Sparking Fire Out of Fate (Forging Silver into Stars #3)

CHAPTER 1 NAKIIS

NAKIIS

This fire is too hot, making my wounds ache, but I asked Igaa to smother the flames a week ago, and she refused.

She claims that I summon ice in my sleep, and she wants no spark of our scraver magic to linger in the air too long.

She doesn’t want any risk of Xovaar or his minions finding us until I can heal enough to protect myself.

I told her not to bother. Xovaar already killed me. The death part is just taking a while.

I force my eyes open and discover the cave we share is full of sunlight, the scents of early summer filling the air.

Wherever Igaa has hidden me, we must be far from any roads or houses, because I’ve heard little beyond the occasional drone of insects outside the cave.

At night, it’s crickets and cicadas, but it’s bees right now.

A honeysuckle bush must be nearby, because the aroma is unmistakable.

I blink again, and my eyes are slow to reopen, my vision a bit hazy around the edges.

Igaa’s fire isn’t blazing anymore, but the summer warmth pressing in from outside the cave would melt any ice immediately anyway.

I wish we had been able to reach the forests of Iishellasa— or, at the very least, the banks of the Frozen River.

Igaa could have cast me into the flowing rapids, and I would’ve slipped under the surface.

My death would’ve been swift: painless and cold.

Dying here, in this miserable heat, seems to add insult to injury.

I let my eyes fall closed again. The cave is empty.

Has she been gone long? I’ve stopped being able to measure time by a matter of minutes and hours, and now it seems that the days slip out of my grasp between my wakings.

Even now, I have no idea how much time passes before my eyes open again, only that the angle of sunlight has changed. The droning bees have moved on.

A twinge of worry flickers through my head. So many of the others have already been destroyed by Xovaar and his allies. I can’t lose Igaa, too.

Then again, maybe I should stop fighting. I’ve already lost.

The air currents change, speaking a language all their own. I might not be able to fly, but my wings twitch a little as the slightest breeze flickers across my feathers, a momentary chill breaking through the brutal heat of the day.

Magic. Alarm cracks through my chest, and my wings rustle, as if I have the strength to flee a threat.

But then I recognize the flare of power on the air, and my heart settles, my eyes falling closed in relief.

Igaa.

The scent of fresh meat strikes me at once, and then an animal carcass is unceremoniously dropped on the cave floor in front of me.

I don’t move.

— I know you’re awake, Igaa says, speaking her thoughts to my mind, the way we do when we’re high in the air and the wind makes speech impractical. — Eat.

My eyes remain closed. — I’m not hungry.

A human woman might beg and cajole, but Igaa isn’t human, and she’s likely had quite enough of my resistance to her tending.

I’m not surprised when the air currents shift again, just before her claws take hold of my chin and twist, forcing my jaw open.

A second later, a scrap of raw flesh is pressed between my teeth.

I’m stronger than she is, and in another time or place, I could knock her hand away.

Right now, I can barely hold my head up.

— Eat, she says again, pressing my mouth closed as if I might spit it out just to spite her.

It’s tempting.

But no, the fresh blood is a bloom of copper on my tongue, and even if my brain is ready to give up, my body isn’t. Against my will, my mouth automatically begins to chew.

Igaa’s grip gentles. When I swallow, she presses another wet piece of flesh in behind it.

I want to resist. This all feels so futile.

But I don’t.

After a few more pieces, I turn my face away, and her sharp claws press into my jaw again.

This time it draws a growl from my throat, but even that sounds pathetically weak. — Igaa. No.

She sighs. — I should find your magesmith. I suspect his magic could heal this.

She means Tycho. He’s no more my magesmith than I am his scraver.

When I say nothing, Igaa adds, — He is your friend, Nakiis. He would help you.

I hiss. — No. He isn’t. And he wouldn’t.

I made sure of that weeks ago, when I refused to help Tycho protect that foolish king.

I knew Xovaar would attack with impossible fury and kill anyone in his path.

He nearly killed Tycho— and I did my best to warn him away.

But he didn’t listen. He ran to the king’s side, and the two of them nearly perished.

They would have perished, if I hadn’t lent my magic to theirs.

But offering them my magic left me depleted, unable to defend myself when Xovaar retreated from that battle . . . and found me instead.

Igaa must have stolen a waterskin from somewhere, because she pours a bit across my lips.

— You need a magesmith, she insists.

— A magesmith cannot heal these wounds, Igaa. Enough.

— A magesmith could heal the infection.

This has become a common argument. She’s right that a magesmith could heal the infection. The deeper wounds, both caused by a spear of Iishellasan steel, will only heal with time.

It’s the infection that’s going to kill me.

Her clawed hand settles against my cheek, and she swears out loud in our language, the word sounding like a clash of ice in the confines of the cave. “You are hot enough to melt the Frozen River yourself.”

“Take me there,” I say roughly, my spoken voice revealing my weakness. “Let’s see.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and her fingers drift through my hair and down my neck, until her hand comes to a stop on my injured shoulder. The slight touch sends a wave of pain through my body, and I let out a breath.

“I would if I could, Nakiis,” she says quietly.

I know she would— but Xovaar would find us long before we could reach the river separating Syhl Shallow from Iishellasa.

“This is hopeless,” I say, the rough words barely more than a whisper. “Even if Tycho would help me, he has returned to Ironrose Castle. That is too far for you to travel alone. Not while Xovaar seeks us both.”

Her fingers trail through my hair again, and my eyes fall closed. Sleep pulls at me again, the deep, dreamless sleep of illness. But her voice speaks to my mind just before I drift away.

— Tycho is not the only magesmith we know.