Chapter Eight

Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling as an army of palace guards swarms in to safeguard the royal family. I gasp for air, deafened and shell-shocked, and force my body to move to avoid being trampled by the herd of people trying to escape.

“The Dahaka!”

someone shouts amid the screams as another ground-shaking blast makes my ears ring, this one closer than the last. A giant crack fissures along one of the walls. The ground rumbles, and I’m nearly thrown to my ass. Another quake makes me stumble, and I fall hard, knees buckling and elbows smacking to the floor. Agony ricochets through my bones, and I fight back tears of pain.

“Secure the girl,”

Prince Javed roars, and I know without a doubt that he means me.

Dust fills the room in a thick cloud, making it hard to breathe. I can already smell the metallic taint of blood saturating the air. Before I can rise, hands grab me, drawing me back into the darkness. I struggle in earnest, my elbow slamming into hard, unyielding flesh.

“Enough, don’t fight, it’s me. Suraya, it’s me, Roshan.”

Relaxing, I nod, a frantic breath hissing through my teeth when he loosens his hold.

“Come with me. We don’t have much time,”

he whispers as he moves along the wall and tugs me behind him. “I have a carriage ready at the south end of the city to take you to a portal. A runecaster loyal to me will be waiting. This is your chance. You have to go.”

“Go?”

I stare at him, my mind whirling with terror as I force my feet to stop. “Go where? The prince knows where I’m from. I won’t put my family in danger by leading him right to them!”

“Then anywhere but here until you’re safe.”

Roshan pulls us into a small alcove and shakes his head, his expression clouded. For a moment, I can’t help wondering what kind of court intrigue I’m caught up in, but I know that if it’s a choice between Javed and Roshan, I’d side with the younger son in a heartbeat. The way Javed had looked at me and licked my skin make my flesh crawl. I scrub my hand on my clothes as if I can scour his touch away.

“Why are you really doing this?”

I ask. “Did you tell him about my dagger?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t betray your trust like that.”

Roshan steps closer, breaching the space between us, and my heart skips a beat. I can smell the warm scent of his skin, hear the harsh cadence of his breath, and time stands still for an eternal minute. His knuckles flutter in midair beside my cheek, and for a moment, I’m certain that he’s going to touch me as he had in the ballroom, but then his hand falls away at the last second, regret stealing over his features.

“Because Javed is dangerous.”

Schooling his expression, Roshan doesn’t continue for a moment. “And I don’t want him to hurt you. He and the queen have designs—”

He cuts off with a shallow growl at the sound of marching feet and blocks my body with his in the alcove.

“Designs on what?”

I whisper after the guards go past. “Tell me the truth now or walk the fuck away.”

He grinds his teeth, and I can sense his frustration, his desire for us to keep moving. But I refuse to go one step without an explanation. “I told you. It’s a prophecy, an Elonian prophecy,”

he says urgently. “About the one with magic from the stars.”

Goose bumps prickle my skin as my mouth falls open in utter disbelief. “The story of the Starkeeper? That’s no prophecy, it’s a children’s tale. A starsdamned fable.”

“Is it?”

he says. Something in his voice stops me from scoffing.

“So what? Javed thinks the Starkeeper is one of the women here?”

“No, Suraya, he thinks that’s you. That’s why he chose you.”

He reaches for my clenched palm and gently pries it open. The lines aren’t glowing, but my eyes trace them all the same. “Javed and the queen have been searching a long time for one wearing the marks of the Starkeeper.”

“Those are just regular palm lines,”

I snarl, snatching my hand away.

“Not in the shape of a magi rune.”

At that, my mind folds in on itself.

When the first king of Oryndhr had proclaimed himself the only god-king a thousand years ago, revering any other had become heresy. The Order of the Magi—those born with akasha in their veins—had been rounded up and executed. The few who survived the king’s purge escaped into the Dustlands. Some say they were the first Scavs—heretics who ingested distilled jādū to become closer to the gods and only ended up addicted and twisted. As akasha waned, so did old beliefs, and the Order of the Magi died.

