She handed his blade back, hilt first.
He looked at the blade, at her. Wrapped his hand around hers. “You keep it.” He squeezed her hand, let go and stood.
And Tarq began playing his oud.
Tarq hadn’t touched the little instrument once along their journey, though Imari had spotted it bouncing from his horse’s flank. In fact, she’d begun doubting it was his. She certainly hadn’t expected this abrasive and hulking saredd to spare any sensitivity for music, and it surprised her even more that he had a delicate touch.
He plucked the strings, the oud a tiny and fragile thing in his enormous hands. Rhythm pulsed as his palm slapped the surface like a steadily beating heart. Notes teased for resolve, dancing quickly over tight intervals. It was a familiar piece, one she hadn’t heard in a very long time, because it was about Istraa’s persistence in a war that had almost destroyed them.
Imari could easily guess why Tarq had chosen it.
Still, it was beautiful, and Imari closed her eyes, letting the notes steal her away. Letting them throw her into a mesmerizing story of triumph. She saw Vondar—the palace in Trier, Istraa’s capital—or her memory of it. Gleaming towers stood strong and defiant while Azir’s war railed against the pristine white walls.
The image flickered—distorted.
The scene vanished, replaced by an ocean of sand. It rolled in all directions, sweeping and desolate beneath a dark and violent sky. A lone figure stood upon the horizon. Imari could not see a face from this distance, but she felt the figure’s sharp attention.
Fear carved into Imari’s soul. Like an off key to Imari’s major, a note warped and bending out of tune.
A flash.
A tree, black and bare, its branches gnarled and twisted and rotten. Its trunk bent like a stubborn old man, its roots clawed into a rocky floor as it clung defiantly to the world. The branches began to grow, stretching and coiling like vines. Black tendrils reached and searched.
You are mine, sulaziér…
The voice rumbled from the bowels of the earth, more vibration than tone, and it rattled every string inside of her.
Those branches lashed out like whips; the tree’s great, fleshy tentacles wrapped around her arms and legs. Imari screamed, and a branch stabbed through her mouth. She choked, gurgling on diseased bark and blood. More branches speared her arms and legs. They ripped through skin and tissue like grappling hooks, anchored to her bones, and jerked her forward. Imari would have cried out, had she voice to cry with, and the wooden spears pulled her into the tree.
Her world turned dark, hopeless and cold—so cold. Colder, even, than a winter night in The Wilds. This was an absolute absence of heat and light. An infinite abyss of nothing.
And yet, she wasn’t alone.
She felt a rage that wasn’t her own—a maddening, chaotic fury that infused the nothing—and that horrible voice screamed, ripping apart the last vestiges of her consciousness. Heat flared deep within as her power ignited. Fire shot through her veins, scorching her arms and legs, burning up the rage and wooden spears. And there was light, white and blinding. The horrible scream faded and stopped. All of it stopped—the tree, the darkness, the rage. The world fell quiet.
Still.
Until the only light left was the sun burning red through the backs of her eyelids.
“Imari.”
It was Ricón, and she didn’t think this was the first time he’d said her name.
Imari’s eyes snapped open as she gasped for breath, heart pounding, her body slick with sweat.
“Imari, what is it? What’s wrong?” Ricón demanded, eyes wide with concern.
Imari realized she was on the ground, curled on her side. Her body ached in a dozen places, where the branches had stabbed through her skin. Panicked, Imari glanced down at herself, over her arms, but there were no punctures. No branches, no blood. Nothing.
It was just a dream.
But it had felt so real.
Beside her, Ricón knelt in the sand. A brilliant sun illuminated him from behind, and Tarq, Avék, and Jenya stood over him, watching her. Tarq was not holding his oud anymore.
Ricón’s callused hand felt cold against her forehead. “Tell me what you need.”
Imari unfurled her body and rolled, painfully, onto her back. “I… ” Her throat felt scorched, and the taste of blood and bark lingered on her tongue. “Water. Please.”
Avék produced a small water skin, which she took and drank. Cool water flooded the fire in her throat, quenching the flames in her body. She took another sip, handed the skin back to Avék, and then she climbed to her feet while Ricón steadied her with his hand. Questions filled his eyes, but she did not answer them. Not here, not now. Not in front of them.
And also…
What would she say?
Imari started for the horses with uneven steps, and Ricón followed.
“It’s your power, isn’t it?” he whispered once they were away from the others.
Unlike his saredd, he didn’t completely mistrust this part of her. The Liagé part. But right then, Imari wondered if he should.
You are mine.
Astrid had spoken those words, that night in Skyhold’s hall. But this had come from something else. Not in all her life had Imari felt such raw, unbridled power.
Or evil.
Imari pushed the rising fear out of her mind and checked her saddle’s straps. “I’ll wait here.”
Ricón didn’t move.
She hoped he’d let this go.
“You should eat,” he said.
“I’m not hungry.”
He stood there waiting—wanting explanations Imari could not give. Explanations Imari was too afraid to explore just then.
“Ricón, please,” Imari whispered, meeting his gaze.
She saw the battle in his eyes, but at last he turned and walked back to the others. Imari sighed and rest her forehead against her horse’s flank.
No, she thought. There was no place safe for her. Not in all the Five Provinces.
2
Survak leaned against The Lady’s rail, eyeing the dark and empty docks of Sahl’s Bay. He never liked setting anchor. Too many eyes, too many questions. But they’d needed provisions, and this small port along The Wilds’ southeastern edge supplied them, while the water also provided natural protection against any wandering shades. Most of his crew had opted to spend the night ashore, for it was a rare opportunity to find warmth, be it hearth or shared bed. For most, both.
He exhaled, his pipe smoke silver beneath the full moon. Survak didn’t like full moons. They reminded him of wolves.
He dumped the ash from his pipe into the placid seawater, and he’d just started for his quarters when he spotted a cloaked figure on the docks, standing in the amber halo of a lamppost.
Not a member of his crew.
Survak tucked his pipe into his furs and strode forward, stopping at the ramp where he kept a crossbow strapped against the hull.
“Can I help you?” Survak called out.
The figure stood with unsettling calm.
And then collapsed.
Survak whistled for his remaining crew and hurried down to the dock, where lamplight spilled over midnight robes and a hideously scarred face. Survak cursed and sprinted the rest of the way, boots slamming on the dock’s wooden planks.