Hassan leaned forward, dark brows drawing together. “Charbaz?”

  The others looked both appalled and sympathetic.

  “Charbaz,” Malach echoed with an exaggerated grimace, relieved to find they disliked witches as much as he did.

  Koko drew her gown more tightly around herself, crossing her arms. She said something with great emphasis.

  “We will hide you,” Karl said. “If they come.”

  “Shalam tak,” Malach said.

  Hassan looked troubled, but he nodded agreement.

  “Jamila al-Jabban,” Malach said. “Do you know this name?”

  The company looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “What does she look like?” Karl asked.

  Malach described her. When he mentioned the seven silver rings in her ear, Karl perked up. “Left or right?” he asked.

  “Right.”

  “Ah! She is the servant of a khedive. The inner household. What color are the beads on her abbaz? Her cloak?”

  Malach thought for a moment. “Blue and white.”

  “Those are the colors of Luba. Is this Jamila a friend of yours?”

  After a moment, Malach nodded. “Yes. Will you pass through Luba?”

  “In ten days or so, if we are not slowed by a storm.”

  Malach’s heart beat quicker. He had a starting point. A place to begin the hunt.

  Hassan finished his wine and rose to his feet. The others followed suit. Malach hardly knew them, yet he felt strangely protective. The odds were long that Heshima would come walking up in the middle of nowhere, but the witches must be in the Masdar League. He didn’t want to bring suffering down on these nice people. Once they reached Luba, he would make his own way from there.

  One of the guards kicked out the embers of the fire. He expected to be handed a blanket, but Koko took his hand and led him to one of the wagons. She pointed to the script on the side, then to herself. He smiled and traced it with a finger. That’s what her name looked like in Masdari. It was more elegant than Osterlish, sinuous and curving.

  Her wagon was smaller than the rest, but she seemed to have it to herself. Thick carpets covered the floor. She threw the shutters open and cool air spilled inside. She lit a candle and pointed to the stack of cushions, then sat down at a tiny table and began to rub cream into her face. Malach lay back and laced his hands behind his head. There were show posters on the walls, and framed portraits of Koko looking fabulous. Lots of books, too. She recited poetry, he remembered.

  He didn’t realize she was wearing a wig until she took it off. She had short, wiry hair underneath. It was matted from the hairpiece and she fluffed it with her fingers.

  “You’re still pretty,” Malach said.

  She couldn’t have understood, but she smiled anyway.

  Koko blew out the candle and lay down next him. She smelled of vanilla. He hoped he wasn’t too offensive. If water hadn’t been at a premium, he would have bathed. But that would have to wait for the next village.

  “Tab marwak,” she said sleepily, plumping her pillow.

  “Tab marwak,” he repeated. “Good night!”

  Koko giggled. “Good night,” she whispered, making the words sound hopelessly exotic.

  He heard wagon doors slamming outside, a snatch of song and burst of laughter. Then silence. Malach closed his eyes. Within seconds, he slid into oblivion.

  Hours later, when the moon was just a silver sickle above the horizon, he stirred in his sleep. One hand crept to his belly, where the kaldurite burned with sudden fierce cold. A frown creased his brow. Then it grew smooth again.

  Thwarted, the Dreamer skulked on.

  There were many others to visit this night.

  Afterword

  The last book in the Nightmarked series, City of Dawn, is now on sale. You can find links to all retailers here, or just click on the cover. Read on for a sneak peek!

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  City of Dawn

  CHAPTER 1

  The young buzzard caught an updraft, black wings extended as it circled the dunes. The scent of death drifted on the wind. An enticing hint only.

  Something fresh.

  The air was cool, the sky strewn with chains of bright stars. The Ladder and the Throne. The Seventh Gate. Amira’s Hourglass. The Broken Feather. Many others, each with a tale to make the listener laugh and weep.

  Local clans had shared these stories around their campfires once, but that time was long past. The Ceaseless Sands were an empty wasteland now. Caravans wound along its fringes on their way to the capital, though none stopped for long—and those that wandered too deep never came out again.

