clean and her hair clung like lace-moss to her arms and back, she shut off the tap.
Leaving the lantern in the antechamber, she took her comb and padded dripping to the inner room, footprints shining behind her. As she shut the door she conjured witchlight; the steps were slick already and she had no wish to miss one in the dark. If she listened, she thought she could hear the river’s pulse through the stone.
The pool filled the center of the room, deeper than a man was tall. Only a foot of water stood in the bottom now. No taps or faucet in this room-either the river came to you here or she didn’t.
Zhirin descended the shallow steps into the pool, water lapping gently around her ankles as she reached the bottom. The wooden teeth of her comb bit her palm, and her own nerves saddened her. Once she’d never have doubted that she could call the river.
She raised the comb to her dripping hair and began to hum softly.
For a moment she feared she’d been gone too long. Then the water began to ripple, welling from tiny holes in the stone. Cool but not biting, it slid up her calves, over her thighs and hips, lapping higher with every stroke of the comb.
Once, the stories said, before the Assari built their dam, the reed-maidens would sit on the banks combing their long green hair before the floods came. They said the river had been wilder then, more dangerous. The gentle inexorable rush of the bound Mir was all Zhirin had ever known, all she had ever needed.
When the water reached her shoulders, she left off combing and lay back, floating in the river’s embrace. The Mir’s voice filled her head and she sank, and listened, and let it take her pain.
Xinai crossed the river after sunset, as shadows chased the last vermilion light into the west. Her heart was a stone in her chest-she was surprised the skiff didn’t sink under its weight.
The steersmen poled in silence, lanterns doused. Insects droned across the water and frogs and night-herons splashed along the shore; an owl’s deep
She raised a hand to the charm around her neck, the leather pouch that held her great-grandmother’s ashes, and her mother’s before her. The bag thrummed softly against her skin.
She touched another charm, a beaded owl feather, and the darkness fell away. Colors faded to ghostly hints,but the river became a road of moonlight and the stars lined the treetops with gray and pierced the canopy with slivers of light. Her charms could best even Adam’s keen senses, though she had no way of making the effect permanent. As the skiff scraped onto the muddy bank she leapt ashore, avoiding rocks and tangled reeds easily.
Selei snorted quietly. “Always the show-off, eh, child?” The old woman stepped off more carefully, leaning on a steersman’s arm. The ground squelched beneath their feet.
“Shall we wait for you, Grandmother?” the man asked.
“No. We’ll find our own way back.”
He nodded and bowed, and the boat moved away with a slurp of mud.
“Where are we going?” Xinai asked softly. Selei had been withdrawn ever since the explosion at the market that afternoon, her good eye distant and unhappy. Xinai had wanted to listen to what the city had to say about it, but the witch had kept her close all day.
“Cay Xian.” She raised a hand when Xinai would have spoken. “From here we go in silence. The Khas watches these hills, and it will be worse after what happened today. We’ll speak when we reach the village.”
Xinai nodded, swallowing a frown, and followed Selei into the trees.
They climbed twisting hill-paths for more than an hour, or so Xinai guessed from the few glimpses of the moon she caught. The shadows under the canopy were thick enough to strain even her owl’s eyes. Xian lands bordered her family’s holdings, and the sounds and scents of the jungle welcomed her home.
She’d taken what comfort she could in the cold forests of the north, but it was never the same.
The path widened and the darkness ahead gave way to brighter grays. Cay Xian was close. Dust itched on her feet, grated between her toes. Boots were fine in the city, but in the jungle toes would rot in closed shoes. She missed the extra blades.
Something rustled in the trees and Xinai’s hands dropped to her belt knives even as Selei called for her to stop. She recognized the squeal of a lantern hinge a second too late. Light blossomed blinding-white in front of her and she cursed, turning away as tears leaked down her cheeks. Selei’s calloused hand closed on her wrist, trapping her knife in the sheath.
“They’re with us,” she said. “And hood that lantern, you fool. Do you think we’re not watched?”
“Not at the moment, Grandmother,” a man said. “Phailin distracted the Khas’s soldiers.”
Grandmother-not the honorific, but a kinship. Xinai hadn’t realized Selei had a grandson.
The lantern dimmed and Xinai released the charm. Red and gold spots swam in front of her eyes. Rubbing away tears, she let Selei lead her toward the lights of the village.
By the time they reached the walls of Cay Xian, Xinai could see again. Torchlight glowed over the carven parapets, flickering as sentries moved along the walls. The heavy wooden doors swung open quietly, just wide enough for the three of them to slip through.
As soon as she stepped onto the yellow dirt of the courtyard Xinai knew something was wrong. This was the heart of the Xian clan, and the heart of Xian mourned angrily.
The clan’s tree grew in the center of the courtyard, dwarfing the houses around it. In the flickering torchlight its cluster of trunks seemed to move, root-tendrils writhing toward the ground. Charms and mirrors hung from the branches, rattling softly even though there was no wind. People watched them from the shadows of its trunks.
Xinai glanced at Selei’s grandson, seeing him clearly for the first time. Tall and lean, he wore a warrior’s kris-knife at his side, the long, curving blade sheathed in silver and bone. His clothes were mourning gray and ashes streaked his long braided hair.
Others in the yard wore gray as well, if only scarves or armbands, and tears and ashes marked several faces. But the village was silent. If the clan mourned, they should have wailed and sung their grief to the trees and sky.
“What’s happened?” Xinai asked softly.
As the door was bolted behind them, Selei’s calm mask cracked, letting grief and anger show. Her shoulders slumped.
The man answered. “The explosion in the market today? The man who did that was Kovi Xian. His body is lost, and we can’t even sing his spirit home.” He spat in the dust. “If we mourn him the Khas will arrest the whole clan as accomplices. They may do that anyway.”
“He was a fool,” Selei said softly. “A proud, hot-blooded fool. I told him he would better serve his people alive, but his honor demanded it of him.” She glanced up at her grandson. “Do you have honor, Riuh? Will it take the last of my grandchildren from me?”
His smile bared a chipped front tooth. “Don’t worry, Grandmother. I’m a scoundrel-honor won’t be what sends me to the twilight lands.”
She smiled back wearily, then glanced at Xinai. “Forgive me, I grow forgetful in my age. Xinai Lin, this is my scoundrel of a grandson, Riuh Xian. Xinai has returned to us from across the sea.”
Riuh’s eyes widened. “The last Lin? Welcome home.”
“Has the funeral feast begun yet?” Selei asked.
“We were waiting for you.”
She nodded and took Xinai’s arm again, this time for support instead of guidance. Xinai hid a frown as the old woman’s bird-fragile weight settled on her. “Come, child. Tonight we feed the ghosts.”
