“My demon knows when I’m in pain,” she said at last. “I assume yours knows your feelings too.”
They both considered that. Thus far, Neri had only tapped into his demon’s power under extreme duress.
“How do you feel when you use it?” Ysira pressed.
“Afraid,” Neri mumbled. “I feel more afraid than I’ve ever been, and that’s when it . . . wakes up.”
“There has to be something else.” Fear was too passive, neither reliable nor sustainable.
Ysira was thinking out loud, speaking to herself as much as to Neri, but he said, “I know.It’s like when I read the jedaat. I can make sense of it, but it’s slow, and sometimes, I still get it wrong. I swear I’m trying.”
She’d upset him.He’s so young,she reminded herself.You have to be gentle.But could she afford that? Could anyone afford that?
“This is important,” Ysira said. “The Gatekeeper will want to see this power. They won’t just take our word for it.”
“I know,” Neri said again. He was struggling not to cry. He refused to say more.
The next morning, they began their ascent.
The terrain grew steep, the air thin. At the highest altitudes, no signs of life remained but the distant shrieking of some bird of prey. When they crested Otavok’s peak, they could see as far as the foothills of Lun, the Flamewood a smudge of orange and gold near the horizon. Crenellated rock framed the caldera itself, curling inward like the claws of a planet-sized beast.
As they descended, Ysira let Neri go first, maintaining three holds, scrabbling at the shale. He’d had another episode that morning, the worst yet, and had been coughing since. He looked dangerously exhausted.
But they were so close. The path revealed itself to Ysira piece by piece, subsequent triggers unlocking as she passed them. They told her which fork in the road to follow, which stream was safe to cross, and how to avoid a nest of spiders lurking in the boulder field. They showed her how to find an inconspicuous slitin the rock, behind a dead tree. Ysira and Neri followed a hewn path into a deeper darkness, slowly spiraling down around the mountain’s interior.
Where once had been magma was now a lake, heated to near-boiling temperatures by underwater vents. It was fed by a tributary of Esh, which Ysira knew to take deep into the shadows. The Shrouded City of Otavok was an underground fortress, a labyrinth of dwellings carved into the rock and cloaked in eternal dusk.
By the time they were far below the earth, Neri could barely stand. He held on to the rock wall for support, struggling to keep his eyes open. Ysira held him up, wiping sweat from his forehead and begging him to walk a little farther or let her carry him, for gods’ sake, when?—
“Sacat!” someone shouted in Zal.Stop.
A militia patrol, all in shabby brown uniforms with mismatched armor. An archer, face half-obscured by his helmet, nocked an obsidian arrow and aimed. “Are you alone?”
Ysira almost laughed. After the weapons she had seen, the bow seemed so crude. But she said, “Essa.”Yes.She stumbled over the quick sibilant sound, a sure tell she was no native speaker. “I’m a friend.”
The militiamen exchanged looks, difficult to interpret behind their helmets. The archer lowered his bow at Neri, now slumped against the side of the tunnel, eyes closed and breathing too hard to speak.
“Who’s this?”
“Do not point that at him.” Ysira stepped forward, too fast. Another overexcited archer let his arrow fly.
It struck Ysira in the chest. She dropped to one knee with a grunt and, around the singularly unpleasant sensation of metal puncturing her lung, hissed, “You must be joking.”
Someone else—presumably their commander—shouted at his men to stand down. His voice faltered as Ysira rose and ripped the arrow out. She held her shirt aside, let them all see as Iyelekirin healed the wound. Maybe the archer had done her a favor.
“I am Ysira Var Naktis,” she said in Zal. Despite her accent, her words proved clear enough. “Child of Yeran and Dejah of Zal Fel. I’m an old friend of Elyas Var Teneb. I have come to see your Gatekeeper.”
More looks passed between the militiamen, startled this time. “And the boy?” demanded the man who’d shot her.
Ysira held his gaze until he lowered his weapon. “This is for the Gatekeeper’s ears.”
At last, the leader said, “Follow us.” He ordered the rest, “Stay behind them. Weapons out. She makes one wrong move, you shoot until something sticks.”
Ysira had to carry Neri, and he was too weak to push her away. The militiamen led them down the tunnel, past a grated metal door to a latticework of smaller passageways. They reached a cramped, low-ceilinged room that was little more than hollowed-out rock. Ysira laid Neri gently down. His eyelids fluttered as he struggled to stay conscious. Whatever resilience he’d inherited from her notwithstanding, she worried his heart couldn’t take the strain he’d put on his lungs.
“He needs water,” she said to the lead militiaman, posted up on a boulder by the exit.
He was Telu, short and stocky with deep brown skin and a bristly mustache. Red tattoos patterned his bare, muscled arms. He seemed taken aback but shrugged and handed over his own container. With no shortage of alarm, he watched Neri gulp it down.
