Page 21 of All the Wandering Light

“Ragtooth?” I stepped outside the firelight. “Dinner.”

I peered into the shadows, hoping for the familiar spark of green eyes. But nothing stirred.

“Ragtooth,” I called a little louder, in case he had fallen asleep somewhere.

Nothing.

Frowning, I returned to Tem’s side. He handed me a steaming bowl of rabbit stew. Mara’s afternoon hunt had been successful, though the game this far north was scrawny, more fur and bone than meat. I gave Mara a nod of thanks. He looked at me as if I had drawn a weapon on him.

“I don’t know why he’s so jumpy,” I muttered to Tem. “He spent three years with River, and he never attacked him.”

“Just ignore him,” Tem said.

Distracted, I spooned the stew into my mouth so quickly I burned my tongue.

“Are you all right?” I said. Tem’s eyes were red.

He didn’t answer right away. “Do you think I killed him?”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. “Tem . . . Norbu was already—”

“I know.” He swiped at his eyes. “I know. But before, there was a chance. If I killed him—”

I bit my lip. Tem had spent more time with Norbu than any of us—the shaman had taken him under his wing during the weeks-long journey to Raksha. And though Norbu had ordered Tem about like a servant, the man had also seemed to trust him, in a thoughtless sort of way. I felt a pang as I realized that the consideration Tem had been shown by the stuffy, pompous shaman was more than he received from most of the villagers in Azmiri, including his father.

Tem stirred his dinner for so long I wondered if he’d forgotten about it. I examined him, taking in the tightness of his mouth, the slight furrow between his eyes. “It’s not just Norbu, is it? You’re angry.”

“I’m not angry.” He returned my gaze, but there was a shroud over his expression, and I couldn’t read him. When had I not been able to read Tem?

My eye, already showing the imprint of Lusha’s fist, gave a throb. It had been a while since she had hit me, and neither her aim nor her forcefulness had diminished. “You don’t trust me now.”

“Did I say that?”

“You don’t have to.” I set my bowl aside—my appetite had vanished.

“You saved us,” he said. “I don’t like the decision you made. But I understand why you did it.”

He sounded, to my ears, as if he was mouthing words he had rehearsed in his head. I wanted to shake him until the mask fell away and he showed me what he really felt.

“This is my fault,” he murmured.

I stared. “Your fault?”

“I should have tried a different spell.” His gaze drifted back to the fire. “I should have reserved my strength for when it really mattered. Then you wouldn’t have had to . . .” He didn’t finish.

“Tem,” I said quietly, “Azar-at is the only one able to fight the fiangul. You know that.”

“I could have done better.” He coughed and set his own stew aside. “From now on, I’ll do better. You won’t have to use Azar-at’s power anymore.”

“How can you make a promise like that?” I said disbelievingly. “The reason I did this was because I knew that none of us has the power to keep Azmiri safe. That’s what we have to focus on: protecting Azmiri.”

“We don’t know the limits of Azar-at’s power,” Tem said, “and we shouldn’t trust anything a fire demon says. Kamzin, when you cast that spell, when you”—he stumbled over the words— “touched me and gave me Azar-at’s magic, I felt what it was. It’s nothing like shamanic magic. It’s a magic like fire, that burns as it’s expended. It’s dangerous—and wrong. Magic shouldn’t change you; it shouldn’t make you want to use it. No wonder every shaman who joins with a fire demon ends up dead. That sort of power is addictive.”

“River used Azar-at’s power for years,” I argued. “He ended their contract when he chose.”

“River isn’t human. It may have been different for him—we can’t know for sure.”

“So what will we do if the fiangul attack again?”