Shadows of Blood

By L. E. Dereksen

A sworn Guardian at last, Ishvandu's real battle has only begun. The attacks of the Sumadi have grown relentless. The people are dying. Food and water are scarce. And the Circle expects Ishvandu to do something about it. But when he uncovers a terrible truth, Ishvandu must choose between the laws he's sworn to uphold and the power that could sav

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sky Step Publishing
• Release date: Sep 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781999499648

L. E. Dereksen

L. E. Dereksen is an emerging author of fantasy. Besides literature, her passions include classical music, board games, and her local community. She also teaches English as a Second Language, where she helps adult newcomers explore language and life in Canada. She lives with her dog Patrick in the prairies of Winnipeg, Canada.


Book preview

The desert calls to me.

We are born into a life not our own, imprisoned behind walls of fear. I begin to feel it in my blood. It quivers in the empty air. It speaks to me.

Our task is not complete.

Something waits for me, drawing me across the sand. A question. A purpose. A wrongness at the heart of everything. I must be more—but I am afraid. I don’t know if I have the courage to act. I don’t know if I can do what must be done.

I only know it will destroy me.

Chapter One

Ishvandu ab’Admundi

Shadow wrapped around us, hemming us in. Pouring over the walls of the Guardian’s Hall. They were coming.

Sumadi! I shouted. Fifth point!

The Guardians merged seamlessly—two wheels, one inside the other, standing back to back, all shifting and moving as one.

I stood in the centre. Bright-edged keshu bristled around me. The third kiyah. My kiyah. I drew my own sword, and it sang as I turned. A real Guardian’s keshu.

As always, the thrill of the fight ran through me. There was fear, yes—but I wasn’t alone anymore. I was a Guardian. We had been practising this, honing our skills every night of Kaprash.

Two months and six attacks later, we were finally starting to improve.

My senses strained through the dark. The Sumadi rushed at us. Two at fifth point, three circling. Seventh! I called out as I tracked them. First.

They melted beneath the outer ring of Guardians, into the ground itself, then sprang at me, clawed hands materializing out of the blackness. I swept up with my keshu.

One hissed as it burst back into shadow. The other grabbed for me, now visible as if traced in starlight. Its mouth parted; its body dripped with putrid flecks. Clawed hands tore through robes and skin, and cold fire danced across my back as I spun.

Then Koryn, head of the third kiyah, severed its spine. The creature screamed and buckled backwards. Ab’Tanadu finished it off with a stab through the heart.

I wheeled. Three more attackers had split off, whipping so fast in their shadow-forms it was impossible to track them.

Be ready! I shouted, which was code for: Yl’avah’s blasted might, I can’t see them anymore. Defend yourself!

Two shadows rushed together at Jil. He was the youngest of the group, fresh off the Novices, along with Breta and I. He slashed and ducked. No! He wasn’t supposed to duck.

The Sumadi rushed over him, slamming into Breta, throwing her to the ground. It clung to her. Its edges blurred. One instant, and it would rush into her eyes and nose and rip out her mind in the most excruciating way possible. Like Bray.

I screamed and lunged. I wasn’t going to lose another friend. Like Bray, like Polityr. Not again.

My Guardian’s blade hammered it back into the Seen Realm. It shrieked. Breta rolled free, slashing up as I leapt back. The Sumadi exploded into light and hit the ground.

I hauled Breta to her feet. She stabbed at a shadow behind me. I spun, but ab’Tanadu got to it first. Its head sailed through the air. Three dead.

Jil’s cry snapped my attention. He had staggered out of line, one of the Sumadi swirling around him, clawing his skin, undulating between shadow and light. I could hear it laughing. Laughing in the Unseen Realm, where it primarily resided. The hissing, grating, screeching noise that only I could hear, drilling into my mind.

Jil! Fall in!

Jil was swinging madly, but the creature was dodging every blow, too close to be hit. It kept striking at his face. Driving him further and further from the group.

A second shadow! It leapt at him, sensing a kill. Jil whirled, but the keshu was knocked from his hand. They pounced on him.

Form up! Koryn shouted. Form up! Third point!

The kiyah responded as one. The nearest Guardian, Manysha, slashed at the creatures, cutting so close we could hear the swish of Jil’s robes being parted.

The shadows scattered. Jil scrambled back into the circle, breathing hard, keshu-less, but snatched from death. Breta and I formed around him. The whole kiyah shifted and moved, spreading out to adapt—waiting for the next attack.

It never came.

I sensed them vanish. The shadows slipped off again into the Unseen. The lurching horror in my stomach eased.

Hold, I said breathlessly. The Guardians held. They wheeled slowly in their formation: Koryn and ab’Tanadu in the inner circle, Manysha and Nolaan facing out, Breta and I within, standing over Jil.

The formation worked best with a full contingent, five out, five in, and two at the centre, calling point, but the third kiyah had suffered heavy losses. Three dead in the first attack two months ago, then old Jarayas killed last month. Only seven Guardians of the third remained, three of those freshly-sworn recruits. Umaala was trying to make up for that by assigning a bright-eyed, unsworn Novice for us to train, but right now Benji was holed up in the Novice’s quarters.

Yl’avah’s blasted might, how were we ever going to survive?

It was Kaprash—the Emptiness, the time when the Avanir ceased to flow and our city lay unprotected, vulnerable to the creatures of the desert, vulnerable to hunger and thirst and every sort of disease. The time of death.

My mind sparked with fresh pain. Blood—blood dripping down Tala’s thighs, vivid as a scream. Like a knife in my mind, the stench of it, sharp and urgent. My helpless shouts: Do something, Kylan! Do something! The tiny child, half-formed, too small to breathe or cry out. Another—dead to Kaprash.

I groaned at the memory, still so horribly fresh. Still alien. Like it belonged to someone else. Not my own. Not mine. Not mine.

Oh, Tala!

Vanya, are they gone?

Koryn’s voice was sharp. He glared at me. Like it was my fault—all of it. The attacks, Kaprash itself, his sister’s pain.

Maybe it was.

I forced myself to breathe, to close to my eyes and focus on the task at hand. My mind stretched into the Unseen, chasing after the Sumadi as far as I dared, that presence I was beginning to recognize, like a rotting trail in the Unseen.

I let go and opened my eyes. The inner yard melted back into view, its dark lines softening with the first blush of dawn.