“I’m not a magi,”

I whisper weakly.

Roshan touches my arm. “Come, we can’t be found here. We need to go.”

I nod in assent; he’d answered my questions, and I have no other options. I follow him along the narrow corridor to the servant stairs. We descend for endless minutes, until he comes to a stop at the entrance to a storage room. As far as I can tell, we’re back on ground level. The scent of baking bread hits my nose, which hints that we’re near the kitchens. A long table covered in bags of flour and grain splits the space in half. We thread our way quickly to the far end, where Roshan pushes open a door. Immediately, the stench of death and fire fills my nostrils, and I have to stop myself from recoiling back. Shouts and the sounds of artillery ring in my ears.

“We can go through the gardens to the castle wall,”

he says in a low voice. “The carriage is close by, on the outskirts of the city, but I need to make sure we can get there in one piece first. Stay put until I come back. You’ll be safe enough here.”

“What about Clem?”

I ask, clutching at his shirt. “My friend. She’ll be in the chosens’ quarters. She was sick tonight.”

A flash of something—awareness or unease—crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can make sense of it. “That side of the palace was undamaged. If she was there, she won’t have been hurt.”

“I can’t leave her.”

He nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”

With that he vanishes into the chaos.

Adrenaline fading, I can only inhale and slump against the nearest wall, wrapping my arms about my knees. My brain is a mess of confusion and dread, and my heart feels like I’ve just run across the desert. I close my eyes and try to soothe my rattled senses, but my body flinches every time there’s the shudder of an explosion beyond the walls, and I start to wonder whether Roshan will make it back at all.

Just when I think I’ll go mad from waiting, the door cracks open and I jump to my feet, relief pouring through me.

But it’s the wrong prince who greets me.

Prince Javed closes the door behind him, his hands clasped behind his back. “Found you.”

The two words are soft and ominous, making my flesh crawl.

My gaze flies to the door, but I know that there will be guards beyond it. My only escape is the narrow hallway at the other end of the room, but I have no idea where that leads.

He senses my thoughts, lunging toward me and grabbing my wrist. His tongue snakes out as if tasting the air or the memory of my skin.

“Tricky, tricky, the illusion suppressing the runes guarding your magic. I tasted the lie on your skin, you know.”

His ice-cold, almost maniacal smile sends a rush of bile to my mouth.

“Magic?”

I burst out in a panic. “I don’t have any magic. Or runes. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let go. You’re hurting me.”

He exhales, cocking his head at me, greed in his gaze. “My mother said Nasrin was powerful, but to hide you like this within the runic wards of her own essence. Genius.”

I’m frozen at his words. Nasrin. That’s Mama’s name. “What are you talking about?”

I grit my teeth and shove him with all the strength I can muster, but his grip on my arm is relentless.

“Fero will relish your fight,”

he murmurs, pale stare glittering with avarice.

Fero? The old god of death? But my thoughts flip to pain as his fingernails dig in hard enough to puncture my skin. I scream in agony, and suddenly, the outer door bursts open on its hinges. Roshan is a blur as he slams bodily into his brother, dislodging his painful grip on my arm. Both men glare at each other as Roshan places himself between us.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

he demands as four royal guards storm into the room behind him. Two of them are bloodied—Roshan’s doing, I gather—but they’re armed and we are outnumbered. Six more enter from the opposite corridor. Javed laughs and holds up a finger, making them halt.

“Claiming my future.”

“She’s not a prize to be taken, Javed, for whatever twisted game you and the queen are playing,”

Roshan says, palms wide as he changes tactics, knowing our odds with the guards. “Let her go.”

But Javed’s smile is pure evil as he draws a dagger from the sheath at his waist. “As usual, you know nothing, brother. But having you here as well is simply too good a windfall to pass up. Restrain them both,”

he orders the guards.

