“Now!” Ker called. With a roar, the soldiers charged into the hollow, firing. The fog thinned. Jean could see a line of smooth-faced men appear, stopped suddenly halfway across the field. The gunfire had hit several of the slashers, but it had reached the scholars, too, and as they fell, the new-made slashers sowed chaos, leaping for the scholars’ throats and throwing bewildered men to the ground.
The last of the mist evaporated. The afternoon sun glittered on the melee in the camp, the edges of the fallen sharp as if cut from paper.
“That’s all?” the ruddy soldier cried from his place beside Jean in the corral. “That’s all the power of the great ones? We’re lost!”
But before anyone could answer him, a hammer of wind slammed from the opposing wood, sweeping a line of red cloaks into the sky. The ground shook. Gasping, the captives grabbed hold of the fire pendants, trying to keep them still, and Jean looked to the clearing, hoping. Max had to be there! Max would come for her!
If he was, she couldn’t find him in the chaos. Gusts of wind roared through the camp, and she saw a tent buckle, walls bending, curving inward. A peg popped, and then another. Canvas flapped in the wind. The tent burst into flame, and another exploded from the dirt, its poles whirling to mow down a group of charging soldiers.
Still the red cloaks kept coming, fresh lines advancing from the wood, and now a whole platoon followed Ker as she plunged into the clearing. The wind knocked some down, and others came behind, pounding past the corral, shaking the ground. As they descended, a whirlwind leaped from the center of the hollow, spraying dirt and blowing tents skyward.
“It’s coming!” Liyla shouted.
The captives threw themselves down, pressing the fire pendants into the dirt. Pop! The ruddy soldier screamed and rolled in the grass, madly slapping at his flaming shirt.
“Stop!” Jean screamed. Was it Max sending it? Dust flew from the grass, the trees thrashed, stones shot up, and clouds swirled overhead. Daylight blinked out and then returned, once, twice, again.
“Save us!” Liyla cried. “Do something! Jean, please!”
But Jean could only cringe from her and cry out to the scholars in the hollow, though her voice was too small to carry.
Everywhere, confusion. Sound, sound, sound, and Laysia tried to understand the meaning of it. But the child already knew. A dart of rage, and Kate jerked her backward as a soldier bounded their way, gun raised.
“How —?” Laysia began, but the girl only pulled her back again, as a red cloak snatched at the place they’d been.
Laysia hurled the man away with a blast of wind. Where were the others? Kate pointed upward, and they took to the air, swooping over the tents toward the needle of focus that said . . . Susan! They dropped to the ground behind her. But where had Nell gone?
Boulders exploded from the ground and snapped muskets from men’s hands, crushing them into the dirt. Fire leaped out of the grass and caught red cloaks from behind; wind snatched the guns from the soldiers’ hands. Then Nell appeared, a whirlwind whistling behind a cluster of tents.
Hatred, terror, pain . . . and then, all unexpected, surprise and joy lanced through the air.
“Max!” Kate shouted.
A boy had appeared beside the girls, bulky and dark haired and pulsing alarm and confusion.
“What are you doing here? Susan? Nell’s too small to be here!”
He swiveled, glanced behind Laysia, and blanched.
“You brought Kate?”
“The Genius has Jean!” Nell told him. “She’s with him now!”
Panic rolled from the boy.
“The Genius!”
He whirled and ran toward the other end of the clearing, flickering in and out of sight.
“Max!” Susan screamed, following. They gave chase, Laysia half blind with the wild confusion that rang in her ears. Lost ones, soldiers, watchers, their passion poured in on her, their madness, their frenzy of anger and fear. She lost her way, once, twice, bombarded by so much noise. But the child pulled her on, following the others as they darted in and out of sight. And then Kate stopped short.
“Oh, no.”
Laysia sensed the iron contour of the man’s mind a moment before he burst into sight before the boy. Tur Kaysh, age heavy in his face, and blasting rage.
“You’ve left your place!”
“My sister’s been taken! And I have to get the rest of them to safety!” Max shouted over the noise. “They can’t stay here!”
Tur Kaysh’s eyes followed the boy’s waving hand to Kate and locked on Laysia. In an instant, all the violence of his outrage, the staggering force of his fury narrowed and shot toward her like an arrow.
“Exile!” he screamed. He turned on Max. “What have you done?”
“Nothing, I — They’re my sisters! I have to get them out!”
But the man had gone white with anger, and his hands trembled as he reached into the pouch that hung from his robes.
“Is all I’ve taught you nothing? Look at her! She thinks me weak, coming here! And you stand beside her!”
“No! No, I —”
But the boy stopped when the old man drew a small ash-coated stone, a bone-handled knife, and a leafy twig from the pouch. A chill sliced through the heat.
“Chaos from all sides,” the old man growled. “And my students too weak to resist it. But I don’t suffer from such weakness.”
Then he touched knife to twig and stone, and mist, dark and potent, poured forth to engulf Laysia. Beast, unclean beast who sullies, who grasps, filth, filth . . . The thoughts swarmed in, and with them the throb of hunger, of wanting, of the desire for release. So many years lost! Anger bubbled in her, yes, rage, not only outside but her own now! Fear and despair were heavy, and she had carried them so long! Fury washed