They’re gone, I said.

The third kiyah breathed in relief. If there were any Sumadi left in Shyandar, I would have felt them. As far as I could see, the attack was over. It had been short, but the damage remained to be seen. How many this time? How many dead?

We wiped and sheathed our keshu. There was work to do. Reports to make. Injured to gather. But now the danger was over, all I could think of was Tala.

Koryn? I turned to the head of our kiyah.

Koryn grunted. He knew what I was going to say. He didn’t want me running off, but Tala was his sister. Like it or not, we were bound.

Go, he said. And take Jil with you. Gather any other wounded on your way.

I nodded. It would slow me down, but arguing would cost me more. I plucked Jil off the ground, his face and arms covered in lacerations. He was in pain, but he bit back a cry.

Can you ride?

He nodded.

Good. Let’s go.

White Temple walls rose out of the shimmering morning heat. I pressed my camel into a gallop. Yma complained, but stretched out her neck and ran, and I leaned with her, flying over the last distance of open ground. I could barely wait for her to kneel before I was off. Jil would follow in his own sand-blasted time.

I tore through the gardens and up the Temple steps to the healing rooms, Acolytes hollering after me. They knew me by now. Knew I wouldn’t listen. Why did they bother shouting?

The moment I crossed into the healing rooms, I was hit by the stench. The halls were full of people, some being carried in, some being carried out. White-robed Acolytes hurried to and fro, calling for help, for supplies, for someone to get those damned rotting corpses out of there.

Sumadi. There had been an attack here too. Three bloodless Sumadi corpses lined the hall with their distinctive stench, like meat left out in the sun: rotten, burnt, and decaying. I had to leap over one to get to Tala’s room.

Yl’avah’s might, let her be okay!

Vanya! It was Alis, Kulnethar’s new wife, who had been called up from the Labourers when she informed on her rebellious foreman. She threw herself in my way. Hold on a moment. Where do you think you’re going?

I shoved past her, through the curtain, into—

I stopped. Pungent salves and medicines wafted towards me. Men and women were stretched on the ground, healers moving amongst them. The room was full. But not one of its occupants was Tala.

"Bah. Alis threw up her hands. Light and all, don’t you ever listen? But look! You’re bleeding all over yourself."

She pointed to the spot on my back that was burning like fire.

Later, I snapped. Where’s Tala?

Now don’t get all shouty—

"Sands take you, girl, where is Tala?" I seized both her arms, a dark panic rising up, threatening to choke me.

Less manhandling, you big oaf. She pried my fingers off, then ducked under my arm and waved off two Acolytes that were hurrying over to help. "I’m trying to tell you. But you can’t overreact. Promise me."

Where?

Promise! She waved a finger at me. Tala’s been through enough without you blustering all over the place.

I followed her into the hall, forcing myself to calm down, though everything in me was taut with worry. Be rational. Don’t overreact. If Tala were dead or dying, Alis wouldn’t be scolding me like a green Tasker. She halted, waiting for my word.

I let out a trembling breath. Fine, I growled. I promise.

Alis nodded. This way.

She took me straight to the back of the hall and through a curtained entrance. Tala was lying on her side, one knee pulled to her chest and an arm flung over her head. Kulnethar knelt beside her, hands moving carefully.

Almost done, he was saying. Don’t move.

My breath squeezed when I saw her.

Tala . . . !

Shh, Alis clutched my arm. Gently.

I pulled away and dropped next to my wife. She was alarmingly pale. Cuts and scrapes traced the outline of her face and ran along her collarbone and arms. Her thick black hair was tangled with blood, her lips tight. She was concentrating on not moving, though one hand clutched her belly, clenching and unclenching.

Done, Kulnethar said, sitting up. That’s when I noticed the jagged wound on her back, running from her armpit to her spine. It was freshly stitched, still wet with blood.

Yl’avah’s might! I cried. "You were supposed to be resting."

She snorted. Hard to be resting when Sumadi are running through the sand-blasted halls.

"That was you? Three Sumadi. Three!"

Four. One of the bastards got away.

Tala!

Shut it, Vanya. I’m fine. Her eyes glittered at me in warning.

There were a thousand things I admired about Tala. They were the same things that drove me crazy. I groaned and swallowed my next angry retort. She was right, of course. What else was a Guardian going to do? Cower in her room and let everyone die? Still—facing four Sumadi, alone, and after what she’d been through?

We should let her rest, Kulnethar said, reaching for me. Let me look at those cuts.

I’m fine. I’m staying with Tala.

Maybe she doesn’t want—

She’s my wife. She’s hurt. I’m staying.

Enough. Both of you. Tala pressed a hand to the ground, forcing herself to sit up. I could tell every movement was painful, but I knew better than to try to help her. Not right now. All I want is a bit of peace and quiet, and Vanya, the last thing you need to be doing is brooding over me. You’re a Guardian, so act like one. Go find something useful to do.

Tala . . .

I mean it, Vanya. Go.

I heard the pain in her voice. She was pushing me away again, and it had nothing to do with my duties as a Guardian. Go. Go. I glanced up at Kulnethar, his hand still hovering towards me, palm up, like a warning. Suddenly, I wanted to break that hand. A quick, violent jerk.

I dashed the thought away, angry at myself for even considering it. Why? Kulnethar was my friend. He was only trying to help. He probably saved Tala’s life.

Fine, I growled. I’ll see you tonight.

No, you’ll be on the wall, Tala replied. Where you’re supposed to be.

She was right. Still, I felt a jolt of anger. What was wrong with her? Didn’t she realize what she was doing?

And tomorrow? I asked, voice tight, unable to stop myself. Will you still hate me tomorrow?

The room went silent. Kulnethar’s eyes narrowed at me, disapproving, and Alis gaped. Tala sat there, unmoved. She held herself perfectly still, one hand cradling the empty roundness of her belly. Abruptly, I regretted my words. Despite the bodies crowding her, she looked so painfully . . . alone.

Alis, she said quietly. Please . . .

She nodded, grabbed Kulnethar’s arm, and whisked him from the room. For the first time since that terrible night two days ago, Tala and I were on our own.

I held my breath. She couldn’t look me in the eye. She could barely speak. Her pain was like a wall between us—how could I ever hope to reach past it?

Do you have any idea? she said at last, voice brittle as unfired clay.

