“But they did.” Ahma Goh’s face creased. “Oh, child. I thought Ketai Hanno would have told you. The day of their massacre, your clan was in the Northern Sanctuary, deep in the mountains of Rain. The Northern Sanctuary is the most remote of the four. We thought they’d be best hidden there—and they would have been, had the King not chosen the one day he knew they’d be defenseless.” Her head drooped. “No one has set foot in the Northern Sanctuary since. It is not a place for the living. Not anymore.” Abruptly, the old woman clapped Wren on the back, brightening. “Come now, child. All is not lost. Look! The Xia clan remains alive—in you.”
Wren tried to return her smile, but at the reminder of the Xia’s power, something dark nagged at her. “My father—he thinks the King has been trying to replicate the Xia’s methods. That it’s what’s causing the Sickness.”
Ahma Goh sobered. She waited for Wren to continue.
“And we’re pretty sure the Xia’s magic has something to do with… with death.”
“Hmm.”
“I used it, once. A shaman friend. He sacrificed himself to strengthen my magic.”
Ahma Goh’s face was still unreadable. “And did it?”
Wren nodded, even as the admission sickened her. “But I’ve been wondering… this place. The way you talk about the Xia? It’s all so—so vibrant. Full of warmth and laughter. But if the King is using their methods and it’s causing the Sickness, and their methods use death, then how is this place the way it is? Why isn’t it crippled by the Sickness, too?”
“What is magic at its roots?” Ahma Goh asked.
Wren hesitated. “An exchange of qi. Of energy.”
“From who?”
“From… ourselves.”
“And so if death was to be used as an exchange, whose death should it be?”
“I don’t follow, Ahma Goh.”
The old shaman waved her papery hands. “We offer the earth our own pain—or our own beauty. It depends upon the clan as to which method is preferred. Still, both amount to the same thing: in needing something from the earth, we shamans give it something of ours in return. Death could be an offering, certainly. But death of another is not death—it is murder. And murder is not an offering. It is taking that vitality from someone else. Qi draining in its purest form. That was why your shaman friend’s death offered you such intense power. You didn’t take his life—he gave it to you.”
A gift. Wren hated the thought.
Hiro’s sweet young face came to her mind. The memory of him carving a line down his arm and offering his blood up to her as simply as if he were handing her a flower.
She thought of her Birth-blessing word. She’d always thought sacrifice meant her own—but what if this was its true meaning?
Lei’s prediction on Lova’s ground-ship came back to her. The words had been eclipsed by all that came after. But Wren was struck then by the earlier part of their conversation.
So Ketai doesn’t know about your power yet.
No.
Are you planning on telling him? You know what he’ll do with this information, Wren. He’ll find others to pledge themselves to your power. Other broken boys like Hiro who have every reason to hate the King and don’t value their own lives enough. You’ll have a whole army of willing sacrifices.
Her father did know about what had happened to Hiro. Caen must have told him, because early on into their return to the Jade Fort, Ketai had approached her and congratulated her on what she’d done on the Czos’ island. She’d saved them, he’d said. But that wasn’t exactly true. She’d used her magic, yes, but it had been Hiro who’d bolstered it. Without his sacrifice, they’d have been overcome.
Was this the true meaning of her Birth-blessing pendant, then? Was Wren’s father hoping she’d lead their clan to victory along a path of corpses built from the bloody bodies of her own allies? Her own kin?
Her friends?
Ahma Goh seemed to sense her spiraling thoughts. She took Wren’s hands and smiled up at her, her milky-black eyes shining. “Put this from your mind, child,” she urged. “Whatever you are worrying about, it is not with us right this moment. If you carry the full weight of your responsibilities all the time, even the strongest person would be crushed.” She waved at the shrine. “How about you pay your respects to the gods and your ancestors. They’d like that.” Her nose wrinkled. “And when you’re done, it’s about time for a wash, wouldn’t you agree?”
Wren forced a smile. “Thank you, Ahma Goh,” she said. “For everything. You and your shamans have been so generous. I wish we didn’t have to leave so soon.”
“Leave?”
“We have to keep moving. My father gave me clear instructions. In fact, we should be setting off for the next secure location within the hour—”
She broke off as Ahma Goh dissolved into rasping laughter. “Sorry, my child. It’s just, you still haven’t understood.”
“Understood?”
“You are safe here, my child.” The old shaman smiled sadly. “You have spent your life fighting. I can feel that. And it has made you strong. But do not speed through life so fast you miss all the joy as well as the pain.” She clasped her fingers, leaning in. “Stop running, child. Set down your blades. We both know too well how soon you’ll have to pick them up again. For the next few days, I do not want to even see you close to a weapon, do you understand me, Wren Xia Hanno? Here at the sanctuary, you are not a clan leader at war. You are a young girl in need of rest and care. Let us give that to you.”
I don’t deserve it, Wren wanted to say.
Perhaps Ahma Goh sensed so, because, eyes twinkling, she said kindly, “We all deserve a break, child. Your ghosts shall not haunt you here.” And flashing one last, toothless grin, the ancient shaman shuffled away, leaving Wren alone with wet eyes and a quietly expanding heart.
FIFTEEN
LEI
AFTER MY EXCHANGE WITH NAJA’S MAID Kiroku, I spend every moment alert for a sign that whatever my allies have planned is on its way. Yet days pass without incident. I even stay up throughout the nights, just in case the “blast” Kiroku mentioned happens then, leading Blue to grumble about how much extra effort she has to expend in order to hide my under-eye circles when she does my makeup.
When four days have gone by without incident, I’m ragged from fatigue and frayed nerves. That evening, when Madam Himura and I head home after a banquet in City Court, I doze off only a minute after climbing into the carriage. When we jolt to a stop, it takes me a moment to remember where I am.
Then Kiroku’s words snap into my mind.
It will happen soon. Wait until you hear the blast.
I sit up straight, wiping drool from my chin. My dangling earrings chime.
Madam Himura slaps her cane across my chest. “Do not move.”
The faint hum of the shamans in Temple Court purrs under the sounds of the bustling street, and my ears latch on to it, remembering the opportunity I’m being given.
Cloven steps approach. Commander Razib flings the curtain aside.
As usual, the Commander and my other guards have been riding alongside our carriage on hulking horses bred big enough to carry even the largest of demons. On wider roads, they surround us on all sides, but here in City Court most of the streets are narrow. The one we’ve stopped in is a popular drinking spot. Covered paths double as terraces for the busy bars and late-night restaurants, colorful banners flapping from the walkway eaves.