HERALD
YSIRA
The Bleeding Sands had been named for the cracks in the hard-packed ground, down which one could see veins of red crystal.
Beneath the burning sun, this land appeared to bleed.
In the penumbra, the temperature climbed and movement became a struggle, like walking muffled in a hot, dry blanket.
A loose upper layer of sand screamed with the wind across the plain, past twisted spires of stone and the odd lonely giant cactus.
Ysira had to hunch and cage her hands around her eyes as Neri walked close behind her, and they made slow but steady progress toward the looming mass of Mount Otavok.
Ysira allowed herself only a few bites of food, saving the bulk of their supplies for Neri.
When they ran out, they subsisted on desert roots, crickets, and cactus fruit.
Ysira’s demon staved off the hallucinogenic effects, and with Neri, she was careful.
She never let him have more than a few sips of the tainted water at a time, spaced out over hours—such a dosage that would not impair him.
Neri had barely spoken to her since that night among the stone pillars. At times, she had to wave a hand in front of his face to ensure he could hear her. It was as though a deeper, subtler voice—one Ysira could not hear—commanded his attention.
On the third day, among the rocky foothills where the sand shifted from red to black, Ysira killed a rattlesnake.
She speared it through the head with a scalpel from the salvaged medical kit, and they gnawed on its tough, dry meat in the shadow of Otavok.
It was the best meal they’d had since the crash, and Ysira hoped it might put Neri in better spirits. It seemed to have no effect whatsoever.
“You’re hearing your demon more now, aren’t you?” she finally asked. “What is it saying?”
Neri wouldn’t look at her. “I don’t think I can explain.”
Ysira tried again, soft as she could manage: “At the Shrouded City, it’s likely you’ll be asked to . . . demonstrate. Do you think you can do that?”
Neri drew himself inward, as if he knew she wouldn’t like his answer. “I don’t know. How do you tell yours to do anything?”
Ysira did, unfortunately, understand the problem.
If Iyelekirin spoke to her, she didn’t know about it.
She was deaf to the language of demons, and Neri, as a weak telepath, might not be fluent.
Perhaps a stronger telepath could help him translate, and with time he might learn, but did they have time?
Immortal patience notwithstanding, Tharanoth had not struck Ysira as one to dawdle.
He would be coming for them. Neri might have only weeks—days—to figure this out.
“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 slit in 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.
“Sorry Calo shot you.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Commander Teheda. Var Teneb—Elyas—was a friend of mine. Did he show you how to find us?”
Ysira nodded shortly.
“How did you become valak?”
Ysira said nothing. Best to wait until she’d said her piece to the Gatekeeper before broaching any uncomfortable subjects. Teheda leaned back with a sigh.
Neri fell asleep quickly, and Ysira settled in to wait. Though her nerves made it difficult to sit still, a sense of irritating familiarity also nagged at her. Strange, to think so little time had passed since she’d been stuck in that cell in Zivora.
She kept vigil over Neri, ignoring the way Teheda stared, until curiosity got the better of him. “Is he all right?”
They both watched Neri as he twitched and muttered to himself, dreaming of things Ysira scarcely dared imagine.
“He will be,” she said at last, and told herself she believed it.
“The Gatekeeper has agreed to meet with you.”
Several hours went by before Ysira finally heard the words. Three people in red robes, their faces obscured by veils of obsidian and copper beads, arrived to greet them.
“You will follow us to your audience,” the first person continued, “and the Gatekeeper will pass judgment. Should you fail to provide satisfactory answers, you will be returned to the desert, and your memories of this place will be erased.”
Ysira shook Neri gently by the shoulder. He blinked up at her through bleary red eyes. At the sight of them, clear for the first time, Commander Teheda gasped.
“It’s time,” Ysira said. “Are you ready?” Neri rubbed his face. “Who are they?”
“Disciples of the Gate. Their order serves the valak and studies the Source.”