I swallowed. I’m sorry, Tala. Please. I . . . I just want to help, and you—

You can’t.

But maybe I could—

She seized my hand, thrusting it against her belly. "She was there, Vanya. I could feel her. Alive. Alive. With breath and skin and hands and feet. A spirit all her own. A whole world. And now that world is gone. And do you know what I’m left with?" Tears were hot on her cheeks.

I shook my head, not daring to speak.

"A hole. A hole inside me. A hole."

Tala . . .

"And you. Her gaze hammered into me. You never wanted her."

Tala, that’s not—

"Don’t lie to me, Vanya. You think I don’t see it, every time I look at you? The relief? You never wanted a child. You wished she would disappear, and then she did, and you’re sorry for me, I know you try, but not . . . not for her."

I shook my head, panic welling inside. We’ll . . . we’ll try again. We’ll have another—

Get out. She released my hand with a shove.

But Tala, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want. What do you want? What do you want me to say?

Nothing. I want you to leave me alone. I don’t want to see you. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. And when I can look at you again, I will send for you.

My breath ran out. I sat there, staring at her. She hated me. She really did. And why? Because my grief was different? Because I was more worried for her than for a baby I had never seen?

Don’t Tala. Don’t do this to me!

I rose numbly. I walked to the curtain. My voice was leaden inside me, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

So in silence, I left.

Ishvandu! Umaala’s voice was sharp when I returned weary to the Hall. The Guardian Lord intercepted me, red cloak snapping around his daunting frame.

I bit back a groan. Two months of Kaprash. Two months, and every night of it on the walls, waiting for Sumadi, waiting to sound the horns and throw all of Shyandar into terror. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was practising formations with the third kiyah, or teaching green-as-leaf Novices. All I wanted to do was turn my camel over to the stablehands and collapse in my dark room, alone.

You look terrible, Umaala said. He tugged my shoulder, frowning at the blood still caking my back.

Sands. In my haste to obey Tala, I’d forgotten to get my cuts looked at.

I’ll see a Hall Hand, I muttered.

Good. Now what in the blasted sands happened last night?

I bit back a caustic reply. I was overtired, but it didn’t give me an excuse to snap at a Guardian Lord. Umaala might be closer to the third kiyah than others, but he was still on the Circle. I don’t have answers, sal’ah.

Well, it’s time you did. His voice boomed, frightening and final—loud enough a few passing Guardians glanced at us. And glanced quickly away.

I shut my eyes. I knew this had been coming. I had seen it from the moment they named me Guardian, or rather the moment he had—the Al’kah, plucking me out of disgrace as a ditch-digging Labourer, defying the Circle itself who’d sent me there a year ago. A year. So much had happened in a year.

I don’t know why the attacks are increasing, sal’ah. I told you. I can’t read their minds.

"But you hear them. You speak with them. The Al’kah chose you to take the oath for a reason. It’s time you proved yourself."

"With all respect, sal’ah, if two months of night watch isn’t proof, I don’t know what is. I’ve been doing my best. I’ve given warning every time. Every time. What more do you want?"

More, he growled. Much more.

A sense of dread crept through my gut. More, sal’ah?

A change is coming, he said at last. The Al’kah wants to explore a new use for you.

Yl’avah’s might, I didn’t like the sound of that. I swallowed. I’m at the Al’kah’s service.

Good. He clapped my shoulder and met my eye. Be ready. Then he whirled away.

The night was still and cold. I shivered, pulling my outer robes more tightly, struggling against weariness.

The watch following an attack was always the worst. My eyes threatened to close against the shadows and my mind was sluggish. But my back, still stinging from the Sumadi’s claws, kept me awake.

I paced, my sandalled feet tapping along the narrow rampart that circled the Guardian’s Hall. It hadn’t been designed for a regular watch, and the parapet barely rose to my knees. I could look out, leaning over the city, feeling the sharp wind and the taste of desert dust. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was back on the North Wall, the same defiant boy who gazed out, wishing to be something—like a Guardian.

I snorted. As if that had made any difference. I was still here. Still trapped by walls and sand and shadow.

I turned, and my eye caught the Avanir, the towering black pillar of stone at the heart of Shyandar with its grasping arms. For two months now it had been dry. That was nothing unusual. It happened every Kaprash. Except there was something . . . unsettling about it now.

You’re staring again.

I shook myself. Breta was standing a few paces away, head tilted in amusement. Every time we’re on watch, you stare.

She thought I was looking for the water, waiting for Kaprash to end.

You know, I can’t help but wonder who’ll be Chosen this time, she said, and sighed. I miss him. He might have taken the Oath with us, you know.

Pol. She was remembering Polityr ab’Ymashu, sent off to cleanse the Lifewater—or so they claimed.

I know, I said.

What if it takes ab’Tanadu next? What if it takes you?

Me? The Avanir would never Choose me. I’m . . .

Too important here? she teased.

Too damaged.

I said nothing. The thought of being Chosen by that thing terrified me, though everyone else seemed to think it an honour. I glanced at the Avanir again. Despite its nakedness, it seemed bigger somehow than it had before. More daunting. More . . . dangerous.

Sorry, Breta sighed. I forgot how sensitive you are. It’s not a bad thing to hear the Sumadi, you know. Even if it does make you a freak.

Thanks, I snorted. But that’s not—

I frowned. Had I seen something out of the corner of my eye? A shadow? A flap of cloth?

Breta followed my gaze, one hand already on her keshu. We waited. Nothing.

It’s nothing, I whispered.

She nodded, the tightness slowly leaking out of her. Sands, she finally said. How do you do it? Every blasted night on the walls? You must be exhausted.

I was. But I shook my head. I’m the only one who can hear the shades coming.

Little good that’ll do if they wear you out.

I’m fine.

Are you? I see the way the Circle treats you. Stands you on the wall every night, trains you to exhaustion, keeps asking you to do more, risk more.

I frowned. More, Umaala had said. Much more. They need me, is all.

Oh, is that all? She looked at me. I hated when she gave me that look. Like I was a fool, and even I knew it.

I can’t believe you’d be so naive, Vanya. They’re punishing you!

But I haven’t done anything wrong!

Besides embarrassing them?

How the blasted sands—?