  The buzzard, which had not eaten in eleven days, cared nothing for stars or stories. She widened her search, clever brown eyes scanning the sands.

  There.

  In the velvety shadow of some hills, a dead fox.

  The bird looked for others swooping down to the carcass but saw none. Lucky to be the first to arrive and enjoy an uninterrupted meal. With an ungainly flap, she alit next to the carcass. Soon the sands would boil and the fierce winds blow, but dawn was still a whisper to the east.

  The buzzard pecked out the eyes first. Then she started on the rest of the fenak, which was one of the desert varieties with enormous ears and a small, lean body. It had died sometime the day before, which she preferred to riper carrion. Her bloody beak was deep in its belly when a scraping sound made her head tilt.

  The noise came from a cleft in the rock. The vulture took a curious, shuffling step forward and stopped. She was barely a year old, but she knew that whatever moved in there smelled wrong. Not living or dead. With a regretful look at her half-eaten breakfast, the bird took to the air.

  A minute later, something emerged from the crevice, sinuous body gleaming in the starlight. It had slept for a long time. How long exactly it did not know. Only that it had dreamt and now it was awake again.

  The journey to the surface had taken the better part of a week, though the creature had little concept of either time or distance. It had crawled and slithered and wormed its way through crevices in the rock, driven by some long-buried instinct. Having achieved its goal at last, it was content to coil itself in the sand and rest.

  The constellations wheeled across the sky. The Ladder and the Throne sank behind the hills. In no time at all, the sun broke the horizon, dazzling the creature’s slow-blinking eyes, which were the clouded blue of chalcedony. With some effort, it remembered its own name.

  Borosus.

  Like a master key, this unlocked room upon room of other memories. War and rebellion. Blood and fire. The Mother gone, her children scattered, and her servants, of which Borosus was one, spelled into slumber.

  One name burned brighter than the rest. Borosus had loved him once. Now he nursed an implacable hatred. The mist left his eyes. They caught the sun like slivers of volcanic glass.

  “Morning Star,” he whispered. “O, Empyreal Prince. Deceiver. Will you face me now?”

  Borosus regarded what was left of the fox. Talons flexed as he launched into the air, following the southeasterly path of the buzzard.

  He, too, hunted.

  Chapter 2

  “Speak, woman,” Paarjini snapped.

  Jamila al-Jabban stared at the pattern of interlocking ovals on the carpet, black eyes glittering with fury. Bound hands gripped her skirts. She sat in a chair next to a square porthole. White-peaked waves rolled and crested beyond the glass, the salt spray mixing with flurries of rain.

  “I ought to throw ye overboard and be done with it,” Paarjini muttered with a scowl.

  She stood next to the prisoner, one hand braced on the bulkhead of the tilting ship. Each finger held stacks of rings. Milky moonstone, fiery ruby, speckled sandstone. Bracelets of tin, gold, silver and bronze rattled on her arms. Her chestnut hair was braided and caught up in a jeweled net.

  Kasia shot Nikola Thorn a quick look. It was an empty threat and they all knew it. Jamila might be an enemy, but none of the three women would murder a prisoner in cold blood.

  Besides which, she was far more useful alive.

  “We could dangle her over the side again.” Nikola’s silver tooth glinted in a wolfish smile. “Let her think on it some more.”

  Jamila swallowed hard. When she’d first refused to answer questions, the witches had dangled her upside down beyond the stern rail, a hand’s breadth above the foaming wake of the ship. Jamila’s olive skin had a greenish cast when they finally hauled her aboard, but she’d remained stubbornly silent.

  Nine days since the Wayfarer had sailed from Nantwich. Now they were almost at the Masdar League, where Balaur awaited them, along with an unknown number of witches and the khedive of Luba. Kasia felt the last thread of her patience snap. She would not fail again.

  She strode up to the prisoner, looming over her. “We already know about the City of Dawn. Tell us the rest and it’ll go easier for you. What are Balaur’s plans? He seeks the elixir of life, but how does he mean to find it?”