The guards grab Roshan by each arm, and one rests a blade across his neck. I move as if to help him, and another guard grabs me and yanks me back. I can only stare in mute horror as the crown prince steps forward. Lifting his blade, he cuts the shirt from his brother’s chest, drawing the dagger down slowly, a thin trail of blood welling in its wake. I see Roshan’s slight flinch, but he doesn’t make a sound. His fists are clenched at his side as Javed cuts again, a little more deeply this time, right above his brother’s heart. The wet strokes make a crude outline of the letter B.

“B for bastard.”

Javed finishes with a flourish, digging the tip of the dagger in, and Roshan makes a guttural noise of pain as blood leaks from the wound.

“Please, don’t,” I beg.

Cruel eyes flick to me before sliding back to his brother. “What if I press a little harder here? What if this dagger slips between his ribs? It would be an accident, or better yet, we can say an assassin killed him. Another victim of the vicious Dahaka. That will set the houses in an uproar.”

“Don’t do this,”

I plead, fear clouding my senses.

But Javed is nodding as if pleased with his plan and grips the hilt of the dagger. He signals to the guards holding Roshan and takes a few steps back. “Keep him still. I want him to see it coming.”

Midstrike, he pauses with a thoughtful noise and turns to me, malice dancing in his gaze as he cocks his head. “On second thought, maybe my altruistic brother might enjoy hearing you whimper first.”

Roshan’s eyes fly to mine. Fight, run, they’re telling me, but I’m frozen.

The prince turns to point the dagger at my throat, his eyes fastening on my outfit and dropping lower. “That way we both get to enjoy the secrets of my little bride.”

The horrific intent sends raw panic bolting through me even as one hand reaches for me. I struggle, but the guard’s grip on me is unrelenting. Javed’s breath ghosts over my ear and I lose it.

“Stop!”

I scream as dread and helpless fury boil up—a firestorm coalescing in my chest that makes the air in my lungs contract and my breath hiss through my teeth. Just like in the arena with the azdaha and after the prince’s announcement right before the explosion, my body heats. But this time it’s much worse, saturating every cell, arching my spine, and searing my skin as a white-hot fever floods my veins, and I’m burning, burning, burning.

It feels . . . unnatural, like something monstrous straining to get out.

To burst out.

Time slows, just like it had in the arena, and the staggering, portentous pressure in my chest intensifies. I gasp for air. A feeling that can only be described as something unfurling stretches inside of me . . . like a pair of fucking wings.

Fly, my little firebird.

The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere . . . and it’s so familiar, my knees nearly buckle. Mama? But then my mouth parts in a soundless scream as whatever monstrous winged creature is inside of me ignites, and suddenly, I can see it in my mind’s eye:

A firebird, just like the simurgh in mythology she so loved, made of something that resembles pure stardust. Its head shimmers between canine and human as it flexes its brilliant, multicolored birdlike body and undulates its enormous wings. I sense it connected to every inch of me, so gloriously powerful it takes my breath away.

Stars above, what is this? What . . . am I?

Every hair on my body stands on end as the simurgh studies my enemies through my eyes. Sharpened lion’s claws curl, wings snapping straight, as it delves into the well of my memory. I can feel it pondering the last few moments right before its energy begins to gather—a lightning bolt cracking across storm clouds. Raw power thunders through me, a feral, primal magic I can barely keep leashed. The beast in me wants vengeance. It’s thirsty for blood.

Everyone must die.

The guard holding me starts screaming. His shouts don’t last long as his body brightens and vaporizes to nothing but cinders. I gasp and look down at my arms. I’m glowing, the lines on my palms bright like incandescent, star-shaped constellations, the marks standing out in stark, bleached relief on my brown skin. Runic swirls in elaborate patterns climb my arms from wrists to elbows, and I feel an otherworldly force gather in my veins as if something suppressing me has finally been lifted.