"Look. They threw you out of the Hall. They were done with you. They made their decision. Then the Al’kah forced you back in. He’s not supposed to do that, but he did, so that’s that. And worse, he was probably right. You can do something no one else can—this weird seeing into the Unseen thing. Don’t you get it? The very fact of you being here is an embarrassment! They need you, Vanya, and they resent you for it. When all’s said and done, they’d be happy if you ate sand. Don’t ever forget it."

Breta’s words made me uncomfortable. There was too much truth there, confirmed by the ragged ends of my own stamina.

All the more reason not to fail.

Then Breta hissed and grabbed my arm. She pointed. A shadow slipped through the yard.

Is it one of them? she asked. I thought you’re supposed to hear them coming!

You were distracting me! I struggled to concentrate. There was a whiff in the Unseen, faint, almost non-existent. I hesitated. It’s . . . just one, I think.

So should I . . . ?

Wait here. I launched down the ladder, landing on the hard ground, keshu drawn, then sprang across the yard. The shadow moved, snapping out of sight with the suddenness of Sumadi.

I swore and hurried after it, desperately trying to re-focus, to listen. If more appeared, we’d have to sound the alarm, but this one seemed alone.

There. The shadow appeared in the centre of the yard. Just standing there. Watching me.

A prickle ran through me. Why wasn’t it attacking? I moved again in its direction, and again it vanished, melting into the ground. I pursued, and now it stood near the back, towards the camel yard.

Breta caught up to me, breathing hard. Vanya, what it is?

You’re supposed to stay on the wall!

And let you go after one of those things alone? I don’t think so.

It was only one. Do more, Umaala had said.

I had to speak with it. If I sounded the alarm, it would flee. It was only one. I considered arguing with Breta, but that would take too much time. Come on, I hissed.

We slipped through the back of the Hall. Answers, Umaala had said. Well, so be it.

It appeared again in the camel yard. Moonlight glanced off it—rippling in lines of silver as it took form. It was waiting for me. Just . . . waiting.

I swallowed. Breta, wait here.

No way! If you’re—

Breta. I shot her a look. Please. Without waiting for her to respond, I strode across the camel yard alone. The creature didn’t move this time. I felt the cold creeping across the ground, flowing out from it like mist. And I sensed it now, sharp and clear, that familiar sinking in my gut. Like claws latching into me, filling me. Clawing into my eyes, my lungs.

I banished the memories. This one wasn’t attacking. It stood, watching me.

Destroy the Broken, it said, as soft as a breeze.

I stopped. It was speaking to me. None of the creatures had tried to speak to me, not since my failure the first night of Kaprash.

What’s broken? I asked.

Everything.

I swallowed. You mean the Breaking of the Pillar of Blood?

It said nothing.

I can’t fix that.

Nothing.

Why are you attacking us? Why now?

See us.

I clenched my jaw. Always the same answer. Like I was missing something. I’d once thought they were the corrupted remnants of the ancient Elders of Kayr who’d broken the pillar, but seeing them, seeing so many in the Unseen, had changed my mind. So what was I missing?

It didn’t move. Its arms hung listless at its sides. It stared at me, open, hungry . . . pleading.

See us.

I sheathed my keshu.

Vanya!

I ignored Breta’s cry. I strode towards it, hands empty, heart pounding. Yet even as I approached, a Guardian’s calm fell over me. I met its gaze. I walked straight up to it.

Have I seen you before? I asked quietly. That face. It was almost familiar. I stopped only a pace away, and the creature met my eye, blinking slowly. Frowning. It reached out a hand.

I refused to back away. Not this time. I let its touch rest against me cheek, that scalding cold fire. I did not flinch.

This was different. Something was happening. Something . . .

Van . . . ya . . . ?

I gasped. In that single word, like a question, desperate and scared, I saw.

No.

I jerked back, feet stumbling. No. No, it couldn’t be. It was a trick. It was a lie. Some deception in the Unseen. I reached for my keshu. I was cold. So cold. I couldn’t feel my fingers.

Breta’s keshu sang through the air. Before I could cry out, before I could stop her, the blade sliced through the Sumadi’s ribs, parting putrid flesh, cutting through bone and muscle like cloth.

The creature jerked and grabbed for her, an agonizing scream leaking out of it. She stabbed again, and it burst into light. Then it collapsed into a heap of flesh.

Silence followed.

Breta was breathing hard. She stared at the Sumadi, then back at me. Sands, Vanya. What happened?

I . . . I . . . I saw . . .

I couldn’t form the words. I couldn’t bring myself to speak it aloud.

What? Vanya, what did you—

Yl’avah and the Tree, Breta, I . . . I pointed to the fallen Sumadi. The corpse had fallen backwards, face up, staring through empty sockets into an empty sky.

Look, I finally said.

"Look for what?"

"Just . . . just look!"

Breta looked. She stared at the corpse. She frowned and glanced back at me, then looked again.

It was less rotten than most Sumadi, some might even say young, with a once-strong frame, a prominent chin, and tangled dark hair. Dark skin stretched thin over shrunken muscles, like someone starved and sickly—yet not a monster at all. Not a soulless tormented creature. Not a shadow.

Breta gave a strangled cry. She scrambled back, keshu dropping to the dust.

No! She covered her face in horror.

We heard footsteps. I glanced behind me and saw Manysha—or Mani, as we called the second eldest of our kiyah—hurrying towards us.

Is it Sumadi? You didn’t sound the alarm, but I heard . . .

She stopped when she saw the corpse, then glanced between us, brows raised in a silent question.

It’s not real, Breta finally croaked, letting out a sob. It . . . it can’t be.

Are there others? Mani asked.

No. Just . . . just him.

Mani frowned at the way I said that, then looked at the corpse. She bent next to it and, with careful fingers, tilted the head towards the moonlight.

Yl’avah save us, she whispered. She glanced back at me. This was your friend, one of the Novices, wasn’t he?

Polityr, I finally said. His name was Polityr ab’Ymashu.

Mani was even more stoic than ab’Tanadu, yet her face blanched. She let out a long, tight breath. Polityr was Chosen a year ago.

Yes, he was, I said. I felt her eyes and Breta’s, but I couldn’t shift my gaze. I couldn’t look away. Polityr. All I saw was my friend. Standing before the Avanir, clutching the bright star of its blessing. Now staring out of a Sumadi’s dead eyes.

It made sense. It made too much sense. A sickening, horrible kind of sense.

