14

NIGHT’S BREATH

[The Scim] were evil things, their hearts filled with wickedness and foul deeds.

FROM “THE ORDERING OF THE WORLD,” AN ELENIL STORY

Jason couldn’t find Delightful Glitter Lady, though he did occasionally hear what sounded like someone playing a bagpipe half underwater, which he assumed was her. He did, however, catch sight of the Knight of the Mirror again. The battle was so thick that if he kept an eye out for any unengaged Scim and avoided them, he didn’t have to fight much to make it through the crowd. He was getting the hang of it. His fear and worry sluiced off him, his muscles relaxed, and his ability to focus came back. His hands weren’t shaking anymore.

He was glad his helmet was still on, though, as one Scim warrior knocked him pretty well with a broadsword. The Sunlit Lands guy who could fly (Jason couldn’t remember his name) swooped down and took the Scim away. The Scim roared the horrible things he would do to Jason when he got back on the ground. Jason knew he was getting targeted by the Scim for his white armor, but the armor also made it easier for his side to keep an eye on him. They were watching out for him.

A quick count of his arrows showed he only had nine more. He looked for a discarded weapon, but slowing down was an easy way to become a target. He ran toward the Knight of the Mirror. After a moment, he noticed Baileya running alongside him, her Kakri spear tucked beneath her right arm.

“Head back toward the city wall,” she shouted. “Now!”

“What’s happening?”

“The Scim are targeting the more heavily magical soldiers tonight. They are trying to not even engage with the Knight of the Mirror. There is an evil plan in motion, and I cannot see the shape of it. The Knight has ordered the less experienced to fall back to the city gates.”

“But I can help —”

The flying teen dropped down beside them. “The Black Skulls! You can’t see it from the ground, but they’re triangulating on Shula. I think they’re trying to kill her! Permanently!”

“Who’s Shula?”

“The burning girl,” he said. “Baileya, try to slow down one of the Skulls. I’ll see if I can distract the second one. Shula should have a chance against one instead of three.”

Baileya’s eyes grew wide. Jason followed her gaze. She had sighted one of the Black Skulls. The Skull was riding a possum the size of a horse —its long rodent snout covered in blood, its red eyes filled with bloodlust, its bald tail whipping the air. The Skull itself wore a white robe, the hem of which was filthy with mud and ichor. It wore black gloves and boots, and on its head was an antelope skull painted a shining black, the curved horns rising several feet. In its right hand it held aloft a sickle.

“Run, Jason!”

Baileya sprinted, leaping like a deer over soldiers from both sides. Jason knew she meant for him to run for the gate. Everyone had warned him to stay away from the Black Skulls, and his own brain was screaming at him to do as he was told and run for the wall, but something else —a deeper voice —said this was the whole reason he was here. To protect people. What if Madeline was out here somewhere?

He tightened his grip on his bow and ran after Baileya.

Baileya ran full speed at the Black Skull, sliding to the ground in front of the charging possum. Jason opened his mouth to scream a warning, but she crouched calmly in the beast’s path, and at the last possible moment jabbed the curved, bladed side of her spear into the mud, dropped to her knees, and tilted the blade forward.

The possum slammed into the spear. The blade sank into the possum’s chest, and it let out a horrible scream as it collapsed, crushing Baileya beneath its heavy corpse before skidding to a stop.

The Black Skull stood slowly, apparently unharmed, its towering horns rising to their full height with a slow implacability, the blade of its sickle glinting in its hand. It turned, the black cavities of its eyes regarding Baileya. Distracted from its mission, it stepped toward the woman who had dared impede its path.

Baileya shoved the possum’s head to one side. But to Jason’s horror, she didn’t stand. She scrambled backward until she found her spear, broken in half now, and used what remained of it to get to her feet. Her left leg hung limply, twisted at an angle that made Jason sick. She dropped her spear, reached behind her back with both hands, and pulled two curved daggers out of her sash.

Why am I standing here, doing nothing? A distant buzzing echoed in Jason’s ears. His thoughts came thick and slow. The Black Skull had crossed nearly half the distance to Baileya. Shake out of it!

Jason, still a solid twenty feet behind Baileya, slipped an arrow from his quiver and onto his bow. His heart beat so hard against his chest he thought it might break through. He felt the magic, clear and strong, and opened the conduit through his tattoo as wide as he knew how. The confidence of an expert archer flooded him, and the sounds of battle fell away until he saw only one thing: his target. The heart of the Black Skull. He wouldn’t allow that thing near Baileya, wouldn’t let it hurt her. He breathed once, twice, then held his breath and loosed the arrow. It flew past Baileya, so close the fletching could have brushed her cheek. It sank into its mark, and the Skull stumbled backward.

