In the Ruins (Crown of Stars 6)

“You crossed it.”

“I created it.”

White Feather touched the obsidian knife tucked into a sheath at her hip. “What do you mean?”

“I am born half of fire. The one you call Feather Cloak glimpsed the heart within me. That is why they called me ‘Bright One.”’ She wiped sweat from her brow. Although cloudy, it was hot. Even the breeze made her uncomfortable.

Eldest Uncle looked more at ease than she had ever seen him. He looked younger, an old man restored to vitality by his return to the world where he had been born. It was as if the waters flooded him as well, as if he were greening like the plants.

“Look!” cried Falcon Mask. She leaped to her feet. Far above, a pair of buzzards soared. She pushed her mask up to get a better look; she was crying, silently, with joy.

“A good omen,” agreed Eldest Uncle. “You are not the only one who can cross. Others will come.”

“Our enemies,” said White Feather. “How is that a good omen?”

“Feather Cloak has birthed twin girls. What more powerful omen could there be?”

The older woman snorted. She had a stern face, no longer young. The white feather fastened to her topknot bobbed in the warm wind. “You are weak, Bright One. I make this promise to you in exchange for the promise you made to us, that you would see us safely home. Rest here to regain your strength and I will divert Cat Mask’s attention from this place. After that, you must depart, or I will set Cat Mask and his warriors on you myself.”

“Do not do that, I pray you,” murmured Liath. “You do not understand….” She was shaking again as memory gripped her hard. It was too much. She still heard their screams, the way the sound choked off when the fire burned away their voices. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed the memory to shut itself away behind a closed door.

“Whsst!” called Falcon Mask. “Gone now, into the trees. Yet there! Do you hear?”

From nearby came a raspy cry. At the unexpected sound, Liath opened her eyes.

“What is it?” demanded Buzzard Mask, pushing his mask up. He was as young as Falcon Mask. They might have been twins with their bronze faces, broad noses, and dark eyes.

“It’s a tern,” said Liath, recognizing the call. “It must have been blown inland. How far away is the sea?”

“I’ve forgotten,” said Eldest Uncle.

“I’ve never seen the sea,” said White Feather as the young warriors nodded to show that they, too, had never seen it. “I’ve only heard stories. How far the shore lies I do not know. I walked most of yesterday and all this morning to reach you, Uncle. Feather Cloak asks that you return. The warriors have moved out to explore the borderlands. There will be a council soon.”

“What of my daughter?” asked Eldest Uncle.

White Feather shrugged. “She is stubborn.”

“Ha! Tell me a truth I do not yet know.”

“Feather Cloak thinks Kansi-a-lari has left the land. She cannot hear her footsteps on the earth. If she crossed the White Road, she would be invisible to us.”

“How could she cross such devastation? It is a steaming wasteland.”

“North of here,” said Liath. “But what about the coasts? It might be possible to cross along the coast.”

What had become of Gnat and Mosquito? No way to know, not unless she reached the sea, and even then she might never find them.

She barely had strength to rise and relieve herself in the privacy of the woods, barely managed afterward to stagger up the path with the mantle clutched around her torso and find her way to the remembered clearing that she had walked in so short, and so long, a time ago. Once, the burning stone had appeared here. The pallet of leaves and grass she had gathered days—nay, months or years—ago was scarcely disturbed. She collapsed onto it, under the shelter of a holm oak, and plunged into sleep.

Sanglant, riding on an unfamiliar horse. He is filthy and his expression is grim.

Fire burned in her heart, and in its flames she glimpsed Hathui and Hanna, looking for her, seeking, calling … but she was too exhausted to rouse.

Blessing shouts at a young man whose face seems familiar although Liath cannot name him, and he turns to face

a landscape of burning sand. A lion with the torso and face of a woman rears above her, raking with its claws as the girl screams, only it is not herself she sees but a young woman as dark of complexion as she is. A silver-haired man leaps into the fray, thrusting a burning torch between sphinx and bleeding girl. As he spins, panting, he sees her and cries out

“Liathano! Where are you?” The centaur shaman walks on the shore of a shallow river that snakes away through grassland