We thought Chosen never came back. We thought they went off to the Chorah’dyn and cleansed the Lifewater, maybe trapped beyond the desert, unable to return, maybe sacrificing their own lives in the process. But we were wrong.

Chosen did come back. But not as people. As Sumadi.

No. Breta sniffed, rubbing her face, body shaking with silent tears. "No, no. It can’t be. It can’t."

It is, I said.

"But that . . . that’s Pol! Breta cried. We knew him. We trained with him. We ate our sand-blasted meals with him and . . . and . . ."

And then he was Chosen, I said. Last Renewing. A Novice from our Hall.

Mani shook her head. "Ishvandu, we only know this body looks like Polityr, but we can’t—"

He spoke my name, I said. "Blasted light and all, he spoke my name. He looked me straight in the eye. He never attacked. He just stared at me, trying to be seen by me. He just wanted to be seen . . ." I trailed off.

Mani nodded. Then in a sudden move, she slashed out with her keshu. The blade cut through Polityr’s face like a threshing hook. Tearing skin and bone, parting flesh.

I cried out, but she struck again, and again. In three swift blows, the face was unrecognizable.

Breta clutched her stomach with a sob. I grabbed Mani’s arm.

What did you do? What—?

No one can know, she said calmly as she flicked her keshu and slid it back into her sheath. No one.

But—!

Ishvandu, think about it. Her voice was low. Think about the panic this would cause. The face of a Chosen on a Sumadi?

I was breathing hard, the reality of it starting to hit me at last, the horrible implications, the crimes of the Avanir compounding in my mind with frightening speed as I thought of the hundreds of gaping eyes, the dozens of corpses, year after year, their numbers mounting. Three more every year. And another three. And another. All returning to claim more victims, more dead.

Yl’avah save us, Breta whispered. The Choosing.

Yes, Mani said. And imagine if our system, our laws, this delicate balance of life—everything that turns upon Kaprash and Renewing—imagine for a single moment if that was thrown into confusion. Do you know what would happen?

I swallowed. Chaos.

Exactly.

So we just pretend this never happened? That we never saw? I stared at her. "We just let wave after wave of Chosen march off to . . . to this? To a fate worse than death? Do you have any idea how much pain they’re in? I know. And there is nothing you could imagine in this life more horrible than what Pol felt every moment of this wretched existence. Nothing!"

Regardless, Mani said quietly.

I gazed at her, stunned.

No one can know, she repeated. "For their own good, Vanya. No one. Who would follow the Avanir, knowing this? Who would follow the Guardians, or a system that could perpetuate this? Who would follow us?"

My face hardened as I realized the horrible truth of her words, fought it, and finally gave in.

Who, indeed? I said in a raw voice.

Then I turned away, my heart shrivelling as I abandoned Polityr to the dust.

Chapter Two

Kulnethar ab’Ethanir

Istared in dismay at the withered spots that marched across my plants—little shadows, devouring as they came. They’d sprung out of nowhere, just a few days ago, and already the blight had claimed a third of my danswort. It was a disaster!

Of course, all destruction was grievous, but this—this was my prized stock. It was the perfect plant. Bright green flowers burst out of a smooth node, able to hold a month’s supply of water. The stems were woody and strong. The roots went deep. The plant’s nectar attracted pollinating insects, and the scent wafted through the gardens every evening, gentler than jasmine, with its own warm energy, like fresh grass and cider. The hips made excellent tea, with a hint of spice, and I was having promising results mixing it with teakwood and bloodwort sap for the treatment of inflammation and internal toxins. It was called danastia tela in the old books, or more commonly, danswort.

And it was dying.

The mournful prayer songs of my fellow Acolytes drifted through the gardens—a fitting lament. I struggled to contain my emotions. It was a plant. It was just a plant. And yet it was so much more. It was a piece of our past, brought over from the Old Lands, marvellously adapted. It was attractive. It was a bright spot of hope—fragrant and strong. And above all, it was useful. How many ailments had I treated with danswort? How many of my patients had remarked gratefully on their improvements? Even my father, in his condition . . .

I shook my head, realizing I had no choice but to take invasive action. If I wanted to save the plant, I had to burn it. Burn everything but the healthiest stock, and pray the Chorah’dyn’s strength over what remained.

I dug my fingers into the soil at the base of the plant, searching until I found the root. There. It was strong and thick, one main tap, with a dozen smaller branches. I grimaced, and pulled. There was a deep pop, like a bone snapping out of place. The plant came loose in a spray of dirt, rich with the smell of earth and manure. I turned and set the plant carefully onto the path, then pulled another. And another. Pop, pop, pop, like kernels bursting over a fire. The green flowers shrank from me, unaware they were already dead.

I’m sorry, I groaned, mopping beads of sweat off my forehead. I wish there were another way. I do. I really do. The pile grew into a depressing mound of yellowed leaves and withered nodes.

But if you pass this on, you’ll be wiped out in a month. I can’t have that. And you don’t want that either. Of course you don’t. I yanked out another. The whole root came up with it. Two and half feet of beautiful, thick root. I sighed and set it on the heap. But I’ll take good care of the others. I promise, I’ll do my best. We’ll make it through—

Kulnethar ab’Ethanir! an Acolyte appeared, puffing through the greenery. I’ve been looking all over for you. Quick! Alis needs you. The . . . the patient . . . the one—you know. She’s up, and it’s . . . it’s not good. Hurry!

I dropped the last plant onto the stack, took two steps, and glanced back. "Bemyn, can you see this is taken care of? I need the uprooted ones burned, along with every other blighted danswort. Get Tatri to help. See it’s done quickly. Every blighted one, mind you. I’ll check later. Got it?"

Then I was pelting through the garden, robes yanked up to my knees. I knew what patient, of course. I knew—and had been dreading this moment.

Students and Acolytes parted for me, and I felt their eyes. I hurried up the smooth, white steps, first tier, second—I could already hear the screaming.

Yl’avah’s might! I burst into the healing room. It was reeling with white robes and panic. Unintelligible cries pierced the air, churning, deafening, drowning out the shouts of the healers as they struggled to restrain the woman.

Kulnethar ab’Ethanir! one of the healers spotted me. Praise Yl’avah and the Tree, what shall we do? His eyes were nailed open in fear.

Adavensis oil?

We tried! No effect. None. If anything, it made it worse!

And you heated it first?

No time!

Do that, with a pinch of lath’is. To three drops below boiling. Go quickly.