It did not fall.

It righted itself, snapped the arrow from its chest, and stepped forward again, sickle raised.

“No!” Jason shouted and shot another arrow, then another and another. Five, six, seven arrows, and still the Black Skull walked, its robe an explosion of arrows but not stained with a single drop of blood. Two more arrows, and then Jason was out, and the thing still stalked toward Baileya.

Jason ran between them. “Stay away from her!”

The Skull laughed, and a chill ran down Jason’s spine.

He balled his fists, ready to fight the thing to the death. He heard Baileya shouting at him to get back, but it barely registered in the face of those horrible empty eye sockets and the towering horns of the skull.

A meteor streaked between them, and its supercharged air blew Jason back. He stumbled into Baileya, and they fell to the ground. From the center of the fire, a girl’s face turned toward them.

“Shula!” Baileya shouted. “It’s a trap!”

“Run,” the flaming woman said. “I’ll take care of him.”

Another bright, cascading explosion of fire came from Shula, the hot air singeing Jason and Baileya. Jason helped Baileya move farther from the flames, but the Black Skull advanced despite the heat.

The Black Skull caught on fire, its robes alight, the arrows like torches in its chest. The sickle fell from its hand, the blade red from the flames. It grabbed hold of Shula with both hands. She kicked at the Skull, but it didn’t respond to the blows any more than it had responded to the arrows or the fire. The Skull’s laughter came rolling over the battlefield again, and it called out in a loud voice, “Victory!”

The Scim roared and echoed the Black Skull’s cry, smashing weapons against their shields and helmets as they stopped fighting and began a sudden retreat. “Victory!” they shouted. “Victory, victory, O People of the Shadow!” The Black Skull, still aflame, ran, dragging a struggling Shula. A wolf loped up alongside the Skull, and the Skull pulled itself onto the wolf’s back.

Baileya grabbed Jason’s arm so hard it bruised him. “Jason. If tonight’s battle was only to capture Shula, then we must frustrate their plan.” She pushed a curved dagger into his hand. “Slow them however you can. The Knight of the Mirror will come to your aid.”

There was no time for instructions or second thoughts. Jason strengthened his grip on the dagger and ran as fast as he could, passing wounded Scim warriors and monstrous limping creatures. A desperate need to stop the Black Skull washed over Jason. He’d been telling himself that this wasn’t his battle, but now this horrible magical creature had grabbed some Earth girl and was dragging her across the field —headed to a terrible end, no doubt. And sure, the girl could light on fire, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a human being, and it didn’t mean Jason wasn’t going to do everything in his power to help her. He tried to run faster, but he kept stumbling on the broken bits of weapons and bodies on the field. If something didn’t give soon, he would lose them. He couldn’t keep up with the wolf.

Then, as if in answer, the wolf caught fire. It let out a long, plaintive howl and collapsed beneath the Skull. Jason didn’t lose a step, just kept running straight ahead. The Black Skull paused for a moment, getting a better grip on the nape of Shula’s neck, then strode forward through the battlefield, dragging Shula behind him.

Jason was close now, close enough he thought he had a chance if Shula could slow the Skull down just a minute longer. Thirty seconds and he would be there. His skin hurt from his burns, and he could feel Shula’s heat growing as he got closer. He settled his grip on Baileya’s dagger and got ready to use it.

A body slammed into him from the side.

It was a Scim warrior, one grey fist holding a club nearly as tall as Jason. It growled, and its foul breath struck him like a blow just before the club did.

Knocked off his feet, Jason landed on another fallen soldier, whether human or Scim he couldn’t say, but the Scim warrior was in front of him already, the club swinging toward Jason’s chest. He tried to roll away, but he was too slow. He felt his rib cage go, and a cold breeze settled onto him —Shula’s heat moving away. So this is how it was going to end. Jason felt a distant regret, cushioned by the thought that he could rest now. He wouldn’t have to worry about his parents anymore, wouldn’t have to carry his grief about Jenny. He didn’t need to save Shula or Madeline or anyone . . . He could just let it all go.

A horn sounded in the distance, and the Scim’s head snapped up. It gave Jason a quick sideways glance, but the horn sounded again. The Scim grunted, kicked him once, and loped after the other Scim.

Jason still had Baileya’s knife. It was loose in his hand, but he couldn’t tighten his grip. He had lost his . . . what was it? Unicorn? And the burning girl. But he still had other things. Like this. The knife. But someone would need to come get it, because his legs weren’t working. In fact, his arm wasn’t moving either. His thoughts seemed to be coming slow too. Like in a dream, or being half awake. Where was his unicorn again? He thought he heard her trumpet in the distance.

