Page 63 of All the Wandering Light

The tangle of memories from those chaotic moments of the attack began to sort themselves into patterns. I remembered the shadows, how strangely they’d behaved. Tem had thought my life was in danger. Somehow, that realization had allowed him to draw on a power I’d never seen him use before.

“No.” I said it even as I remembered how the shadows had responded to Tem’s commands. How his powers had seemed to grow after the binding spell was broken.

The spell’s easier than last time.

I couldn’t accept it—my mind balked. Tem was familiar; Tem was home. I knew everything about him—his expressions and mannerisms, his quirks and habits.

“Kamzin.” Lusha’s expression held a warning, but there was little of my own disbelief reflected there.

My thoughts churned. No one knew who Tem’s mother was—no one except his father, Metok, and the ill-tempered man had always refused to speak of her, even to Tem. I had grown so used to thinking of Tem as a boy without a mother, but of course that wasn’t true.

It was as if the world had shifted, rearranging itself into new patterns.

“He’s always been good at magic,” Lusha said, so quietly only I could hear. “Too good.”

Tem had witch blood. Tem. My amazement was dampened by a surge of fear. What had the soldiers done to him?

“You’re telling me that you didn’t know your friend was a witch?” The man’s voice was flat with disbelief.

Lusha merely looked at him, as if sizing him up in turn. I knew better, though—the blankness of her expression told me that Lusha was uncharacteristically lost for words. My stomach sank as I realized why. These soldiers had little reason to keep us alive after what they had seen.

“We are innocent travelers,” Lusha said finally. “If we were witches, your soldiers would have endured more than a few cuts and bruises for attacking us.”

The grove became quiet.

The man let out a breath that was not quite a laugh. “Is that a threat?”

Lusha didn’t waver. “It’s a fact.”

The man seemed unable to take his gaze off Lusha. “Witch or not, you’re an odd creature to stumble upon in a place like this—a ragged girl with a face like the dawn and eyes as bright as fireflies.”

“We’re here on the emperor’s business,” Lusha said.

The man raised his eyebrows at that spectacular statement. “The emperor’s business?”

Someone was approaching the glade—or rather, multiple someones, mounted and on foot. My heart sank. Were we to be surrounded by the entire Fifth Army?

A woman in a crested helm came forward, followed by two soldiers who had a chronicler-ish look about them, clothed in leather armor with packs slung over their shoulders. The tip of a scroll peeked out of one.

“General.” The tall man drew himself to attention with a lazy sort of formality. The woman’s gaze swept the glade.

“Well?” she said, that small word so crisp with command that it set my heart pounding. She was perhaps forty, with hair of pure silver cropped at her ears, giving her the appearance of wearing a second helm. Her features were sharp and uneven, as if carved by a rough blade. She was short—about my own height, and more than a head shorter than the man, yet when she spoke, every gaze snapped to her.

“Three witches claiming to be innocent travelers,” said the man, with a glance at Lusha. “Several dragons, and one confused yak.”

It took a second for this to sink in. “Azar-at,” I muttered, knowing the fire demon, wherever it had gone, could hear me, “you brought the yak?”

You said “us,” Kamzin.

I closed my eyes briefly.

“Innocent?” The general turned her sharp eyes to me and Lusha. “Two soldiers with broken bones. Gunril is still unconscious.”

“You attacked us,” Lusha said, her voice low. “We had no idea who you were, or—”

“I am Jinsang, General of the Fifth Army,” the woman said. Her voice rasped, as if she spent a great deal of time shouting, but it carried. She spoke with the air of one who routinely announced her title to people on their knees, and had grown bored with it. “This is my captain, Elin. You will state your names and purpose here, or he will cut you down.”

At that, the tall man removed his helm. He was younger than I had guessed from his voice, twenty-five at most, with a face so handsome my breath momentarily caught in my throat. At least, “handsome” was my first impression, taking in the sleek hair that slanted like lashes of ink across his forehead, the sharp line of his jaw, his height and powerful build. But his full lips had a twist of cruelty, an aspect that was hard and faintly mocking, confirming my earlier suspicion. His black eyes were framed by thick brows, which were now drawn together in thought and mild annoyance. While his armor was impressive, my gaze was drawn to his boots—faded leather stained an unmistakable reddish brown.