Page 41 of All the Wandering Light

Mara waited, but the man didn’t reappear. The thought of entering that collapsing black ruin, which loomed jaggedly like a monster’s maw, put him ill at ease, so he walked on. As he passed the man’s cart, he realized it wasn’t loaded with a jumble of blankets—beneath a sheet of rough cloth was the still body of a woman.

Mara’s hand went to the talismans in his pocket. His magical skills were passable—better than most, in his estimation—but he was out of practice. His thoughts turned to the witches who had abducted him in the Amarin Valley, their feral strength and grace. It was the memory that River had taken from him two years ago, after River had rescued him and revealed his own identity in the process. For two years, Mara had been enspelled, part of his memory suppressed by River.

River. Mara’s hand tightened around the talismans. He had always resented River. How could he not resent someone who, at the age of fifteen, had strolled into the emperor’s court and stolen the title of Royal Explorer, which should have been Mara’s? It was ludicrous how everyone at court had swooned over his every exploit. Mara had never trusted River, not even when he saved Mara’s life, as he had done on several occasions. In fact, looking back, Mara seemed to recall that he had once or twice wondered if River had some connection to the witches. Perhaps he had even confronted River about it, and River had removed those memories too.

One thing was certain: he would enjoy revealing River’s identity to the emperor. He imagined doing it in front of the entire court, their faces paling as they realized the depth of their favorite’s betrayal.

Mara entered a square of stone houses that seemed to have escaped the inferno. Two men and a girl of perhaps thirteen were lifting another body off a cart and placing it in a row with several others. The cloth that covered it slipped, revealing an arm blistered with burns.

Mara cast a cool look over the bodies. “I am sorry to interrupt your rites,” he said, keeping his voice calm but authoritative, “but I’m looking for your Elder. I was sent from the emperor’s court.”

“Really?” the girl said in what might have been a dry tone—Mara couldn’t read her. None of the others smiled. The girl stood, absently wiping bloody hands on her dress. “We’ve received more travelers from the Empire in a month than we normally do in a year. Are you from Kamzin’s expedition?”

Mara paused, surprised. “I— In a sense. She is—”

“This way.” The girl strode past him without a backward glance, stepping calmly over a body.

Mara followed her up a narrow lane, where there were several more intact dwellings. The witches had destroyed most, not all, of the village. He felt a stab of foreboding. If they had attacked Jangsa in revenge, they would have taken care to ensure that nothing—and no one—survived. No, their aim had been to burn the village quickly, sending smoke billowing into the sky like a beacon—a beacon to draw the Empire’s eye.

The elder was seated in a bed over which a healer leaned, murmuring. He was a stout man with a round face within which his small, dark eyes seemed almost lost. When he saw Mara, he dismissed the healer. He motioned the girl forward, and she whispered something in his ear. She bowed herself out.

“Welcome, explorer,” the elder said. “Atyu tells me you are with Kamzin’s expedition. Yet I don’t remember your face.”

“We traveled to Raksha in separate parties,” Mara said, still wondering at the appellation. It had been River Shara’s expedition that had stopped here—Kamzin had merely been his guide.

“I see.” The elder did not seem to require additional clarification. He regarded Mara for a long moment, taking in his ink-stained hands, his tahrskin chuba—worn by all the emperor’s explorers. Mara regarded him in turn. He didn’t see any obvious sign of injury. Then the man shifted position beneath his blanket, and Mara saw that his hands and arms were horribly burned. The skin was coated in a resinous salve that would numb the pain and prevent further damage, but the man would bear disfiguring scars for the rest of his life.

The elder noted Mara’s gaze. “There was a child trapped by one of the fires. I managed to extract her, though her parents were not so lucky. Is your friend recovered? The one caught in the storm.”

Mara’s thoughts darkened at the mention of Norbu. He had known the man for years—traveled with him, respected his vast knowledge of shamanic lore. He knew his wife too, a noblewoman of ancient lineage with a ready smile. Sarven.

The elder gave a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. Our healer did her best. But I see we were too late.”

“Yes.” Mara doubted it had been too late—no doubt the healers of this isolated place had inferior skills. “I’m afraid I must share something with you. The witches have their powers back because of one man—the Royal Explorer. You gave him shelter here.”

The elder looked puzzled. “Ah,” he said, after a pause. “You mean the young prince? Yes, I’m not surprised he was responsible for this. He takes after his mother. I saw that the moment we met.”

Mara stared at him.

“You knew what he was,” he breathed. “How?”

The elder gave a quiet laugh. “I used my eyes.”

Mara thought about the stories he’d heard of Jangsa, the mysterious village at the edge of the Nightwood that refused to pay tribute to the emperor. It was said that many of the villagers had witch blood, and that some of their shamans could work spells without talismans. Mara looked into the man’s small black eyes and shivered.

“Why did you invite him into your village?” he said. “Because of him, Jangsa has been destroyed.”

“Jangsa will never be destroyed,” the man said in the patient voice one might use when teaching a child. “We will rebuild, as we have done before. You southerners don’t understand—you thought the war between the witches and the Empire was over. You grew too comfortable in your polished city guarded by the emperor’s useless shamans and well-fed soldiers. You came to regard the witches as little more than myths, monsters you hear about in fireside stories. In Jangsa, we know better.”

Mara felt uncomfortable beneath the elder’s gaze. It was as if the man were not merely looking at him, but inside him.

“Your people should leave this place and seek protection from the Empire,” he said. “Are you not afraid the witches will return?”

“Oh, no,” the man said. “They have what they came for.”

Mara waited, but the elder didn’t continue. The healer entered and busied herself with a jar of salve. Mara, relieved to have an excuse to leave, bowed himself out.

“I invited him in because that is what a host does,” the elder said. Mara turned, at the edge of the doorway. “There are some laws older than any conflict. Hospitality. Justice.” He paused. “Your emperor stole something that didn’t belong to him. Something he didn’t understand. Now we will all feel the consequences of his arrogance.”