“We would’ve come sooner had Efiya’s army not breached the forest,” Fadyi speaks in accented Tamaran.
Rudjek tenses. “Is everyone okay?”
“We pushed them back”—the craven’s eyes rage with pain—“but we had many casualties.”
I cringe. My sister will see the cravens’ anti-magic as a threat. The orishas, the tribes, and now the cravens. She’s eliminating anyone who could stand against her.
“We tracked her scent here.” Jahla steps closer to Rudjek, a lock of silver hair falling from underneath her hood. She sniffs the air and a streak of heat burns up my neck. She grimaces as she eyes me. “Well, this is an unfortunate turn of events.”
Rudjek blanches and glances to the ground. She must smell Efiya on him.
“Someone better explain,” Majka says, his voice high-pitched. “Rudjek damn near got his arm cut off, and he’s fine! Sukar, your face healed too . . . What exactly is going on here?”
“My tattoos are for protection,” Sukar reminds him, “and they heal minor injuries.”
As Kira sees to a wound on her ama’s thigh, Essnai murmurs, “I should’ve been born Zu.”
“That doesn’t explain you, Rudjek.” I cross my arm, waiting for an explanation.
Everyone stares at him. “I guess this is a good time to finish my story.”
The blood of the dead shotani curdles on the air like sour milk. Their oppressive magic has dissipated like the ground drank it upon their death. A swarm of flies light on their bodies while vultures circle, waiting for us to clear the path to their meal. “Tell it on the way.” I wrap my arms around my shoulders. “We should keep moving.”
Majka jabs his finger at me. “You have a lot of explaining to do too.”
We trek through the rest of the night and the next day. I keep my distance from Rudjek as he tells us the truth about his ancestor, Oshin Omari, who as it turns out had been a craven posing as a human. This explains so much: why Arti had never been able to strike at the Vizier, why Rudjek always got sick in my father’s shop. The magic overwhelmed his senses and his body tried to block it. Yet Efiya had still been powerful enough to fool him. To touch him. A chill snakes down my arms as the memories rush in and I steer my mind back to obsessing about the cravens.
In the Dark Forest, the guardians helped Rudjek learn some of their skills. Although aside from healing, he failed at most of his lessons. Fadyi is exceptional at shifting, which I’d guessed from the fine details of his human features. Jahla is the tracker in the group—a huntress who can find anything. Räeke can bend space and manipulate her environment, much like a witchdoctor. Ezaric is a skilled healer, and Tzaric is the best fighter among them. All cravens have these skills, but some are better at them than others. I’m curious about what else Rudjek can do, but I don’t ask. That would involve actually talking to him.
It’s a shame, because I have so many questions. Why doesn’t he have any of their physical features? Did he experience any signs outside of his allergy to magic before his death in the Dark Forest? There’s more to his story, but I hold my questions. They can wait for now—or forever, since I will die the moment I kill my sister. Butterflies settle in my belly at the thought. It isn’t fair; my life feels like someone’s idea of a joke. Let’s see what awful thing we can throw at her next, see if we can crack her in two. But I refuse to break. I will see this through to the end.
When I’m over the shock, I have the urge to tease Rudjek—like he’s done so many times to distract me when I failed at magic. I can’t deny the giddy feeling of excitement tickling my chest—even with so much that’s happened. But I bite my tongue. My friend is a craven. I watch him as he walks ahead with his guardians flanking him. The story about his ancestor always seemed fantastical to me, but I never questioned it. The truth is so much more interesting than the legend. Leave it to Rudjek to find a way to be even more magical, or . . . anti-magical, if there is such a thing.
Once we’ve both told our stories, the conversation stills. Rudjek sneaks glances at me now, but he gives me space. And with Essnai and Sukar here, it’s easy for me to avoid him. We walk all day, but the pace is slow. It’s near nightfall again when we reach the pass that leads up the Barat Mountains, and we’re too exhausted to start the climb.
We set up camp and split into two watches, as a precaution in case the shotani come again, or worse, Efiya’s demon army. The cravens take the first watch. Rudjek isn’t at all pleased that I set up my pallet between Essnai and Sukar, far away from him.
Essnai and Sukar ask me how I’m doing more times than I can count, and they go out of their way to see that I get enough to eat. They’re being overprotective because of my magic and because I’m going to die. I’m the last witchdoctor. Almost. Efiya is something else, but there’s still Arti and Oshhe—my father who I left in the hands of monsters. My belly aches thinking about how I abandoned him. I can only hope that Efiya is still busy with her army and searching for the Demon King’s ka. That should keep Oshhe safe, as long as Arti leaves him be.
The morning comes fast. I drift on the edge of sleep, tossing and turning, unable to find comfort. In my dreams Rudjek holds Efiya in his arms. He caresses her cheek and stares at her mouth like it’s some delectable fruit that he must taste. They kiss, long and sensual, full of passion that makes me ache. He promises that he’ll go to the end of the world to protect her. He belongs to her now—not me. He will never be mine.
I don’t want this memory, and I’d do anything to forget it, but I never will. I hate Efiya for tricking Rudjek, and I can’t forgive him. I can recognize the rhythm of his steps on cobblestones with my eyes closed, the musical cadence of his voice in the crowded East Market. We grew up together. Spent countless hours sneaking off to the riverbank. He should’ve known she wasn’t me.
“Who should’ve known she wasn’t you?” Sukar asks.
I clutch the covers to my chest as I sit up. Sleep fog clouds my mind, and every muscle in my body still hurts from the battle with the shotani. It’s been a long time since I last trained with a staff with my father, and in those days I never felt this exhausted. “What?”
He peers down at me, wearing a frown that wrinkles the tattoos on his forehead. “You said he should’ve known she wasn’t you.”
My friends don’t know what happened between Efiya and Rudjek, and I have no intention of telling them. Sukar looks to Rudjek, who’s with the cravens on the edge of camp.
“What’s going on between you two?” he asks, his voice low.
Rudjek stares at me with those eyes as dark as the hour of ösana, his expression pained. He isn’t paying attention to whatever Fadyi and the others are saying.
I start to roll up my pallet—careful not to disturb Essnai and Kira, still fast asleep in each other’s arms. “Nothing of importance.”
“That’s an obvious lie,” Sukar scoffs, “but it’s not my business.”
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s none of your business, so don’t ask.”
“Someone has some bite this morning.” He laughs, his face twisting in such shock and indignation that I can’t help but laugh too. I need laughter. I need to forget. I don’t have time to lament over what could’ve been between Rudjek and me. I’m going to die anyway. I’ll be at peace then. I keep telling myself that to push through another day.