only a candle and a dagger with a ruby set in the hilt. The weapon had been a gift, long before, from Ilvani. He touched the hilt and called for Tempus.
“Forgive me,” he said aloud. “I was weary and slept. I shall not be weak again. Show me your will, I pray you.”
Uwan had been the one to send him to his rest. Natan didn’t fault his leader for it; Uwan only meant to help. He could see that Natan had been fasting and holding vigil. He’d done so almost since the day Ilvani had disappeared, and the exhaustion was starting to take its toll on his body.
What Uwan did not understand was that Natan cared nothing for his own health. Wherever Ilvani was Natan sensed she suffered far worse. He would not be well until she came home.
“Tempus,” he prayed, and repeated his wish for the god to speak, to give him some sign that Ashok and the others walked the right path. Was the fire an ill omen or a promise of rebirth? “Tell me that this has all not been in vain.”
“Is it wise, brother, to chatter so much at your god’s mind that he forsakes all others for your entreaties? Isn’t it selfish?”
Natan gasped and clutched his chest. He didn’t dare look behind him for fear he might break at last, but the voice was so familiar and beloved he couldn’t dismiss it as a phantom.
He shifted on his knees and saw her, sitting cross-legged in the corner of his chamber. It was such a familiar pose when she came to see him that Natan almost wept. She looked exactly as she had when she’d left, her pale skin and garnet hair-the red he’d hated on himself but that suited her so well.
“Ilvani,” he said.
“You look terrible, brother,” Ilvani said. She pretended to sniff the air. “Have you been bathing?”
He chuckled. “This is what I’m reduced to when you’re not around to look after me,” he said. He wanted to go to her, but he was terrified that if he moved she would vanish.
It wasn’t truly Ilvani. Natan knew that, though he ached to admit it. It was prophecy, Tempus’s visions given a voice and a face that wouldn’t frighten or overwhelm a mortal. But Natan felt overwhelmed, and full of joy, hope. Surely Tempus would not be so cruel as to send him a vision of his sister if she were gone?
“You’re watching the wrong things, brother,” Ilvani said seriously. “You’re too much on your knees and not enough in Ikemmu. You’re missing it.”
“I can’t just sit by and not look for you,” Natan said. “How can Tempus ask that of me?”
“You see the fire,” Ilvani said, “but you have no idea how it shapes them. It may forge or destroy, save them or damn them. Why do you force them to choose one or the other?”
She sounded like the Ilvani that Natan remembered, the beloved sister with her mind in two worlds, though where or what the other was, no one knew. At times Natan thought it was a safe harbor for her mind, but at others it seemed a prison she’d created for herself.
He wondered if he should have told Ashok about his and Ilvani’s unique heritage. It did not matter. The others would tell him, if they felt he needed to know.
“Ilvani, can you tell me where you are?” Natan asked. “There are shadar-kai warriors seeking you. Can you feel their presence?”
“Yes,” she said. She stood up and walked past him.
“Wait!” Natan called as he jumped to his feet and went after her. She passed through the wall, a phantom. Natan fumbled with the door latch and ran out to the stairs.
She was already walking up the spiral, her long black cloak with its overlay of tiny chains clinking behind her. Natan followed her.
“Everything is turning,” Ilvani said.
“What do you mean?” Natan said. He felt dizzy looking up at her while they turned on the stair. “What’s turning?”
“Don’t you feel it, brother?” Ilvani said, scoffing and fluttering her hands impatiently. “You should be feeling them, every one. They will change everything, and you won’t stop to see it until it’s too late. Then the fire will come.”
“Ilvani!” Natan cried. “Tempus, what are you trying to tell me!”
Ilvani stopped so fast that Natan passed through her. He collapsed on the stairs, breathless, and looked up at her. The light shone through her flesh, and she was a specter with his sister’s voice.
“He will bear the burden of Ikemmu,” she said, and her voice reverberated off the walls, deep and angry. “The faithless will guide the faithful, but by then it may already be too late. You must look to your people.”
She tipped her head back and spread her arms. White wings burst from her spine and spread out behind her. She brought them down, and in a rush of air that Natan felt on his face, she took flight.
The tower steps disappeared, and Natan found himself floating in a formless void. The specter-angel flew above him, and as he watched she was joined by other winged folk, circling in an endless vortex of wings and light.
Natan stood up and stretched his arms out. “Ilvani!” he cried. But he knew she was gone. He watched the angels cavort in the sky beneath a glowing sun. Natan felt the heat on his face, so warm he began to sweat.
The memory of his dream came back to him then in a rush, and Natan knew what had woken him. He looked up; the angels flew higher and higher, toward the golden sun.
“Stop!” he yelled, but his voice was very faint. It barely touched the vast sky. “Come back! Don’t fly there!”
He screamed until his throat was raw, but it was all in vain. One by one the winged specters caught fire. The flames outlined their wings, and for a hopeless breath they were mighty phoenixes. Then the fire consumed them and turned their beautiful appendages to ash.
Bodies fell shrieking out of the sky. As they passed they reached for Natan, and he tried to grab onto them to stop their fall, but his hands passed through their flesh, and all he felt was the fire. His hands blistered, and he cried out in agony as they all perished before his eyes.
Natan awoke in his bed, sweating. He could still feel the fire on his skin. He stumbled out of bed, went to the altar, and turned to the corner where Ilvani had appeared. But he saw nothing, sensed nothing but an empty chamber.
Trembling and awash in horror from what he’d witnessed, Natan couldn’t find the strength to pray. He went to his bed, took the blankets off, and piled them in the corner of the room. He lay down and felt the cold stone floor start to calm him and cool the sweat from his body. His heartbeat was frenzied in his chest.
“Tempus,” he begged, “Tempus.” Over and over he said his god’s name. “Let that not be our fate. Let it not be. Let it not be.”
He slept, a dreamless stupor, but he did not see Ilvani again, or the winged specters.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
'Down the valley in single file,” Vedoran told them as they prepared to leave. “Lean into the cliff wall if you lose your balance.”
“The wind is strong, especially near the top,” Chanoch said. “It almost plucked me off a couple of times.”
“I’ll take point, then Skagi and Cree, Ashok, and Chanoch watching our back,” Vedoran said.
“We should use our masks,” Ashok said. “The ones we made for the dust storm. If by some chance they do see us coming, they won’t know who or what we are.”
He looked to Vedoran for support. The shadar-kai considered then nodded. “Do it,” he said.
Ashok tied the dust-covered cloth across the bridge of his nose and pulled his cloak hood up so that only his black eyes were visible. Unless he spoke, no one in his enclave would know him, and none of them were expecting to see a dead son returned to his home. Still, considering what lay ahead of him, the protection seemed as flimsy as parchment, and as they proceeded down the valley, Ashok felt horribly vulnerable.
Tempus sees you, if no one else does, Ashok thought bitterly. At any moment he expected the warrior god to reach down and expose him for the traitor he was.