He closed his eyes, and the darkness swept him away.

Madeline watched in mute horror as Shula was dragged across the battlefield by a black-skulled warrior.

“No doubt a message,” Gilenyia said. “They begin the battle saying we’ve stolen their artifacts, and they end by stealing ours.”

Hearing Gilenyia call the humans “artifacts” sent a chill down Madeline’s spine. The Scim sounded retreat with a series of shouts about their victory and then a thin, shrieking blast from something like a trumpet. The battle shifted as the Elenil army targeted the Scim who carried the Elenil’s magic users with them.

Gilenyia stood, and one of her attendants immediately draped a thin satin stole over her shoulders. It nearly touched the ground. “Come,” she said. “We shall walk awhile among the corpses.”

Madeline shivered. The thought of walking out on the battlefield among the broken dead filled her with horror, but Gilenyia said it with a complete lack of passion, like she was inviting someone to take a stroll around her neighborhood.

Madeline shot a look at Hanali, hoping for a reprieve. Instead he said, “I must speak to Rondelo. Gilenyia will return you home.” So. Madeline would go and walk among the corpses with Gilenyia.

Two human attendants flanked them as they descended the stairs and followed the wide avenue through the gate. A ragtag stream of wounded soldiers headed the opposite way, entering the city. Two people held up a third person. A woman helped a man —no, not a man, he looked to be twelve or thirteen —hobble inside.

“We’ll help them directly,” Gilenyia said. “But first, the more heavily wounded.”

She strode straight toward the center of the battlefield where the fighting had been most vicious. They passed broken spears and crushed pieces of armor, people sprawled on their backs, groaning, trampled in the mud. There was a metallic tang in the air and an underlying smell of smoke. The sound of the Scim’s retreat came to them like distant waves beating on stone.

Gilenyia stopped in the center of the field, her satin stole stained where it had dragged along the ground. A teenage boy lay at her feet, the shaft of a spear jutting from his chest. His dark hair was plastered to his brown skin, his eyes closed but moving rapidly beneath the eyelids. He was breathing: a slow, irregular rasping sound. Gilenyia knelt beside him and put one gloved hand lightly on his chest. “We start here.” To her attendants she said, “You know what to bring me.”

Madeline’s heart climbed into her throat. The entire field looked like a trash heap, only it was people and creatures strewn across it. To her left was some sort of wooden wagon, arrows stuck in the sides like porcupine quills. There were hands reaching out from beneath it, and a tall, heavily muscled beast, neither human nor Scim, collapsed beside it.

“Come here, girl,” Gilenyia said.

Madeline could barely respond. Her mind felt distant and slow, but when Gilenyia snapped her name, she made her way to the Elenil woman’s side. The attendants had returned, working together to drag a Scim warrior beside the broken boy at Madeline’s feet. One of the Scim’s jagged tusks was broken off, and black tattoos crisscrossed its skin. It was unconscious. A great gash from a sword had parted its filthy tunic and torn across its chest.

“Take hold of the spear in the boy’s chest,” Gilenyia said. “I have broken the blade from the other side.”

Madeline goggled. “What?”

But Gilenyia did not repeat herself. She was demurely removing her gloves. The attendants looked away, and Gilenyia snapped at them to find more wounded. “There are some we can save,” she said, tucking her gloves into a small pocket inside her stole, “and some who can save others. Now take hold of the spear. Good. When I say, pull it out. It will require some strength.”

The wood of the spear was rough and thicker than Madeline had imagined. Something with large hands must have held this weapon. She accidentally jostled the spear, and the boy groaned. Gilenyia gave her a sharp look then put one hand on the boy’s chest and one on the Scim warrior’s chest.

Gilenyia’s hands were not flawless white like her face. A network of golden tattoos covered each hand like spiderwebs. Her palms, fingers, and even fingernails were laced with intricate patterns and intersections and partings. A glowing pulse branched out through the tattoos, and a small wave of heat touched Madeline’s face.

“Pull,” Gilenyia said.

The spear did not budge.

“Harder!”

Madeline felt the spear give. The boy arched his back and screamed.

“No need to be gentle, girl —tear it out of him.”

Angered by her inability to pull the spear free and the string of instructions from Gilenyia, Madeline snapped. She put one foot on the boy’s chest, leaned back, and pulled with all her might, stumbling backward with a bloody spear shaft dripping in her hands.