The man nodded, relief naked on his face as he pounced for the exit.

I turned to the patient. She was snapping and straining like a snared rat. Strange words bubbled out of her mouth, now high and keening, now with a growl, all hovering just on the edge of comprehension. Like once I’d known them. Like I should know them. I dropped to a crouch.

Nyashal, I said quietly.

The woman didn’t hear me. Her eyes were unfocused and bright. Her face was swollen with cuts—the raw, slashing lines that only Sumadi could leave.

I glanced at Alis—Alisan sai’Adadris, my wife, the only calm one in the room. Her small hands were white-knuckled and firm as she held the other woman down, Nyashal straining so hard I feared she would injure herself. And yet, beneath the violence, I sensed bone-deep exhaustion.

Nyashal, I said again.

Alis shook her head. No good. She’s responded to nothing. No voice or—

"Save us!" the woman gasped. She seemed to see me for the first time. Dark eyes fixed me with an unblinking stare. Her voice was wearing thin, cracking. She shuddered. Her back arched and she gave a low, piteous groan.

Let her go, I said.

But Kulni—

Trust me.

Alis looked at me, then eased off. Almost immediately, the woman fell back, breathing hard. Her whole body shook. I could feel the collective sigh of relief, from the healer behind me, from Alis, from myself.

Nobody touch her, I said quietly, unless absolutely necessary. Nobody speak above a whisper. Keep those windows shuttered. Keep a careful watch.

Do you know what’s wrong with her? the other healer asked, breathless.

I didn’t answer immediately. I didn’t want to hear my own words, or what they could mean. But the evidence was there, clear as if I’d seen it yesterday. Yes, I said at last. Yes, I do.

Okay. What do you need? What can I get?

Ishvandu.

Alis stared at me. Kulni, I don’t—

Ishvandu ab’Admundi, from the Hall of Guardians. That’s what I need.

We stood in the mixing room, shelves lined with uncrushed herbs, tinctures waiting to be processed, rows of pots and medicines and supplies, each carved with the appropriate symbols. My hands kept busy with mortar and pestle, grinding lath’is leaves into powder, but I was aware of Alis hovering nearby, arms crossed, looking pointedly away.

Something to say? I asked at last.

She always made that face when she had something to say. She glanced at me briefly, then shook her head. She always did that too.

Alis, I sighed. What?

She shot me an eye. That patient needs to be restrained.

I don’t think so.

Kulni, you didn’t see her.

I saw.

"You didn’t. She attacked Janala. She nearly caved his head in. It took three of us to wrestle her down."

I know. I know. The stone rasped with the turn of my wrist, thumping rhythmically. But I can’t restrain her. I’ve seen this before. The Sumadi did something to her and it makes everything painful. Even a blanket. A soft touch.

Alis frowned and looked away again.

Besides. I know that’s not why you’re upset.

I’m not upset.

I sighed. I loved Alis, but she had this infuriating habit of drawing out my attention, retreating further and further, until she sensed the point of giving up. She did it on instinct. I didn’t even think she was aware of it. It was only a year since the fields, since living under that horrible foreman, and though I didn’t know the details, I could guess. There were the scars, her odd lapses of memory, the way she withdrew from moments of intimacy, even months into our marriage. It tore my heart to think of anyone hurting Alis, but I had treated victims of abuse before. I knew the signs.

I tried a different approach.

Can you describe what happened? With Nyashal?

Alis thought for a moment, hands twining together in front of her. It was the screams that started it. Set the whole hall on edge. We ran to see what was happening, and Nyashal was . . . she was on her knees, clutching her face. Her eyes. Kulni, she was stabbing her own eyes, like she would . . . like she would—

Claw them out?

Alis nodded, and a shudder ran through her. Exactly. When Janala hurried to stop her, she screamed even louder, threw him into the wall, started . . . pounding his head into the stone. Over and over. She would have killed him if we weren’t there, Kulni. I know it.

I just nodded. I was thinking of another scream, long ago. Of clawing, thrashing sand. Of a foolish boy who thought pretending to be a Guardian outrider in a wind storm was a harmless bit of fun. I would never forget those screams. I would never forget Trushya, lost because of me. And when we found him—the blood, the eyes, the face, the sand, the dripping eyes—the young man, dead.

" . . . finally got her down. Then she really howled. Like we were killing her. But we weren’t, Kulni. I swear, we never hurt her."

I stirred at the sound of my name. Hmm?

Are you even listening to a thing I say?

You didn’t hurt her. I know, Alis. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but you had the situation under control. You did very well, you stayed calm. I’m proud of you.

She rolled her eyes, though I noticed a little satisfied turn of her mouth. She would never admit how much she craved affirmation. But I saw it. Every word of praise. Every genuine remark of gratitude. She pretended it meant nothing; I pretended to believe it.

She must have worn herself out. When we let go, she just collapsed, but she wouldn’t have done that to begin with.

I know, I said. She’s very troubled. Her healing will be slow.

If she heals at all.

I said nothing. I had lost men and women and children in my care. I had lost babies. And yet, with each new case, I had to believe there was hope. More than hope. I had to know they would recover. I had to see it in my mind, hold it for them, and bend all my skills to align the world with that truth. It was the only way.

You think it’s like before, Alis said. Like what happened to Ishvandu.

I glanced at her. She hadn’t been there when Ishvandu was attacked. She would have been a young child. But she’d heard the stories, especially being here in the Temple. Everyone knew the stories.

I shook my head. I don’t know.

"Yes, you do. You think this is another attack. You think the Sumadi got inside her, broke her mind. You think Ishvandu will be able to help. He won’t."

The last statement caught my attention. I glanced at her. Here it was. Here’s what was bothering her. Finally.

Why do you say that? I asked carefully.

Because he’s not like you, Kulni.

What do you mean?

Really? You need me to draw it out for you? You need me to say who’s kind, and who isn’t? Who’s willing to wade into black memories to help someone, and who isn’t? Besides. You don’t want to owe him anything.

The bite of her words shocked me. I wrinkled my brow, forcing myself not to react. Alis opened herself so rarely; if all she got was a reprimand, she’d be less willing to risk the truth again in the future. I had to tread carefully.

You don’t trust him?

Alis snorted. Trust him to look out for himself. I could do that.

I thought you two were . . . you know, getting along.

