretending, just like he had been all along, but he’d pretend even better now. She’d smiled like a starving person finding food and hugged him hard, and never believed anything except the lie.

There was a part to play. Avorra loved her secrets, but Etarro held on to his, too, when he could. He didn’t tell them when he heard the voice, not always, not if Avorra hadn’t seen his eyes go distant. It was his small way of holding on to himself, so that he never forgot it was just a part he was playing. He thought Avorra had probably forgotten, lost inside the Avorra that had been shaped by the mountain and the Ventallo and the desperate words of a crazed man. He didn’t think she would have cared, if she’d seen what Valrik had done today. He could almost hear her laugh and say, They should have played along better.

Light finally touched his eyelids. He looked at his feet first, and there, among the big red boot prints stretching behind him like a tail, was a set of smaller, fainter prints.

As he passed by the huge arch this time, he stopped. The carving of Sororra’s face was on a level with his, her mouth set, watching the ground below prepare to swallow her up with her hard eyes. Avorra used to stand here, when everyone else was sleeping, holding a torch in one hand and a piece of polished bronze in the other, her gaze flicking between Sororra’s face and the mirror. It had sent chills through Etarro, the first time she’d gotten it exactly right. It didn’t scare him anymore, it was just the way her face was now. It was the part she’d become.

He had to step back to see Fratarro’s face, so high above. Mouth open and begging for mercy, face twisted with grief. Fratarro had just watched Patharro destroy his greatest creation, the beautiful lands to the south and the mravigi he’d shaped to live there. There were tears carved onto his cheeks. Etarro couldn’t remember if he’d ever cried. He supposed all children cried, but he’d never been young, never been allowed to be a child.

There was a part to play, and if Etarro placed any value on his life, he would have to start playing it better. Red boot prints followed behind him as he went to find Valrik. He would stare into the places where his eyes weren’t, and tell him of the screaming and the hand and how things could still be made whole.

PART ONE

It’s a lucky man who knows his place in the world.

We’re not all given such good fortune.

—Parro Kerrus

CHAPTER ONE

Sometimes it felt like not moving at all, like lifting your foot up and setting it down in the exact same place, over and over again and not even knowing it. There was no telling one gray swirling spot from another. Even the sounds here were faded, the snow swallowing up the hoof steps, the wind snatching at any voice. The only thing that made Rora believe they were moving were the drips of blood that trailed after ’em, sometimes tiny flecks of it and other times big splotches that grabbed at her heart and made her kick her horse faster, leaving the blood behind in the snow.

Joros, the closest thing their little band had to a leader, he’d tried half a dozen times to call a halt, to stop and sleep and eat. Rora’d just stared him down, and she guessed the other set of staring eyes—the giant white cloak she wore had a snowbear’s head for a hood, and its black eyes glared above hers—well, they cowed him a little, too. It was mostly the merra, Vatri, who talked him down, though. Those two were stuck together tighter’n flies on a corpse, ever since they’d found and burned the god’s hand.

At least Aro was helping much as he could, keeping his horse right at her side. Her brother was good for loyalty, that much was true. The mumbling witch, Anddyr, was sitting double behind Aro. The witch’d been pretty silent ever since the burning—still talked to himself, of course, and he’d point the direction whenever Aro asked him for it, his shaking finger jabbing into the featureless gray. Crazy as he was, Rora hoped he really knew where they were going. He’d got them to the hand in the first place, so that was a mark in his favor, but only having one choice was always harder to swallow.

She twisted around toward the horse trudging along just behind her. All the blood had spooked it at first, but now it just kept on going, one hoof in front of the other. It looked about as tired as Rora felt, ready to tip right over if it leaned too far one way. There wasn’t any blood anymore to spook it, and she hoped that was more a good thing than a bad thing.

Back at the camp, near everyone’d been useless, all of them half-panicked after Scal’d collapsed and they’d seen the blood hidden by his layers of furs. The witch’d said he was tapped dry, no magic left in him until he rested, and Joros’d just glared like he wasn’t used to having to mind when people under his command got hurt. The merra’d fallen on Scal’s chest and wailed like a widow, most useless thing she could’ve possibly done, so it’d been up to Rora to put as much pressure as she could around the big gaping wound and tie him up tight. There wasn’t anything better she could do there, so their best hope was getting out of the fecking North.

Aro’d surprised her by pulling a few coils of rope out of his travelsack, and even though her blood’d been pounding in her ears, Rora’d paused to lift her eyebrows at him. Garim always said to keep some rope around, he’d said as he unwound it. There wasn’t much room in her for anything but the fear right then, but maybe later, once they were safe and she knew if Scal was dead or not, maybe she could think on how her brother might be just as grown as she was.

The witch had taken the rope and not met any of their eyes when he said he knew how to tie a man to a horse. He’d done a good enough job of it, because even though Scal’d slumped farther and farther down,