The wound in the boy’s chest closed like water over a stone. The Scim’s wound simultaneously widened. The grey-skinned warrior thrashed for a moment, Gilenyia’s hand still resting on its chest, and then it fell still.

The boy opened his eyes, which widened upon seeing the luxuriously dressed Elenil woman leaning over him. “Lady Gilenyia,” he gasped. He leapt up and knelt before her. “Thank you, lady.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Ricardo Sánchez, lady.”

“You have served us well, Ricardo,” she said. “Now join my attendants and gather more wounded. Start with those with the most grievous wounds.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said. He bounded into the junkyard of the battle.

The Scim soldier did not move, did not breathe. “Did you —” Madeline cleared her throat. “Did you kill him?”

Gilenyia gave her a curious look. “His people abandoned him. He would have died in a few hours. I sped his death and healed one of our soldiers. It was a mercy twice over. Does it displease you?”

Did it displease her? What a strange question. Of course it displeased her. It seemed unjust in every possible way to heal a human warrior by killing a Scim. But Gilenyia was right —the Scim hadn’t looked like it would last long. Madeline didn’t know much about punctured chests, but the boy hadn’t looked like he would last long either. So maybe instead of letting two people die, she had helped one live?

“I help the Scim wounded as well,” Gilenyia said. “Their people have abandoned them. We take them into the Court of Far Seeing and rehabilitate them, give them meaningful roles in the Sunlit Lands. It’s more than their foul kinfolk have ever done for them.”

“It seems . . . something seems wrong about it.” Madeline couldn’t figure out how to say it, but a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach threatened to spread to her whole body.

“I am a healer,” Gilenyia said. “I had hoped you might assist me during your allotted time. To find someone with healing potential is rare among the Elenil, and I see that potential in you. But perhaps you do not have the stomach for it. No matter. Today you shall at least go among the wounded and find those I may help.”

“You want me to . . . to find the wounded for you?”

Gilenyia nodded once, impatiently. “Even if I don’t heal them, we must take them within the city walls, agreed? Look for the most egregiously wounded first. I cannot save them once they pass death’s gate.”

Okay. Okay, she could do this. She was only pointing people out, people Gilenyia would find eventually anyway. Or maybe she should run. Maybe she should look for a way home out of this crazy place. Her breathing went ragged just thinking about it. Somewhere there was a gate or portal or closet or painting that would open and land her back with her mom and dad, where Sofía would make her hot chocolate in the morning and pack her lunches, and where Mr. García would smile at her in the sunlit garden as he placed new plants in the black soil. Darius would pick her up and take her to school, and in the afternoon he would read to her.

She stumbled, her chest tightening. Her breathing was coming ragged and uneven. The tattoo on her wrist stung. She whipped off her glove. Maybe it was her imagination, but the tattoo looked wider than before. Not by much, but a tiny bit, like it had swollen.

Were these thoughts enough to invalidate her agreement? Was the magic removing her ability to breathe because she wasn’t serving the Elenil with her entire heart? She tugged her glove back on. She didn’t want to touch anything out here with her bare hands.

She found a wounded Scim warrior. He was pinned beneath some beast she did not recognize —like an oversize ox. She couldn’t tell if the pungent stench came from the animal or the Scim’s bloodied and stained rags. The warrior’s eyes fluttered open, and when his eyes met hers, his lip curled up in disgust, revealing a scarcity of crooked yellow teeth.

“Can you hear me?”

The Scim licked his lips. “I . . . hear you . . . Elenil.”

“I’m human. My name is Madeline.”

He grunted or maybe laughed.

“We’re going to heal you.” She stood and called for Gilenyia.

Gilenyia arrived with five humans —her two attendants and three soldiers she had patched up. She regarded the broken Scim coolly, but she didn’t critique Madeline’s choice. Instead, she bent over the warrior and said, so quietly that only he and Madeline could hear, “What will you do, brave warrior, if I use Elenil magic to save you?”

“A pox . . . on your magic,” he wheezed. “Darkness . . . a thousand years . . . darkness. For you and your . . .” His face contorted in pain, and his hands scratched at the hide of the ox.

“Pull him out,” Gilenyia barked, and Ricardo immediately took hold of one arm, an attendant the other. The other two humans put their backs against the ox and pushed. It wasn’t enough to get much movement, and the Scim roared in pain.

Madeline said, “We could dig him out,” and that’s what they did. The mud moved easily enough, and with a combination of hands and broken weapons they managed to get his legs loose enough to tear him away from the dead ox.

“His legs and pelvis are broken,” Gilenyia said. “Some minor internal damage. Have you found someone who will balance these wounds?”