  The Masdari woman clamped her lips tighter as if to keep the words from spilling out. Her gaze swung to the two pretty raven-haired children in the corner. Tristhus was drawing a hunting knife along a leather strop while his older sister scratched Alice’s pointy ears. Sydonie caught Jamila’s eye and smiled broadly. On a normal child, the missing front teeth would be endearing. But Sydonie was a mage from Bal Kirith. The Saints only knew how many people she’d killed in her short life.

  “I bet Mirabelle could make her talk!” Sydonie raised her sleeve, exposing the Mark of a sinister flame-haired doll on her forearm.

  Tristhus shook a lock of black hair from his eyes. It flopped down again and he tucked it behind an ear. “She could, lady. Mirabelle’s a bitch.”

  The Markhound lay at the children’s feet. She lifted her massive head and growled at the prisoner, a vicious rumble that was audible above the creaking timbers and surging seas. Jamila tore her gaze away. Lightning forked beyond the porthole, followed by a drumroll of thunder that made her flinch.

  “What is it yer so afraid of?” Paarjini asked in a gentler tone. “If ye cooperate, we promise to protect ye. They abandoned ye, Jamila! Left ye behind to rot in the Curia’s cells. What more do ye have to lose?”

  The Masdari woman stared at her feet, chin trembling. After a minute, she gave a bitter laugh. “You know what I fear. The ley has been too deep beneath the waves for Balaur’s hand to touch my dreams during the journey, but we will make land soon.”

  She spoke Osterlish with a soft, slurring accent. “There will be no escape from him then. Not for any of us!” Jamila raised her bound wrists, covering her face and weeping.

  Kasia shook her head in disgust. In Nantwich, the woman had sat at Balaur’s right hand. Now she pretended to be an innocent victim who was only following her mistress’s orders. Jamila claimed she was the khedive’s servant, and perhaps that much was true, but Kasia couldn’t summon pity for her. She could have run away. She’d had a hundred chances.

  Jamila was also tied to the Danzigers. Kasia had first seen her in Kvengard, the night of Jann and Hanne’s party to honor the Masdari trade delegation. Kasia despised the whole family, but she reserved a special hatred for the nephew, Jule. She fervently hoped he was with Balaur, so she could finish them both for good.

  She turned her back and followed Paarjini across the pitching deck, using the bolted-down furnishings to steady herself. A large globe in a stand spun lazily as the ship wallowed one way, then the other. The cabin stretched the entire width of the stern. The rear bulkhead had another much larger porthole with a dozen square panes that looked out over the heaving sea. Nikola waited with palms braced on the captain’s desk. Rolled sea charts bound in ribbon covered the wooden surface.

  “Do you think she’s acting?” Nikola asked in a low voice.

  “Definitely,” Kasia said. “But it makes little difference. We need information and the woman knows more than she’s telling.”

  “Can’t ye force her to speak?” Paarjini asked. “Yer an aingeal yerself—”

  “I’m not.” Kasia reined in a surge of irritation. “I was born to mages, but I was raised to despise them and everything they stand for.”

  Tessaria Foy had plucked her from the streets of Novostopol and helped Kasia discover her gift for cartomancy. More than that, she’d taught her how to reason out the correct thing to do. Kasia knew Tess would not approve of her attempting compulsion—not even to stop Balaur.

  “Why can’t you do it?” she asked the witch.

  “It might be possible, but I don’t know the spell for such a thing,” Paarjini replied. “’Tis not a part of the magic we learn.”

  “Well, Jamila’s right about one thing,” Nikola said. “The seas are shallow enough that I can sense the ley again.” She eyed them both in turn, her face serious. “If you prefer not to do it, Kasia, I understand. But I think we must ask the mages to question her.”

  “Will it do permanent harm?” Paarjini asked with a slight frown.

  Despite her frustration, Kasia nearly argued against it. There was something singularly vile about compulsion. But many lives depended on the outcome of their mission. And it was certainly better than physical coercion, which was the last option left.

  “Malach used compulsion on me once,” she admitted. “The first time we met. He was looking for a letter and he thought I had it.”

  Nikola nodded with an air of embarrassment. She knew the story.

