I froze. “The what?”
“You will meet a fire demon on your journey. I advise you not to befriend it.”
“Why would I befriend a fire demon?”
“Others have done so, or tried. Nevertheless, you should keep your distance.”
My heart had begun to pound. A fire demon. This was terrible news. Worse than being told that I would be caught in a rock slide, or confronted by a family of hungry bears. Fire demons were strange creatures—ancient, elemental spirits who mostly avoided humans, and about whom little was known. But of that little, none was positive. Shamans summoned them, sometimes, to work difficult spells, but only at great cost. A fire demon did not grant favors or forgive debts. They were greedy, hungry things. I had never seen one myself—few people had—and I hoped I never would.
Yonden shuffled across the room and bent over a stone in the floor. It lifted easily, revealing a dark cavity that I had never seen before. I heard papers rustling, and a few mysterious clink-clink sounds, before he finally retrieved a single scroll, which was gray with age.
“Here,” he said, passing it to me. “Handle it with care. It’s very old.”
I stared. I was gazing at a topographical map of an enormous mountain—but not just any mountain. I recognized its sharp, distinctive contours, how the ridge leading to its summit jutted like a protruding spine. I unfurled the map more, revealing different angles of the same subject, along with detailed drawings of key features.
Raksha.
I whistled for the dragon, and he flew to my shoulder. The map was indeed old and faded, but still legible.
“I didn’t know it had been mapped,” I breathed. There were even notes along the side, written in a firm, spiky hand.
“It’s Mingma’s,” Yonden said. “The survivors of his expedition managed to retrieve it and bring it back to the emperor. Your mother borrowed it before her own journey north. It’s not complete—Mingma never had a chance to finish it.”
I nodded. Mingma was a legendary figure, one of the first to hold the title of Royal Explorer. No one knew if he had actually made it to the summit of Raksha fifty years ago. If he had, he had not lived to tell of it.
“Lusha has a copy,” he said. “She wanted me to keep the original safe. But I think you can make more use of it than I.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
Yonden smiled. Retrieving a drawing board and a sheaf of paper, he sank to the ground before the telescope. His pencil scratched against the wood. I was clearly not expected to stay any longer.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” My voice seemed very small, suddenly.
Yonden’s pencil paused, but he did not speak for a long moment.
“Yes,” he said finally, pinning me with one last, deep gaze. There was a shadow on his face, but it didn’t conceal the quiet sadness there. “Look out for your sister. But do not forget to look out for yourself.”
PART II
WINDING PASS
SEVEN
WE LEFT AT dawn.
Or we would have, if River had been on time.
“Probably fixing his hair,” Tem said. He stood erect beneath the weight of his pack, resting his arm calmly on his walking stick. Too erect. Too calm. He was doing his best to appear untroubled—and would have succeeded, had I not known him as well as I did. Based on the stiffness of his mouth and the faint tremor in his hands, I guessed he wasn’t far from throwing up.
I said nothing, too preoccupied with a dream from last night. I had been running from a fire demon, who stalked me through dark woods. A beautiful woman appeared, half shadow and half flesh—even though I had never seen a witch, I knew she was one. But before she could lay a curse, the fire demon stretched its mouth to a terrifying size and swallowed her whole—then it turned toward me.
It doesn’t mean anything, I lectured myself. Just nerves. In the morning light, this was somewhat easier to accept.
Even more unpleasant than the dream had been saying good-bye to Father. I had found him sitting by the fire in his reception room before sunrise, his head in his hands. The doors of his shrine were ajar, and a stick of incense burned in the censer, as if he had recently prayed. The scent of jasmine and chani leaves filled the air, cloying in the close little room, which was sparsely furnished with a few woven mats for visiting villagers to sit on. A silk scroll took up an entire wall, depicting the generations of elders who had come before him.
“Papa?”
He started. “Kamzin. I didn’t hear you come in.”
I went to his side and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “It’s time for me to go. Won’t you come and see us off?”
“No—I don’t think so.”
I could see he had been crying. I went back to the door, closed it, then returned to his side. Father’s reputation was as a stern but fair leader, a wise arbiter of disputes who put reason before emotion when coming to decisions. But in truth, he was the most soft-hearted person I knew, more likely to cry at a wedding or birth ceremony than even my great-aunt Yema. He doted on his daughters—Lusha in particular—even more since my mother had died.
“Lusha will be all right,” I said, kneeling beside him and taking his hand. “And so will I.”
“Kamzin—”
“You don’t have to say it,” I interrupted. “I know you don’t want me to go. But I have to do this.”
He let out a sigh, his beard fluttering. It was mostly white now—despite his straight back and keen gaze, Father was not a young man. He had been twice my mother’s age when they married, and was now older than some grandfathers.
“When River Shara first wrote to Lusha,” he said, gazing into the embers of the fire, “I told her no. But, as Lusha said, how could we deny the Royal Explorer? I’m a village elder, and he’s one of the most powerful men in the Empire. And yet I wish with all my heart that Lusha had listened to me. There is a terrible darkness surrounding that mountain.”
“That’s just superstition, Papa.”
“That’s what your sister said.” He picked up a poker and stirred the embers, releasing a few lurking flames. “Now she’s gone. Somehow I can’t help feeling that it’s my fault.”
I touched his shoulder. “Of course it isn’t.”
He gave the embers another stir, then set the poker aside. “If your mother were here . . .”
My throat clenched. Father used those words often. In serious moments, when a storm or early thaw threatened the village, it was an invocation. Other times, when Lusha and I argued about who would travel with him to the spring markets, it was almost a joke. He never finished his thought. He didn’t need to.