They wrapped their faces before they stepped outside, but that couldn’t stop the smell of smoke. Looking back at the tower, she saw how lucky they’d been-the stones at the river’s edge had crumbled and the tower leaned toward the cliff. Cracks spread across the queen’s carven face, bits of hair and cheek fallen away. Another good quake and the whole thing might topple over the falls.
They walked at first, either out of prudence or some unspoken respect for the black-burnt sky. But the closer they grew to the Northern Bank, the harder the way became. The earth had shifted-what had been the reedy banks of the Mir were now cliffs taller than a man, scattered with stones and still-warm ash. The corpses of trees littered the ground, half buried in debris. The once-gentle river thundered below. Nothing green remained.
When the ashfall rose to calf-height, they had to stop. Isyllt’s ring had begun to chill, and she could see only a few yards into the murk, even with their witchlights. Sweat ran down her face and she scrubbed it away with her veil.
“I suppose there aren’t many people around to notice,” Asheris said to himself. An instant later his eyes flashed, and his four wings unfurled, shining gold and cinnabar. Isyllt’s breath caught at the sight.
She stepped in close, hooking her good arm around his neck. It might be easier if he carried her, but she balked at the thought of being cradled like a babe in arms. Instead he tightened his arms around her waist and bore them up. She winced at the strain on her shoulder, then forgot the discomfort as the draft of his wings swirled the ash away and let her see the land below.
The Mir had shifted her bed yards to the south, leaving a swath of sooty mud bare. Gray froth tangled on the current, churned over the now-rocky bank. As they moved south she saw the remains of villages, streets buried under dust and cinders, thatched roofs burned away and beams like bones rising from the slag. Her ring chilled till her right hand was as numb as her left. The ferry landing and the hill above it were gone, washed away by mud and ash-nothing remained of the dock but a few charred splinters.
It was harder to breathe here. The ash fell thicker and the air reeked of alchemy-sulfur and salt spirits and salts of ammonia. Tears ran down her cheeks and she couldn’t stop coughing. Her exposed skin prickled painfully. Asheris didn’t falter, but his eyes reddened and watered and she could see the tightness of his jaw even through the veil.
“We can’t go much farther in this-”
He broke off, eyes widening, and Isyllt turned to look below them. She drew in a wondering breath and quickly regretted it as she began to cough.
They had reached the city. But where she expected to find another smoldering ruin, instead a shimmering dome of water rose.
Asheris sank slowly, landing on a spur of stone outside the wall. “She woke the river,” he whispered.
“She bought a miracle.”
The dome flowed in an unceasing cascade. It washed over their boots, soaked their trousers. Ash slid away in silver streams as soon as it touched the water. Asheris pressed a cautious hand into the wall, drew it back wet to the elbow and somewhat cleaner.
“I think we can go in.”
The pressure was enough to sting as she stepped through, but not much worse than a strong shower. They emerged drenched and gasping. Isyllt tugged her sodden veil aside and scrubbed her face with it, wrinkling her nose at the stains. She coughed and spat gray phlegm. Her throat ached, lips parched and tongue thick, but she didn’t want to risk the water, however miraculous. At least the air within was cleaner, thank the saints.
Thank Zhirin.
Symir hadn’t escaped entirely. The streets were strewn with rubble and stones-from both collapsing buildings and great porous black boulders that must have come from the volcano. The ground was slick with black mud, and bodies lay broken amid the debris. But the death-chill eased; there were survivors here too.
The streetlamps were out, but the gloom brightened. The water itself glowed, she realized, a subtle witchlit iridescence. Silver-green light and ash-shadows rippled over the ground and broken walls, washed everything unreal, dreamlike.
“Where should we go?” She wasn’t sure why she whispered, except that the shining vault of water reminded her of a cathedral.
“To the Khas, I suppose.”
“Did Faraj know, about you?” Their boots squelched as they walked, cloth slapping against flesh.
“I don’t think so,” he said after a moment. “He knew something, knew that my service was not entirely willing, but I doubt Imran or Rahal would have entrusted him with the truth.”
They passed a few survivors. A woman crouched in the rubble of a house, keening softly. A man kneeling beside an overflowing canal, a child’s body limp in his arms. They didn’t stop; there was nothing either of them could do.
As they neared Jadewater, voices rose over the constant rush of water. Glancing at each other, they turned toward it. The bridge was still intact, though cracked in places. The temple district had flooded knee-deep, nearly swallowed by the black pool that had been the Floating Garden. At the steps of the River Mother’s temple, a crowd gathered, voices raised in grief and wonder. One of the ivy-crowned domes had fallen, but the building was otherwise sound.
The Khas hadn’t fared so well. Its walls stood, gates open, but the Pomegranate Court was a ruin of fallen trees and muddy ash, and the dome on the great hall had caved in. The council dais was buried, and several councillors with it; guards tried to dig the bodies out but seemed too stunned to be effective. A few of them looked at Asheris with eyes wide and hopeful as hungry dogs, but he only shook his head sadly and turned away.
They found Faraj amid the rubble of the west wing, Shamina huddled lifelessly over Murai a few yards away. Isyllt swallowed the taste of char and started to turn, then paused. The chill wasn’t deep enough.
“Help me,” she said, crouching awkwardly beside the Vicereine. The woman’s skin was as cool as the air, her muscles locked in place. The jade-gray light painted everything cold and deathly, but Murai’s flesh was still warm.
Asheris knelt beside her and helped pull the corpse aside. Beneath her mother, Murai lay bruised and unmoving, but her breath rasped faintly and her eyelids twitched as Asheris checked her for broken bones. She didn’t wake as he lifted her.
“There’s nothing left here for any of us,” he said softly.
As they passed the gates, something moved in the flooded water plaza, a long shape twisting into the shallows where the steps had been. Isyllt tensed as a nakh raised its pale upper body, tail lashing. She groped for a knife she didn’t have, but the creature lifted one webbed hand to stay her.
“Your companions are at the docks,” it hissed, needle teeth glinting in the dull light.
“Thank you,” Isyllt said after a moment of surprise. “But why are you telling me?” A fading bruise mottled the creature’s face; she wondered if this was the one she’d met in the canal.
Black eyes flashed pearlescent as the nakh glanced toward the ceiling of water. “The river-daughter asked me to. She’s been waiting for you.”
The river-daughter. “Zhirin.”
The nakh shrugged, a disturbingly liquid ripple of bone and flesh. “She has no need for mortal names now.” It grinned a cold shark grin. “You have her protection here, witch. Come swim with me in the bay.”
Isyllt smiled back and nodded toward her bandaged arm. “Sorry. Not today.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Then the creature flung itself backward and vanished into the deep rushing water.
The destruction in Merrowgate was even worse. No building she saw had escaped damage, and some were in ruins. The Storm God’s Bride was rubble now, and Isyllt shook her head sadly at the sight. Survivors huddled in doorways, watching her and Asheris warily or staring blankly ahead. The docks were gone, nothing but shattered wood and debris. A ship’s mast canted out of the churning gray water, her shredded sails snagged on splintered spars. The rest of the craft was lost under the bay, and under the shining aqueous wall.
Some survivors moved about, searching the ruins for signs of life. She recognized Jabbor and the woman who’d spoken at the Tigers’ council; the weight in her chest eased a fraction.
Jabbor’s skin was dull and gray and he carried himself stiffly, but otherwise seemed unhurt. He blinked when he saw her and brushed a hand across one eye.
“What happened?” His voice was raw and stretched-thin and she knew he wasn’t asking about the mountain.