Sure. I can get along. I’m good at that. Doesn’t mean it changes how I feel about him. He’s not like you, Kulni. He’s not a good man.

I opened my mouth, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. Her words bothered me. They touched something in me I would rather not dwell on.

That’s not fair, I said at last. Ishvandu is—

She stabbed a finger into my chest, sudden and sharp. Her eyes narrowed. Her head twisted. Then she leapt to the curtained entrance and snapped back the flaps of white linen.

You.

Ishvandu hovered by the entrance, frowning deeply. Had he overheard Alis? Then again—it wasn’t an unusual look for him.

What’s this about? he growled. Some Acolyte comes barging into the Hall, waving his arms and ranting about an emergency. I rush over here, only to have Tala look at me like I’ve lost my mind, and of course she’s okay, and what am I doing here? Like how dare I check up on her without her permission. Yl’avah’s might, Kylan, you can’t just snap your fingers at a Guardian and expect him to come running.

Yet here you are! Alis shot him her wickedest smile.

Ishvandu glowered at her. I hope this wasn’t your idea.

Oh, trust me. It’s not.

Alis, I sighed.

All right, all right, I’ll go. She rolled her eyes. But even as she slipped out behind Ishvandu, I caught a quick, warning glance from her, and she was gone.

Is this about Tala? Ishvandu asked the moment we were alone.

No, Vanya.

So? What is it then? I don’t have time for—

What’s your duty?

My question caught him by surprise. He blinked, then scratched beneath his new mass of Guardian’s braids. The Hall had tried their best to tame his wild, black hair. It half-worked. The braids shot out from his head like quills—probably a testament to how fast he’d ridden here. But even at the best of times, he struggled to get them to lie neatly.

My duty?

Yes. As a Guardian, Vanya. The reason you bear that sword. I nodded to the keshu he wore so proudly on his hip.

Following the orders of the Al’kah and the Circle. Not you.

My mistake. I smiled thinly. I was under the impression a Guardian’s duty was to protect the people of Shyandar, to do all for their safety and well-being.

So did I, Ishvandu replied. Then I became a Guardian. Look, Kylan, what’s this about? I abandoned my kiyah half-way through a crucial training exercise and I’m not in the mood for your philosophies.

I need your help with a patient of mine.

He narrowed his eyes. Sands, Kylan. Why do I have a bad feeling about this?

Your instincts are getting better. Come on.

I walked to the door, but stopped and looked at him. I wanted to prepare him for what he was going to see. I wanted to soften the blow. I wanted to apologize ahead of time. But even though I knew I couldn’t do any of those things, I also hoped to give Alis time to stop eavesdropping and slip into a nearby room.

Well? Ishvandu demanded.

Right. I swept aside the curtain and led him back down the hall.

He followed, trying to look the part of the confident Guardian. He was getting better at that. Somewhat.

To me, I suspected he would always be the little scamp who got thrown out of the Temple for stealing. I cringed at the memory. I had done everything wrong. It was my fault he’d gotten tossed. My fault he was a Guardian now, instead of a scribe. My fault he had to risk his life over and over again against Sumadi and the desert. Of course, he would probably thank me for it. He never was cut out to scribble his days away at a desk.

In here, I said, dropping my voice to a whisper. The Acolyte I’d posted at Nyashal’s room glanced us over, then moved aside.

We crept in. The window had been shuttered against the sun, but a few slivers of light still danced through the dust and shadow. Nyashal was asleep, but hardly resting. She looked pale and wretched. She was shivering and clutching weakly at her clothes as if they bothered her. She had thrown aside the thin blanket. She made strange gurgling noises in her throat. And when we entered, she seemed to be aware of us. She whined under her breath, tightening herself into a ball, moaning and clutching her scarred face.

Nyashal, I said. Can you hear me?

She shook her head, less an answer to my question than a general refusal to acknowledge me.

I dipped a cup of water and stepped carefully forward. I crouched beside her, stopping just short of touching her. I had no desire to repeat our last experience.

Are you thirsty? I asked.

She made no reply. Her eyes were still closed, though I sensed she was holding them shut, rather than sleeping.

I’m going to give you some water. You’ve had nothing to eat or—

"No!"

I glanced back at Ishvandu. My friend reacted exactly as I thought he would. His face was stretched. His eyes were bright with fear. His whole body had gone rigid.

You know what’s wrong with her, I said.

It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t bother responding. We both knew. Instead, he just shook his head. Let her die.

Then he turned and marched out of the room.

I exhaled into the silence. I should have thought as much. Maybe I could have prepared him. Maybe it would have made it easier.

It was him, Nyashal whispered.

I started and glanced at her. A dark feeling, like the prickle of a huge, distant storm, crept into me. It was a small thing. A tiny thing. A feeling—nothing more. And yet . . . And yet . . .

I swallowed. Who? Ishvandu?

Nothing.

The man who was just here. Is that who you mean?

A quick, jerking nod.

What about him, Nyashal? I bent closer, my voice dropping to the barest whisper. Did he . . . did he hurt you?

She thought about it. When she whispered no, I felt a strange and enormous relief. Yl’avah’s might, how could I even ask such a thing?

Did he save you?

Again, she thought about it, and again, she whispered no.

Have you seen him before?

She nodded.

Where?

Nothing.

Nyashal, where have you seen him?

She whimpered and clutched herself tighter, like a child. Like a frightened child.

Nyashal—

"Save us."

I stopped. I had heard that before. Many times before, watching over my friend, watching him twist in his sleep, moaning and weeping. The boy who had disappeared into the desert to die, only to reappear a month later. My friend. My poor, broken friend.

He would hate me if he knew the things I’d overheard, the things he’d cried out in his sleep. About the shadows. About the Breaking. About the man with bare feet who called himself E’tuah. It was I who had found the small, white stone. I was afraid for him and for what he had done. And it was I who pleaded with my father: give him a chance, spare him. Don’t let him stand trial for this, Father. He doesn’t understand.

Yes, I knew what a Sending stone was, an artifact of ytyri, handed down from the Old Ones. Now forbidden. And I had taken it from him.

Nyashal’s eyes pried open. I caught a glimmer of light there. A flicker of tears.

He sees us, she whispered. He sees us. Her voice scratched like sand between teeth.

What do you mean, Nyashal?

The Broken. He must . . . he must . . . he . . .

She gave a deep, piteous groan. She covered her face and began to weep.