  “It can’t imagine it was pleasant,” Kasia continued, “but I remember almost nothing of what happened and I didn’t suffer any ill effects afterwards.”

  Paarjini gave a short nod. “Sydonie,” she called. “Go fetch your cousins.”

  The girl jumped to her feet, pulling her brother along, and darted out the cabin door. Jamila watched them go with wide eyes and a frozen expression. “Wait,” she stammered. “What are you doing?”

  “Takin’ drastic measures,” Paarjini replied coldly.

  The Masdari licked her lips. “What is it you want to know?”

  Nikola strode over to her. “Only what we’ve asked you a thousand times!” she said in exasperation. “How do we find the City of Dawn?”

  “It is the abode of the Alsakhan,” Jamila said quickly. “The Great Dragon. He breathes out the ley—”

  “We already know that nonsense,” Paarjini snapped. “And we know that Balaur seeks an elixir of immortality.”

  Jamila nodded, suddenly eager to please. “The Aab-i-Hayat. It is mentioned in a fragment of text. Very old. Told to a wise sahir by a witch named Cathrynne Rowan.” She swallowed. “It says that whomever drinks the elixir cannot be killed by Marked or Unmarked, man or woman, during the night or day, awake or asleep, inside or outside, with a weapon nor by bare hands.”

  “Sounds like a nursery tale,” Nikola said with a frown.

  “Believe what you will, mistress,” Jamila replied. “But Balaur and the khedive of Luba say it is prophecy.”

  “Is that the exact wording?” Kasia asked.

  Jamila nodded again. “I heard them speak of it many times. It struck me as unusual. Very . . . specific.”

  “And the city itself?” Nikola prompted. “Where exactly is it?”

  Jamila shrank beneath her stare. “That is the problem, mistress. As I told you before, no one knows, except that it lies within the region known as the Ceaseless Sands. If you give me paper, I will draw a map.”

  Kasia rummaged through the captain’s desk and found a scrap of blank parchment and chewed nub of pencil. She brought Jamila over and sat her down in the swivel chair. Jamila held up her bound hands with a hopeful look. “Do you think—”

  “Not a chance,” Paarjini interrupted. “Just do the best ye can.”

  Jamila lowered her face. A curtain of dark hair hid her expression, but not before Kasia saw her mouth twist in annoyance. The scratch of the pen was the only sound as she began to awkwardly sketch with her wrists tied together.

  “I don’t believe Balaur intends to wander around the desert until he stumbles over this city,” Nikola said. “There must be a way to find it.”

  Pain lanced through Kasia’s forehead. She pressed fingertips to her temple, gripping a railed shelf of navigational instruments with her other hand.

  “Are you well?” Nikola asked with concern.

  “It’ll pass,” Kasia said tightly.

  “One of the buried memories?” Paarjini eyed her with a mixture of wariness and sympathy.

  Kasia gave a brief nod, eyes watering from the pain. The two witches helped her to an armchair as a wave of dizziness crashed down. She closed her eyes, seeing Balaur as he had looked before he stole Rachel’s body. A man of middle years with cropped blond hair and blue eyes, wearing a priest’s black robe.

  He’d known how to sneak into Kasia’s dreams—and erase her memory of their encounters. For months when she was at Nantwich, Balaur had spied on her innermost thoughts. Planted lies and suspicions and the ley only knew what else.

  Meeting him face-to-face had brought much of it back, though not all. Sometimes the buried memories broke loose fast and hard, like boulders rolling down a mountainside. Nikola’s words—There must be a way to find it—had triggered this one.

  Balaur had come into her Garden, the place her mind went when she dreamt. He’d pretended to be a weary pilgrim, just passing by, and engaged her in conversation before she realized who he was. Then he had told her things. Shown her things . . .

  Help me, Kasia. There is another way. Balaur waved his mutilated left hand. Look at these and tell me what they mean.

  Seven keys hovered in the air above his head. Each had a unique shape and was forged from one of the alchemical metals. Silver and gold, bronze and tin, mercury, iron and copper. A dense mist obscured the willow trees and the pond with its emerald lily-pads. In their place stood a series of gates and a city of golden minarets.

 

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