“We can’t rely on steel.” I remember the disaster of my last foray into the trees. My craft is my most effective weapon here. Heart thundering, I look up through the twitching branches to the velvet black sky beyond and whisper a prayer to the Falcon Warrior.

“Sirscha.” Phaut breathes my name, barely audible, as a tree shudders nearby. I shush her.

I close my eyes and roll my shoulders. My boots slide through the loose earth. My fingers flex as I search for that spark within me, waiting to be roused into heat and light. It’s the same light that exists at the glowing core of all people—their souls, the source of their magic.

Something heavy drags across the ground to our right. It’s joined by the snap of splitting bark and the high whine of air sliding through crevices. Something scratches my shoulder. I inhale sharply but don’t move.

The trees creak. The wailing grows louder. My palms feel clammy, but there’s nowhere to run this time. A root tightens around my ankle. A branch tears through my sleeve. I hiss as something whips across my cheek, breaking skin. Phaut draws her sword, breathing heavily, muttering words under her breath. Prayers to her gods.

Magic stirs in my blood. The warmth is a gentle and reassuring counterpoint to the chill of battle that finally settles over my nerves. This is as much a fight as our scrape with the guards had been, because I can fight the souls here. I am not helpless.

The heat within me sharpens, a burning coal trapped beneath my ribs. Branches gouge the backs of my hands as the light of my craft scorches through me, brilliant and painful and perfect.

I open my eyes and gasp. All around me are lights.

They are innumerable, a forest of souls so ancient that their original forms, whoever they might have been once, have long since withered. They are shapeless beings now, warped by the magic that binds them here, by the decay of long years and their own nurtured wrath.

I turn my palms. The branches clawing at Phaut crumble. The roots trying to drag me into the earth shrivel into dust. Only the souls remain, orbs of light that waver like the slightest draft might blow them out. My heart squeezes with unexpected emotion. Then, at last, they vanish.

NINETEEN

Without drakes, it takes us three and a half days to reach Sab Hnou. We avoid Kazan patrols by keeping as close to the trees as we dare.

I manage to summon my craft twice more when the branches over our heads grow bold, but each time leaves me exhausted. I don’t trust my burgeoning skills to keep us safe if we try heading directly to Spinner’s End.