Facing the water, Wren took a deep inhale—then leaped into the inky waters of the Zebe.
The cold shocked her, a frozen hand around her lungs. In an instant, the current clutched her, dragging her downstream far quicker than she’d anticipated. She kicked out and forced through the icelike water. Each movement was arduous, pain flourishing from her injured hips, lungs screaming, thighs aching.
Light rippled on the river’s surface before the muted rumble of an explosion reached her through the water.
Wren sped upward. She gasped as she burst out, switching her strokes to cut through the choppy waves. A magnificent three-tiered pavilion close to Marazi’s southern bridge was on fire, flames spilling into the sky.
At least Lova was having fun.
It took five more minutes of hard swimming to reach the steep bank of Marazi’s Old City. Wren splayed on her back to catch her breath. Water splashed her legs. She ached all over, pain radiating from her burning hips into every inch of her. Even her hair hurt.
Lying there was the first break she’d had in almost twenty-four hours; already those magical days of peace at the Southern Sanctuary seemed like lifetimes ago. Would she be able to return, one day? Simply lie somewhere, without pressure weighing down on her, without the constant shadow of danger, and just feel the world turning?
As if in answer, a sweet voice whispered in her ear.
Get up, my love.
“Lei,” Wren breathed.
She couldn’t stop. Not until Lei was safely back at her side.
Gathering her strength, Wren staggered to her feet. She wrung out her clothes as best she could before clambering up the muddy slope.
The city center was busy with activity. Guards shouted, soldiers running this way and that. Lova’s fire leaped from building to building, already eating up much of the quarter directly across from the bridge, causing bedlam among its residents, which in turn obstructed the soldiers trying to pass.
Wren turned her attention to her own target.
At fifteen levels, the Orchid Hall was by far the tallest building in Marazi. Its curved eaves reached high over the city like a giant bird’s outstretched wings.
Wren made her way toward it, slinking like a cat through oil-dark shadows. The clan’s pavilion was set within elegant gardens, its lacquered indigo walls carved with floral patterns. The edges of each roof, door, and window frame were bordered in bronze to match the clan’s colors.
The Orchid were fox demons. Hanging lanterns glinted off their guards’ russet pelts as they stalked the balconies and grounds.
Wren crept closer. She waited until the guards patrolling the base of the building passed before launching herself up the closest pillar. She climbed swiftly. She swung herself up and over the curved edge of the roof, then crept nimbly across the stone tiles, repeating the same process for each floor.
By the time she reached the top, Wren was panting. Her pain was strong, fiercer after the respite the sanctuary had given her, and up this high the air was cold, lifting goose bumps beneath her wet clothes. Guards marched by, unaware of the girl watching them from the shadows. Beyond the balcony, light glowed from behind rice-paper doors.
Lord Anjiri’s throne room.
Wren snuck across the tiles, approaching the southern side of the room. A few of the sliding screens were open, offering an unobstructed view of the city, all the way to where the battle at the refugee camps still raged.
Harried voices floated out.
“—three hundred and counting—”
“—the Lunar Pavilion just went down—”
“—General Gombei is requesting backup at South Bridge—”
Wren could see into the room now, and took stock in one sweeping look. Five guards to each entrance; eight maids kneeling along the edge of the room; two more serving tea for the six advisers huddled over the table, poring over maps and military legers. The throne in the center of the room sat empty. Its Clan Lord stood instead past the open screens, half blocked from view by a beam. The old fox gazed out over his city. Wind rippled his wizened auburn fur.
Wren drew one of her swords. She was about to make her move when the air blurred.
She had just enough time to draw her second sword as a demon dived at her.
The shriek of clashing metal shot through the night.
Wren’s boots slid on the tiles as the demon pushed her back, until she felt her heels digging into the edge of the roof. Wren threw all her weight forward, but the demon girl was strong.
And Wren’s grip was slipping.
From behind their grinding swords, Qanna’s black eyes glinted. Qanna—Lady Dunya’s daughter and her usurper. The new leader of the White Wing, allied now with the Demon King. Sister of Eolah, who Wren had murdered accidentally in Qanna’s stead.
The pretty young swan demon’s face was wrought with rage and a deep, hateful satisfaction. “Lady Wren,” she spat. “So good of you to come. I had a feeling you would.”
“Qanna—” Wren began.
She didn’t get a chance to continue. With one strong thrust of her heavy jian, Qanna shoved her.
Wren felt her feet lose purchase. Then she was tipping, falling into the opening arms of the smoke-churned sky.
TWENTY
WREN
SHE GRABBED A FISTFUL OF QANNA’S robes at the last second.
Qanna lurched forward, opening her feathered arms wide to combat the sudden extra weight. In doing so, her sword caught Wren across the arm, tearing through her tunic and dragging a slash of red along her skin. The pain was fast and sharp. From where she hung, Wren still had hold of both her own swords. One was in the same fist that clung to Qanna’s robes. The other swayed in the air behind her as she dangled from the roof.
With a grunt, Wren swung it around, using the momentum to fling herself back onto the rooftop.
Qanna batted her away the instant Wren’s feet gained purchase. But Wren stepped back anyway, dual blades poised not to strike but to defend. “I don’t want to kill you, Qanna,” she said, almost the exact same words she’d used on Commander Teoh at the Cloud Palace.
And she hadn’t killed the Commander—though someone else had.
The girl glowered. “Pity,” she snarled. “I’m very keen to kill you.”
She lunged, just as Orchid guards came running.
In the moment she had to react, Wren threw all her energy into accessing her Xia state. She forced through the mudlike resistance—goddamned Sickness—and then, oh, being submerged in that vast lake of magic and might, a sensation so right, so fierce, so good.
Then she was moving.
Wren became a spinning top in slow motion, calm and poised, vibrating with a deep awareness. She noticed everything. The panting breaths of the guards as they ran to attack, only to be mowed down by her swords. Qanna’s wingbeats as she retreated to the air. Lord Anjiri’s surprised shout as he ran to take cover within the throne room. And smoke, smoke everywhere, clouds of it turning the air ashen.