Instinctively, I thrust my hands out, their silvery blaze almost blinding, and slam them into the guard restraining Roshan. Like the first, his body bursts and disintegrates into charred embers. A wide-eyed Roshan tumbles out of the way. I feel the power building again, and I don’t stop to think or to question—I’m operating in pure survival mode now.

The others are too far to touch, but that doesn’t deter the fiery simurgh stretching and beating its wings within me. My back bows, glowing ribbons spearing from my palms toward the middle of the room, where the remainder of the guards have surrounded the heir to the Oryndhr throne in a protective semicircle. Their bodies halt midmotion, shackled by the strange energy now pouring from me in gleaming, luminescent streams that would be beautiful if they weren’t so deadly.

Javed’s ice-blue gaze is pinned on me, his lips bared over his teeth. Anger, greed, and stark possession war in his eyes as his lips form words I don’t catch. Was this the magic he’d spoken of? It doesn’t feel like magic, it feels murderous, like something born in the pits of Droon. Something inhuman and hungry.

With a strangled gasp, I release my feeble control, watching in fascinated horror as the sizzling light slams the entire contingent into the far wall. No one rises, not even the prince caught in their midst. My entire body slumps as power and rage burn out like a weakened sandstorm, leaving me limp.

Oh sands, is the prince dead? Are they all dead?

I stare down in dread at the smoke rising from Prince Javed’s head and nearly vomit at the smell of charred flesh. The palms at my sides tingle, and I snatch them to my chest. “I killed the crown prince,”

I whisper, terror seeping through my voice.

“He was going to hurt you,”

Roshan says hoarsely. “You defended yourself.”

Trembling violently, I swallow hard and open my palms to him, the star-shaped marks there still faintly glowing, along with the mysterious symbols stamped across the ashen skin of my forearms. I meet Roshan’s eyes; fear and faint wonder are swirling in their depths. “Is this the Elonian prophecy you spoke of?”

I whisper.

“I don’t know,”

he says. “But I promise you, we will figure it out together.”

Without any trepidation, he reaches for me, his thumbs stroking the now cool centers of both palms before squeezing gently. “For now, we run, and don’t look back.”

* * *

When we leave the palace grounds and enter the capital city, it’s like stepping into a nightmare. The once colorful houses and bustling streets are a blackened, crumbling landscape. Bodies litter the rubble-strewn streets, and I almost gag, tears springing to my eyes. So much death. Barely an hour ago, these people had been alive.

Had the Dahaka strike been so ruthless? My nose clogs as I force the tears back, my legs shaking with each body I cross. I follow Roshan in a daze through the smoking remains of the city. Tears tighten my throat as we weave through a half dozen more collapsing buildings and dead bodies, Imperial House soldiers and Dahaka alike. The loss is senseless.

Eventually, Roshan pauses and stoops, and I avert my gaze, retching helplessly as he drags two bodies to the side, one no bigger than a boy.

“What are you doing?”

“The carriage is just past that hill,”

Roshan says, his voice low. “Put these on.”

I stare weakly at the bloodstained gear he’s peeled off the two dead soldiers and recoil, fresh nausea pooling in my belly. He sees my expression, and his mouth tightens.

“The Dahaka are still here. Our only chance of escape if we get caught is to pretend that we’re with them. Get changed. We don’t have much time.”

Tears stream from my eyes. “I can’t do this.”

“You have no choice if you want to live.”

I know he’s right, but it doesn’t stop me from hating every second of it. I try not to think of the dead boy, but my eyes still sting with sorrow. I strip off my ragged silk trousers and tattered slippers and stiffly pull on the scuffed underleathers, fasten the carbon-plated armor, and buckle the calf-high boots that are a full size too big. As I stare at the ruined teal fabric I think of Laleh. It seems like forever ago that I was celebrating with her, and now here I am, running for my life.

“Take this,”

Roshan says, and hands me a sheathed dagger. Not just any blade, my blade, with its golden simurgh pommel. The symbolic irony is not lost on me. It’s hard not to make the connection between my dagger and the creature I’d envisioned inside of me, but I ignore it.

