Page 88 of A ?Sky Beyond the Storm

“Your love is powerful,” Rehmat says. “It is your love that woke me—your love of your people. Your desire to save them. But the Nightbringer is not human, Laia. Can you compare the rage of a storm to the rage of man? When Mauth created the Meherya, he created a creature that could pass on ghosts for millennia, despite all of their pain, all of their sadness. Do you know whatMeheryameans?”

“No,” I say. “And I don’t care. Idowonder what your name means.Traitor, perhaps?”

“MeheryameansBeloved.” She ignores my barb. “Not just because we loved him, but because of the love he offered. To his kin. To the ghosts. To the humans he encountered. For thousands of years.”

I think of all those the Nightbringer loved in order to get back the Star that would set his people free. I remember how he loved me, as Keenan. Something occurs to me then, and my face heats.

“Did you—you know that he and I—that we—”

“I know,” Rehmat says after a pause. “And I understand.”

“Beloved,” I whisper. The word makes me desperately sad. Because even if that’s who he was once, that is not who he is anymore.

“Love and hate, Laia,” Rehmat says. “They are two sides of the same coin. The Nightbringer’s hate burns as brightly as his love. Mauth does not love or hate. So he was not prepared when his son turned against him. But we can imprison the Meherya,” she says. “Bind him. My magic is the only force on this earth strong enough to contain him—”

“No,” I say. “The Nightbringer must die.”

“His death will usher in only more despair. You must trust me, child.”

“Why?” I say. “You deceived me. And now you will not tell me his weaknesses. You won’t tell me anything about him. Instead I go to the Tribes to beg for scraps of his story, which may or may not exist.”

“I cannot speak of my time with him. If I could, I would tell you all. What I can say is that he was the Beloved. His strength is in his name. And his weakness. His past and his present. You must understand both to defeat him.”

“To defeat him,” I say, “I need that scythe. And if you want me to trust you again, you’ll help me get it. You know how he thinks. You know him so well you spent a thousand years hiding just for the chance to defeat him.”

“I do not know him anymore.”

“Then I suppose we are finished,” I say. “And I’m doing this alone.”

I walk swiftly away from her, the soft sand dragging at my feet. A gust of wind blows the smell of roasting meat and horse to me. When I get to the top of the hill, I spot dim lights far ahead—the Tribal encampment.

“What if your theft of the scythe is part of his plan?” Rehmat comes around in front of me, so that I cannot walk forward without going through her. “A trap, a way to outwit you.”

“Then you will help me outwit him first.”

She considers me, drifting like a dandelion in the wind. Finally, she nods.

“I will help you get the scythe,” she says. “This, I vow. And—and kill him if that is what you wish.”

“Good.” I nod. I am glad then that she is not in my head anymore. For if she was, she would know that for all of her persuasive words, I no longer trust a single thing she says.

XXXVII:The Soul Catcher

The Tribes who escaped Aish left many of their wagons and fled into the labyrinthine desert canyons north of the city. It requires not inconsiderable skill to track them.

Still, after a couple of days, I manage it. Which means their enemies could follow them too.

I find Aubarit on the edge of the camp, sitting atop her wagon seat. She picks at a bowl of stew, listless despite the fact that it smells of cumin and garlic and coriander, and sets my stomach to growling. The walls on either side of the camp are high and the nearby stream rages, heavy from the rains.

“You need to hide your trail,” I tell her, and she glances up in surprise as I step out of the dark. “The only reason the Martials haven’t found you is that they’re too busy burying bodies.”

TheFakiradoes not smile, and her shoulders are stiff. “I thought matters of the human world were not yours to worry over, Banu al-Mauth.”

“They aren’t,” I say. “But matters of the Waiting Place are. And right now, the two are one and the same.”

TheFakiracalls over one of her Tribesmen and speaks to him in Sadhese. He glances at me curiously before leaving.

“Junaid will see to our tracks,” she says. “You have not asked about Mamie Rila, Banu al-Mauth, or Tribe Nur or your own Tribe.”

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