Page 32 of All the Wandering Light

The wind played with Mingma’s hair—I found myself staring at it, marveling at how he could at once be there and not there.

“We’d be foolish not to accept his offer,” Lusha said in a pointed tone. “He knows the terrain. He’s mapped the terrain. He can help you navigate.”

“I don’t need help. I can find the way.”

“The nights are long here. Can you find the way in the dark?” Lusha sighed. “Kamzin. We need Mingma. We can’t move nearly as fast as the witches, but this gives us a chance.”

I felt backed into a corner. Even the sound of Mingma’s voice set me on edge, but what could I say? I thought of his maps of Raksha, which had guided me safely almost to the very summit. And Lusha was right—we needed to move fast. We’d already lost too much time.

“Lusha showed me where she believes the star landed,” Mingma said. “I can get us there by sunset tomorrow. I know a valley that will take us through the foothills.”

“Why are you still here?” I said.

He gave me a smile that was so easy and open I couldn’t help staring. In that moment, he was an entirely different person from the man I had met on Raksha, twisted by bitterness and a lifetime trapped in that bleak, inhuman place. Something in his expression had dissolved, like frost under the spring sun.

“I thought I’d have one last adventure” was all he said.

I gave him a long look. He returned it mildly. “Fine,” I said. “Just you. None of your . . . friends.”

I didn’t know what I would do if he didn’t agree—he was a ghost, after all—but Mingma took me seriously, nodding and gesturing to the map in Lusha’s hands. “I can show you the route now.”

I came closer, trying not to think about what I had just agreed to—being guided through a twilight landscape with witches lurking nearby, by a ghost who, only last week, had attempted to kill me. Mingma laid the map on the ground by the fire, sketching out the details of tomorrow’s hike. It would be grueling, but it seemed doable. I avoided leaning too close to the ghost as he gestured at the map.

“Have you ever tracked a fallen star, Mingma?” Lusha said. I gave her a dark look. I strongly suspected that her too-easy acceptance of the explorer was a veiled barb directed at me. We had spent much of the day arguing—despite my designation as navigator, Lusha remained largely incapable of adjusting to a situation where she was not in charge. She had challenged every change of course, every conclusion I drew from the maps. My musings about Tem’s knowledge of silencing spells had not been well received.

“Emperor Lozong sent me on several expeditions for that purpose,” the ghost replied. He was settled comfortably on the ground, leaning back on his hands, as if he had been a member of our party from the beginning. In a way, I thought with a little shiver, he had been. “I never came close.”

“Then the emperor has always coveted them.”

“The emperor covets many things,” Mingma said.

“Lusha,” Tem said, “can you tell us anything else about their powers?”

Lusha frowned. She was perched cross-legged on a blanket, a dragon’s light spilling across her star charts. Her hair was in uncharacteristic disarray, and her eyes were shadowed. She had spent most of the previous night by the fire, poring over the charts. Despite her initial skepticism about my plan, she seemed to have dedicated herself—with her customary decisiveness—wholeheartedly to finding the star.

“As we all know,” she began, “shooting stars are said to be the spirits of ancient heroes.”

“As well as great villains,” Mingma said.

Lusha nodded. “Anyone who has had an impact on the course of history—for good or ill. Star showers like the one a few nights ago occur because someone on earth has changed that course. Altered the world somehow. When that happens, it’s said that the spirits of those heroes rejoice and dance across the sky. Some fall to earth. Those that do can be captured.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” I said. “If it’s the spirit of some vicious barbarian lord?”

“There is that risk,” Lusha said in a chilly tone. It was a tone that had become more frequent since we turned north, always directed at me. At first I had thought Lusha was angry about my contract with Azar-at, but she hadn’t mentioned the creature again, or seemed to take any interest in its presence.

“Risk?” Tem repeated.

“It matters little,” Lusha said. “A captured spirit is bound to you and must do what you ask of it.”

“Like Azar-at?”

“Not really. For one thing, the star isn’t really a being anymore—it’s closer to a talisman than a person, and can be used as such.”

My brow furrowed. A captured star didn’t sound like a talisman at all—it sounded like a ghost held prisoner against its will. I looked at Mingma, but he was gazing into the fire with a fascinated expression, as if he had never seen one before.

In spite of my best efforts, my thoughts strayed to River. I saw him by the campfire, laughing. I saw him on the mountain, after the serac had fallen an inch from me, his face rigid with horror. In some moments, I was able to convince myself that it had all been feigned, but my conviction didn’t last. What would I do if I met him in the Ashes?

I drew my legs up and rested my chin upon my knee. The answer was simple enough, on the face of it—I would have to kill him. Or watch Tem do it.