Dumbfounded, I stare at it. “Where did you get this?”

I whisper.

“In your chambers after I went to find your friend. All the rooms were empty. She wasn’t there.”

My heart sinks at that, but I know Clem is smart. She would have found a way to be safe. Roshan taps my closed fist over the dagger. “You might want to rethink your hiding places next time. Under the mattress was the first place I looked.”

“Thank you,”

I say, and he ducks his head with a nod. Although I have no idea why he’d snatched up my dagger, I’m glad. It’s a reminder of home. Of my mother. Of who I am. Suraya Saab. Daughter of Hassan and Nasrin Saab. Niece. Bladesmith. Friend. With shaking fingers, I hook it to my belt, its familiar weight an instant comfort.

“Over there,”

he says after a few more minutes of hurrying down a series of side streets. He points to a waiting carriage with no small amount of relief.

A plain black open coach sits in the shadow of a building in the distance. The area around the carriage is deserted, but our approach is cautious. The Dahaka are stealthy and deadly, and the last thing we need is to run into any of them. Or any more royal guards, for that matter. But luck is with us, it seems. We make it undetected to the carriage. The soft whinny of the horses inside the nearby stable makes me jump.

“Get in and stay down,”

he tells me. “I’ll get a horse.”

Breathing a sigh of numb relief, I do as he says, crouching down and trying to calm my erratic breathing. My head is pounding, and as the seconds tick by, the ache only gets worse. Roshan has been gone only a handful of minutes at most, but it seems like forever. Where is he?

“Well, well, well, what have we here?”

a voice drawls. A voice that isn’t Roshan’s.

Fuck, I had thanked our sandsdamned luck too soon.

Something sharp jams up against my nape, and I turn slightly to catch the end of a thin blade, held by a man, his face half covered by a dark mask. I wince as the steel bites into my skin.

A second cloaked figure emerges from the gloom of the stables, a similar knife pressed into Roshan’s side. A rush of heat engulfs my body and I fist my hands. But as the prince’s eyes meet mine, he shakes his head imperceptibly.

I bite back a hysterical laugh. Does he assume I have any inkling of control? Because I don’t. My hands are weapons of unholy destruction and there’s no off lever. There’s no flaming mercy lever. No wonder mortal danger had been Javed’s discovery tactic—this magic takes no prisoners in defending itself. And a blade at my throat is definitely a threat.

My breathing accelerates as panic sets in, acting as fuel to the gathering wildfire. I remember how the guards evaporated at the touch of my power, and my heart beats even faster. I think of the fallen guards and the dead boy whose gear I’m wearing and let out a wild sob. I don’t want to hurt anyone else, I don’t, I can’t . . .

“Suraya.”

The whispered name filters through the incendiary haze in my brain, and I meet Roshan’s gaze. Desperate, I focus on him—on those steady brown eyes and the measured cadence of his breathing in the slow rise and fall of his chest. I mimic it.

In and out, in and then out again. Slow. Calm.

Closing my eyes, I turn my focus inward. I think about Coban and my workshop. My mother. My father. Amma. Laleh. I think of the warm desert sand between my toes, of breathtaking sunrises and glorious sunsets, of my father’s terrible jokes and my aunt’s cooking. I think of my mother’s hugs, Laleh’s quirky fashions, and nights spent sleeping outdoors under the stars. I think about Clem and her unguarded offer of friendship . . . a small beacon of light in this hellscape.

And finally, finally, I feel the frenzied energy start to lessen enough for me to tamp it down and rein it in. The old crone from behind the inn suddenly comes to mind, and I shudder as I recall the swipe of her fingertip on my palm. The fortune teller’s words thrum to my slowing heartbeat: Not yet awakened, it slumbers sound. The fates will wait until they are called. Where it walks, death follows.

Well, whatever it is, it’s bloody wide awake now.