text: The faces of Harajan were grown into every surface – from the cats' eyes hewn into either side of the broad round gates to the playful, puffed-cheeked heads of slaves that made up the doorknobs of every room in the hold – even the slave quarters. The portraits in the walls were not mounted, but living things, trained to grow and renew themselves into just this pattern by some long-dead tirajista sorcerer. It had been weeks since Driaa brought Maralah word that the pass had opened up. The weather had broken the day before, and she looked forward to sparring outside with Driaa wearing far fewer cumbersome clothes than usual. With the weather broken and Taigan on the way, she almost felt hopeful.
  
  Maralah passed portrait after portrait on her way through the blue-glowing corridors. The bioluminescent fungi lining the ceiling and edges of the walkway were nearly bright enough to read by, but they cast the portraits in grotesque shadows. She could not shake the feeling that perhaps some sinajista had captured the souls of the men and women and ataisa bearing these faces a thousand years ago and stored them here, a treasure-trove of power held in reserve, for just a time as this.
  
  She let her fingers tarry over the portraits as she went, but could sense nothing inside of them – no fiery, tingling essence of power. Sina was descendant, and though some mornings she woke quite certain she could feel it coming back into the world, most days her connection was just this – a tenuous flickering at the back of her mind.
  
  The hurried footsteps ahead of her gave her pause. She expected the Tai Mora any day.
  
  Rainaa, one of the Patron's slaves, rounded the corner, and nearly collided with her.
  
  "Where are you off to?" Maralah asked, fearing the worst. If Rainaa had come, it meant Rajavaa was dead.
  
  "Wraisau's boy sent me to find you," Rainaa said. "There's an army at the gates."
  
  "Tai Mora?"
  
  "I don't know."
  
  Maralah pushed past her. "Where is Kovaas?"
  
  "Western tower."
  
  "Find Driaa and Morsaar and have them meet us there."
  
  Maralah hurried toward the central keep and into the broad courtyard, still heaped with dirty snow. The sun was out, and she could hear dripping water. The kennel masters were exercising the animals, but there were no sanisi training in the yard. She thought that odd, but suspected many were already on the walls.
  
  She scanned the top of the twisted ramparts. They pulsed with green and blue defenses – a misty, static barrier that could repel a fist or a blade equally. She saw two sanisi there, and counted six regular infantry. That was a few more infantry than usual, but if there was an army out there, it should have drawn gawkers. She drew the short blade at her hip, just in case.
  
  Maralah gripped the puffed-cheeked slaves' head of the doorknob leading up into the western tower, and stepped inside.
  
  The interior was dark. She squinted, momentarily blinded by the abrupt change from the sunny, snow-white courtyard to dim tower. The air felt heavy. She swore.
  
  A great weight thumped into her chest.
  
  Maralah reeled, knocking back into something solid. Her ears popped. A great force squeezed her body rigid, capturing her arms against her sides. It yanked her into the room. The door slammed behind her.
  
  She hung suspended several feet above the floor in the tower foyer, strung so tight it hurt to breathe. She tried to focus on the shadowy figures around her.
  
  "Kill her?"
  
  "Wait for Morsaar."
  
  Bloody fuck, Maralah thought. He had moved faster than she anticipated. Army at the gates, indeed. She felt like a child.
  
  She sucked in a shallow breath. "Patron," she wheezed. "My brother?"
  
  She didn't know why she asked. She knew this song. She had sung it herself.
  
  "Morsaar is Patron."
  
  Maralah squinted again, and saw the speaker was an infantry man. But the sanisi? Who was the parajista who held her? What traitorous coward had turned?
  
  "No one is Patron until I say so," Maralah growled.
  
  The air around her contracted. She wheezed.
  
  Her vision finally adjusted. She saw Driaa standing to the left of the infantryman, a neutral expression on her face.
  
  Maralah said, "This close to the end, you side with him?"
  
  "I told you to take it while you could," Driaa said. "I did come to you first."
  
  Maralah heard footsteps. She raised her head, straining to see if Morsaar would dare face her. But no, it was just more infantry, and two sanisi. All of them were covered in blood. Killing themselves. At least the Dhai had killed and eaten each other, and made some use of all that death. She would just be burned.
  
  "The Patron wants her locked up," one of the men said.
  
  Maralah felt a shiver of relief. Morsaar still wanted something from her.
  
  "The Tai Mora," Maralah said. "Are they here?"
  
  "Not yet," the man said, and she recognized him as a confidant of Morsaar's, "but soon enough. You think we didn't know how to get you to come running?"
  
  "None of this matters," Maralah said.
  
  "Shut her up," the man said.
  
  The air constricting Maralah's chest grew heavier, tightening like a noose. She gasped. Her mouth filled with heavy air, thick as soup.
  
  Black spots juddered across her vision.
  
  Sina, she called. Sina, my star, my breath, where are you?
  
  She felt a tremulous snarl of power in answer, and saw a little puff of violet mist.
  
  Then blackness.