It was enough. It was more than enough for one day.

Rest, I said. Rest, Nyashal. You will find your strength again. I promise.

I rose, placed the cup beside her, and left.

You can’t help her, Ishvandu said.

We’d found an isolated corner of the Temple gardens, a place where there was no danswort, where I couldn’t be reminded of that failure, too.

I shook my head. I can, and I must. That’s my duty, Ishvandu. That’s who I am.

Ishvandu paced, arms crossed, eyes dark and distant. This was the last thing he wanted to be talking about. And yet . . . he hadn’t marched back to the Hall either.

He shook his head. When it happened to me, I was a child. He . . . I was young and my mind protected itself. But she is not. If she recovers, the first thing she’ll do is throw herself off the highest tier of the Temple.

Vanya!

You don’t believe me, fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

She spoke to me. She was lucid.

That only means more pain.

"She knew you."

Ishvandu stopped. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he met my gaze. I was shocked at the pain I saw there, not just the memory of being attacked, but something more recent. Something raw.

What do you mean?

She recognized you. She said you . . .

"Said I what? Don’t try to soften it, Kylan. Just tell me."

"Said you saw them."

His breath hissed out. He resumed pacing, now with a fast, irritated step. What does she know? She’s mad.

You’re the only one who knows what it’s like, Vanya. You can help her. I think . . . I lowered my voice. I think they’re still in her head. You understand the Sumadi better than anyone. Please, Vanya. This is your chance to be a Guardian, to help someone—

His eyes sparked with anger. He took two fast steps in my direction. "Nothing I say could possibly help you, Kylan—or her. Leave it."

As he strode away, I noticed how tightly he gripped his keshu. And I noticed how his words, for the first time I could remember, had the bite of a threat.

I sighed. It was time. If Ishvandu would not cooperate, then perhaps my father would know what to do.

Chapter Three

Ishvandu ab’Admundi

Idismounted and stopped inside the walls of the Guardian’s Hall. The sun was cruelly hot. It speared against me, pinning me like a shroud of fire. Yet inside, I was chilled.

I tried to calm myself, shocked at the intensity of my own emotions. I was shaking. I was breathing hard. I had ridden Yma through midday, and now my robes stuck to me, heavy with sweat. But the thought of one more moment in reach of the Temple . . .

Yl’avah’s might, was I such a coward?

I had seen them. The woman said so herself. I had seen them. Which meant it was true, and if it was true of Polityr, it was true of all of them, and . . . and . . .

And as I’d stood there, watching the woman thrash and groan, it all came hammering back against me. Every moment. Every excruciating detail. My mind being shredded open like rotten canvas. The thing inside. Thoughts, images, words not my own. Dying. Ending. Breaking.—And the blood dripping through my fingers. Kynava ab’Ashnavas. Bray. My friend. Dead because of me. And now Polityr. It could have been Polityr.

I pressed a hand over my eyes. No. I was past this. I had faced my fears. I had stood, spoken to them, held my own ground.

And now I knew.

Yl’avah’s might and the Tree, what now? How could I hide this? How could I hold my silence? Surely there was something I could do! And yet Mani was right. The chaos that would result, the loss of trust. On what authority could the Guardians stand if the very system they upheld transformed their own people into the stuff of nightmares?

E’tuah would know . . .

I growled and shoved the thought away. E’tuah had turned me away. He’d refused to help me, accusing me of carelessness, of losing the Sending stone to the High Elder, the one thing he’d entrusted to me.

Ishvandu!

The voice snapped so hard I jumped. Koryn was striding towards me, a dark look gathering across his face.

Where in the blasted sands have you been, you lazy roach? You think you’re so much better than us? You think you don’t die the same as the rest? Maybe you should face the shades alone next time, you worthless muck. I thought my sister made it clear she doesn’t want you around! If I hear you’ve been bolting your duties and bothering her for no good reason besides your own wretched loneliness, I’ll tie your stones in a knot, I—

Kulnethar sent for me.

Koryn’s eyes narrowed. And you listen to that white robe more than your own kiyah?

It sounded important.

Look, mudfoot—

I slammed a hand into his chest, driving him back two steps before he planted his feet.

I am a Guardian, I said, meeting his shocked expression. Do you know what that means, Koryn? Do you? I’m not a Novice you can humiliate for sport anymore, and I’m certainly not a Labourer, so you will show me the respect of an equal, or we’ll be continuing this conversation before the Circle.

I am the head of your kiyah!

"That’s right. You have the authority to order me around. Fine. You do not have the authority to treat me as anything other than a Guardian."

I released him and took a step back. His anger flashed—yet did I see a glimmer of acknowledgement beneath the scowl?

I tugged my sweaty robes into a semblance of order. "So what are my orders . . . sal’ah?"

You want orders? His jaw tightened. "Fine. You will never leave duty without my express permission again or I’ll have you tried for subordination. Guardian. Now grub-up before midday is over, and I’ll expect you prompt for our meeting in the Task Hall. Go."

Of course, sal’ah. I gave a sharp Guardian nod and marched off to the stables.

"You did what?" Breta laughed.

I shrugged. Apparently, Koryn had muttered the story to Nolaan, who had let it slip to Jil, who had immediately confronted Breta and I, and since we were sitting in the Task Hall with ab’Tanadu and Mani and Benji, that meant the whole kiyah knew.

Well, it’s about time someone taught him a little respect. Breta paced, tossing her elegant braids. Compared to the rest of the kiyah, she was a clap of energy. More than usual. As if trying to smooth over disturbing news with forced gaiety. Was she trying to forget the thing with Polityr ever happened?

I don’t understand, Benji piped up. Isn’t Koryn the head of this kiyah?

Indeed, ab’Tanadu grunted.

Then—forgive me, sal’ahs, but isn’t respect due our superiors, and not the other way around?

Benji had been assigned to the third a month ago as our Novice. Trained in the Hall since the age of ten, he wasn’t a Guardian yet, but he was the son of Guardians, a follower of rules, and destined for nothing else.

Ab’Tanadu smiled, which was saying a lot for the grizzled old outrider. Respect can go both ways, of a different sort.

Ah, Benji replied, though his tone remained puzzled.

I noticed Mani watching from across the room with her usual detached curiosity. Dark brows hung over a pale, lined face. She tilted her head, resting a single finger along her cheekbone, studying the fresh