Page 5 of A ?Sky Beyond the Storm

As I make my way toward the center of Adisa, snatches of conversation float by. The Adisans speak of attacks in far-flung villages. Monsters prowling the countryside.

“Hundreds dead, I heard.”

“My nephew’s regiment left weeks ago and we haven’t had any word.”

“Just a rumor—”

Only it is not a rumor. Musa’s wights reported back this morning. My stomach twists when I think of the border villages that were burned to the ground, their residents slaughtered.

The lanes I traverse grow narrower, and streetlamps more scarce. Behind me, a tinkle of coins echoes and I whirl, but no one is there. I walk more quickly when I catch a glimpse of the palace gate. It is inlaid with onyx and mother of pearl, selenic beneath the snowy pink sky.Stay away from that bleeding gate, Musa warned me.It’s guarded by Jaduna and they’ll see right through your invisibility.

The magic-wielding Jaduna hail from the unknown lands beyond the Great Wastes, thousands of miles to the west. A few serve the Mariner royal family. Running into one would mean jail—or death.

Thankfully, the palace has side entrances for the maids and messengers and groundskeepers who keep the place running. Those guards are not Jaduna, so slipping past them is simple enough.

But once inside, I hear that sound again—one coin sliding against another.

The palace is a massive complex arranged in a U around acres of manicured gardens. The halls are wide as boulevards and so tall that the frescoes painted upon the pale stone above are hardly visible.

There are also mirrors everywhere. As I turn a corner, I glance into one and catch a flash of gold coins and vivid blue clothing. My heartbeat quickens. A Jaduna? The figure is gone too fast to tell.

I backtrack, heading to where the person vanished. But all I find is a hallway patrolled by a pair of guards. I will have to deal with whomever—or whatever—is following me when they reveal themselves. Right now, I need to get to the throne room.

At sixth bell, Musa said,the princess departs the throne room for the dining hall. Go in through the southern antechamber. Place your blade on the throne and get out. The moment her guards see it, Nikla will be evacuated to her chambers.

No one gets hurt and we have Nikla where we want her. The Blood Shrike will be waiting and will make her plea.

The antechamber is small and musty, the faint scent of sweat and perfume mingling, but it is, as Musa predicted, empty. I slip silently through and into the shadows of the throne room.

Where I hear voices.

The first is a woman’s, resonant and angry. I’ve not heard Princess Nikla speak in months and it takes me a moment to recognize her intonations.

The second voice stops me cold, for it is laced with violence and chillingly soft. It is a voice that has no business being in Adisa. A voice I would know anywhere. She calls herself Imperator Invictus—Supreme Commander—of the Empire.

But to me, she will always be the Commandant.

III:The Soul Catcher

The stew tastes like memories. I don’t trust it.

The carrots and potatoes are tender, the grouse falling from the bone. But the moment I take a bite, I want to spit it out. Steam undulates in the cool air of my cabin, conjuring faces. A blonde-crowned warrior standing in a jungle with me, asking if I’m all right. A small, tattooed woman with a whip dripping blood and a gaze cruel enough to match.

A gold-eyed girl, her hands on my face, imploring me not to lie to her.

I blink and the bowl is across the room, smashed into the stone mantel above the fireplace. Dust drifts down from the masterfully crafted scims I hung up months ago.

The faces are gone. I’m on my feet, the splinters of the rough-hewn table I just built digging into my palms.

I don’t recall throwing the bowl or standing. I don’t remember grabbing the table so hard my hands bleed.

Those people—who are they? They are in the scent of winter fruit and the feel of a soft blanket. In the heft of a blade and the slap of a northern wind.

And they are in my nightly visions of war and death. The dreams always begin with a great army hurtling itself against a wave of fire. A roar breaks across the sky, and a maelstrom spins, sentient and hungry, devouring all in its path. The warrior is consumed. The cold woman and the gold-eyed girl disappear. In the distance, the soft pink blooms of Tala fruit trees drift to the earth.

The dreams make me uneasy. Not for myself but for those people.

They matter not, Banu al-Mauth. The voice reverberating in my head islow and ancient. It is Mauth, the magic at the heart of the Waiting Place. Mauth’s power shields me from threats and gives me insight into the emotions of the living and the dead. The magic lets me extend life or end it. All in service of protecting the Waiting Place, and offering solace to the ghosts that linger here.

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