The sanisi made a sweeping gesture with his hand. The pressure in the room increased, like being underwater. Roh’s body shuddered. His back arched. For one blazing moment, Roh’s body was suspended above the bed, screaming. The blood that smeared the room peeled away from the floor, their clothing, their skin, and burst into the air. It clung to Roh for one terrible moment like a second skin.

Lilia put her hands over her ears.

Taigan dropped his hand.

Roh fell back to the bed. Lilia smelled burnt meat. She broke into another fit of coughing.

Matias ran to the medicinal shelf and brought back a cup of foul-smelling water.

Lilia choked it down as the Oras gathered around the bed.

“Oma,” Dasai said.

“Yes,” the sanisi said. “One does not need to believe a thing is true for it to be fact. Oma is rising. I’ve channeled Oma since I was a child, and my power gets stronger each season. You are looking for an omajista? There is your proof, and your little ward-unmaker back to you. Fully formed.”

Roh’s skin was no longer broken; there was no sign of injury but his torn clothing. Lilia grabbed at his tunic. The blood that coated him was gone, eaten up as hungrily by the power in the room.

“How did you know he can see through wards?” Nasaka asked. “Not one Ora in twenty here knows that.”

Lilia lay still next to Roh as her breathing eased. They paid her no attention, as if she were only some dying fish.

“He saw through mine,” the sanisi said. Now he looked at Lilia. “And he saw through yours, too, didn’t he?”

Lilia felt cold. She remembered Kalinda’s words: “We’ll be ready for them next time, won’t we?” But she was not ready. Not at all.

“You asked what I’m really here for,” the sanisi said. “I’m here for the girl. But you already knew that, didn’t you, Lilia?”

Chapter 7

7

Zezili Hasaria, Captain General of the Empress of Dorinah’s western legion, paced the damp hall outside the Empress’s audience chamber in wet boots and a set of clothing she could not remember ever being washed. She wore her chain mail and her metal skirt knotted in dajians’ hair. Her battered sword and dagger hung at her hip, both solid metal. She didn’t trust infused weapons. She cradled her helm under one arm.

Being summoned from the coast while her force lolled about getting drunk waiting to mount an offensive on the isle of Alorjan filled her with trepidation. The Empress did not pull her captain generals from the field so lightly. Zezili swore as she waited, muttering old Dhai curses, in case anyone of importance happened by. More people feared her when she spoke Dhai. It reminded them of her mixed face and manners, and her deviant propensity for slaughtering her own kind.