They’re like that, these baradari. One moment they’re stoic desert warriors, the next they’re in a passionate rage because someone bumped one of their precious horses too roughly.
Mehmet stalks up to me, the decorations on his high boots jingling, holding up a writhing cobble cruncher.
“These rodents don’t belong here. Send them away, Kato.” He throws the cruncher down to the stones, but the creature flips in the air, lands on its feet, and runs off, gibbering.
I fold my arms. “No.”
Mehmet sneers. “You would desecrate this place with these Highwind abominations?”
There’s that word again. “They fought bravely at the Gates. They fought our battle against the golems and the Garguants. They stayed when the Gates opened and the Dark Masters nearly escaped.”
Mehemt’s eyes widened, and I plowed on. “Tau Marai is the Dark Masters’ prison, not their stronghold. And I will not let you say that these Highwinders—human or not—have not earned their place in Kaal Baran!”
Flutter glides up beside us. “Is he bothering you?” she says, in a singsong voice.
Mehmet eyes her with wary misgiving.
“Nothing I can’t take care of,” I say, knowing that a cloak’s methods would be both direct—and permanent.
Flutter continues, as if she’s not heard me. “I smell Highwind tech on you—all sizzle and steel. Tell me, baradari, what did you see at the crater?” Her eyes are shading wildly between human and cloak.
Mehmet tenses. I shake my head at him. He glares at me.
He has no idea how fast a cloak is.
“Flutter,” I say. “There goes a cobble cruncher over to the side. Fetch him for me.” I point a good ten yards away, where a cruncher is dashing for a hole.
Flutter blurs. She’s a stretched-out shadow for a moment, then snaps back into place, holding the cruncher upside down by his heels.
“Leggo!” says Kunj. He’s lost his hat, and his face is flushed with indignation. “Whatcha do that for, guv?” Ill-usage creeps into his tone.
I look at Mehmet. “To make a point.” I hold his gaze, until he nods, one downward jerk of his head.
“Put the cruncher down, Flutter. Gently.”
She looks at me for a moment, and my heart thuds in my chest. Then she stoops, places the cruncher on the ground, stands up again.
“The crater,” she singsongs.
Mehmet knuckles his eyes. He’s older, tireder than I remember. There are lines on his face that weren’t there several years ago.
“The Highwind merchants,” he begins. “For the last three years they’ve come looking for our sacred artifacts. Anything angel-touched. They came, offering much coin and trinkets to trade—silk and mechanical toys and pretty things that break within weeks.
“Our people”—he pauses and spits on the stones—“our people are so dazzled by these merchants they sell… sell! … the things Taurin entrusted to our care.
“And what the Highwinders can’t buy, they steal.”
“What?” I say, incredulous.
“Oh, they don’t do it right away, and they don’t do it themselves. No, they hire thieves from among our own people. The seraph armor of the First Chosen… the tapestry of Jalinoor… the Winter Blossoms…” He spreads his hands. “All gone.”
My head spins. These are treasures of our people, so cherished by the families that own them that not even I—Taurin’s Champion—was allowed to take them into battle with me.
The seraph armor of the First Chosen? Made of a heavy, pale fabric that no fire could burn, no knife could scratch. The Winter Blossoms? An undying bouquet of many-colored roses whose sweet smell cleansed the body of sickness and poison.
All gone?
Oh, Sera. How you came to despise the gifts of our people, to share these secrets with Highwind.
“So you went to the crater,” I say to Mehmet.
“Ay, we went to wipe out the Highwind scourge.” His mouth twists. “But Taurin was not with us.”
“He may have not given you the victory,” I say, “but do not say he’s not with you.” I mean to be gentle, but the words come out harsh.
No, whoever Taurin binds, he keeps. I may have been done with him, but he is not done with me. The weight of his message is a stone on my chest.
I put my new hand on Mehmet’s shoulder. “Your fallen warriors did not die in vain. Tell me what the Highwind’s encampment was like. If they have angel-touched artifacts with them, then we will need them.”
His eyes are hooded. “You have seen the sky in the east?”
“I have.”
“If the salt demons should walk again…” He doesn’t finish the thought.
“Then we need the angels to fight for us again.”
“And the eilendi,” puts in Flutter, high and fluting. We both turn to look at her. “You need the eilendi.”
I’m glued to the warm wall outside an open arched window. The gathered heat of day radiates through me, filling me with a pleasant buzz.
Below me, men feast around campfires, tan-clothed desert nomads rubbing shoulders with the leather-and-steel-clad Highwinders. The sounds of chewing and the clatter of bone dice are all the communication they need.
Snatches of talk come from inside; Kato and the baradari chief talking of times both old and new.
They can’t help it—snippets of shared battles and the news of intervening years slip in between the concerns of today. Once in a while, Daral makes a remark, his tenor a cool, quiet counterpoint. A pang tears through me every time I hear it. They take stock of their warriors and weapons, discuss strategies, plan an attack.
Angel artifacts in the crater are the only hope we have against the salt demons.
They pull at me, from their fields of salt. An unhealthy light smudges the eastern horizon, livid as a bruise. Stars stretch into it, hills lean in, crooked and elongated.
It gets worse every minute.
I shape words into the air, the night prayers to Taurin. Taurina riata seya. Taurina barata veya. Taurin saves in the night. Taurin lights up the darkness.
There are more words, but I can no longer remember them. They’re hidden away in the deeps of my mind. I can no longer
