Page 55 of All the Wandering Light

“You wouldn’t fall,” he said. “I wouldn’t let you.”

I let out my breath. River’s voice was annoyed, as if it irritated him to state something he viewed as self-evident. And it was true that he had saved my life, even after I had thrown a knife at him. I didn’t understand him at all. My eyes roamed his face as if I could find some way back into his thoughts.

River shifted slightly, wincing. He sprawled against the mountain in his familiar, casual attitude, one leg dangling over the ledge. But his body held a tension that was not usually there, and I knew he hadn’t lied about the pain he was feeling.

Casually, I removed the star from my pocket and tossed it between my palms.

“What’s wrong?” I wasn’t above taunting him, even when there was nothing to be gained from it. “You don’t seem as eager to change your shape as you usually are. Don’t you want to turn into an owl and carry the star away in your talons?” I paused. “Or perhaps a yak, to tear it from my hand?”

River looked repulsed, as if I had said something unimaginably filthy. “No.”

“So, being injured makes it harder for you to change shape.” Because some tiny shred of hope remained, I ran through all the possibilities this created. Each was wilder and less plausible than the next.

“Not harder,” River said. “But it becomes unpleasant. The injury doesn’t vanish, you see. It has to change its shape too. If I changed form now, it would feel like being stabbed several times over.”

Some small part of me was intrigued by this—with their powers restored, I had imagined the witches to be nearly invincible. The larger part of me was filled with fury and despair. Then it was as if those feelings crumpled, leaving a cold emptiness in their place. I gripped the star.

“This is it, then,” I said. “You’ll take the star and create an army. You might not care about the Empire, but what about the spirits of the witches you’ll raise from the dead? Don’t they deserve their rest?”

River gazed at me blankly. There was a small silence, and realization dawned in me.

“You don’t know what the star’s powers are.” My voice was low.

“I don’t care what they are. It’s my brother who wants it, not me.” But his expression was troubled. “I doubt it has that power. Nothing can raise the dead.”

“Fallen stars can,” I said. “In a way. They can bring a person back to life, though they aren’t the same. Haven’t you heard the stories? The ancient shamans who raised the dead and kept them as slaves?”

“I’ve heard the stories. That’s all they are.”

“Why would I lie to you?” I was frustrated. “How was I to know you didn’t want this?”

“Esha wouldn’t do that.” River seemed to speak half to himself. “Not even him.”

“Why did you think your brother wanted the star?” I snapped.

River didn’t reply immediately. “It grants power. He didn’t know what kind. I didn’t think he even cared, so long as it hurt the emperor. He said—” He stopped.

I didn’t understand his reaction. His expression was distant and uncertain, and for a strange moment, I was reminded of the boy who had followed his brother into the woods and become lost. But it didn’t matter. From the moment he had appeared, all hope was gone.

“Clearly, I can’t escape.” My voice was hollow. “And I can’t fight you. So take it and go.”

River blinked. Uncharacteristically, he seemed at a loss for words. He gazed at me as if I were a riddle whose solution had long eluded him. His gold eye gleamed in the fading light, while the black was all shadow. Despite myself, my heart gave a strange skip.

A tremor ran through the shadows surrounding us. River looked up, and his face darkened.

“Esha.”

My heart seemed to stop. I dragged myself to my feet, turning to look at the creature who stood slightly above us at the very tip of the spur, the darkening sky at his back.

River was already standing, moving with that disconcerting speed. In another instant, he was at my side, plucking the star unceremoniously from my hand and then—to my confusion—shoving me behind him.

“You followed me.” River’s voice was flat, almost dismissive, but a tension had entered his body.

“Of course I followed you,” Esha said. “You don’t think I’d let you take the star?”

He came forward, stopping only a few feet from River, and I let out a choked gasp. Esha was just as I remembered—thin, pale, but with an eerily forceful presence. He reminded me of a cadaver unnaturally returned to life. I saw nothing of River in him, except perhaps in the grace of his movements, or the shape of his mouth, that slightly upturned corner. He wore dark rags, and his feet were bare.

I fell back a step, or perhaps River moved forward—I wasn’t able to focus on anything beyond Esha’s presence.