One of her attendants brushed the hair out of his eyes with a muddied hand. “I have one.” They dragged another Scim warrior, much worse for wear, through the mud. Madeline couldn’t believe she was still alive. She had been cut neatly from the shoulder down, and the wound already stank.

Gilenyia looked the Scim over carefully, then motioned to Madeline to join her. “This one won’t last long. It is a mercy to her and to the one with broken legs. Do you approve?”

“Do you need me to . . . to approve?”

“Before we leave this battlefield I hope to see you understand the work I do. You have chosen this Scim soldier to be healed. You must have some compassion for him.”

The Scim had snarled at Madeline. But still. It was right to heal him. Wasn’t it? “Will it kill her? To fix him?”

“She will die regardless. My magic, remember, cannot pass the gates of death. She will die in an hour if we let her or in a few minutes if she gives her legs to her countryman.”

Madeline couldn’t decide. Gilenyia waited, then asked again, “Do you approve?”

She couldn’t say the words. The groans and cries of the two Scim warriors were too much for her. Gilenyia grew tired of waiting and put her bare hands upon their foreheads. The male Scim arched his back and screamed, while the female exhaled once, sharply, and lay still. The black swirls of her tattoos faded then disappeared completely.

The male Scim sat up on his knees, his legs and pelvis miraculously whole, and cradled the female’s body, weeping bitterly.

“Ungrateful creature,” Gilenyia said, disgusted.

“May the Peasant King welcome you into his court,” the Scim said soft and low into the dead Scim’s ear.

“Better the Majestic One than the Peasant King,” Gilenyia said.

The Scim scowled at her.

“Do not run,” Gilenyia said, “unless you would have your sister’s sacrifice be in vain.”

The Scim stayed near them after that as they combed the field for more survivors. The sun had risen in earnest, and they had wandered far from the center of the battlefield now. The Scim soldier winced in the sunshine, which seemed to be physically hurting him. After a couple hours, Gilenyia had healed perhaps twenty human soldiers and three Scim, some with broken limbs and a few with more serious wounds. The serious wounds were the most troubling, as Madeline watched the nearly dead succumb because of Gilenyia’s magic. Once Gilenyia used a badly broken human to fix a Scim warrior, but Madeline noticed dark looks exchanged by the human soldiers when she did. Madeline wondered if this was part of a show meant for her, to try to convince her that Gilenyia gave everyone an equal chance.

Some of the soldiers were sent back into the city with the Scim warriors, but Gilenyia kept the first one she had healed, the one Madeline had chosen, there in the crowd, finding bodies. Madeline worked her way over to him. His thick, grey muscles were covered in black tattoos that whirled in loops up both arms and over his shoulders. His hair, greasy and limp, hung past his shoulders. He had the smell of someone who hadn’t washed in weeks, maybe longer.

“I told you my name,” Madeline said. “What’s yours?”

He scowled at her. “Call me Night’s Breath.”

“Is that a common name among your people?”

He drew himself up to his full height and hit his chest with one massive fist. “It is my war-skin name, given in my first battle. For when the enemy feels my breath upon his neck, already night has come for him.”

She helped him move a splintered battering ram off a large, hairy creature that looked almost like a goat with human arms and legs. It had wide, staring eyes. There was nothing to be done for it. “Why do you want to bring darkness to the Elenil? Why do you hate the light?”

Night’s Breath spit. He mumbled something to himself, then said, “A thousand years of darkness is a mercy to the Elenil. I would crush their skulls. I would grind their bones.”

“But why do you hate them? Look at the Court of Far Seeing. Isn’t the Crescent Stone beautiful in the sunlight, there on the highest tower? Look at the white walls and the colored flags and the bright river winding through. Do you see the palace on the central hill? I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” It reminded her of the descriptions from the Tales of Meselia —the beautiful, magical cities she had longed to see her entire life. She stopped for a minute and looked at the city, reminding herself of the beauty here, of the good things, of the magic and wonder.

“Hold, little human,” Night’s Breath replied. “Look again at those fair walls. Do you think they would be a thing of beauty to one such as me? What awaits Night’s Breath behind the walls of Far Seeing?” He snorted. “Death is a better end for one such as I.”

It was a good question. What would be done with the Scim soldiers? They were prisoners, certainly, but the Elenil would be kind to them, she was sure. Thinking about it, she hadn’t seen any Scim in the city proper. She hadn’t been here long, though, and no doubt they were in a prison or jail cell. Or maybe they were bargained back to the Scim in exchange for Elenil prisoners? She didn’t know. It was a question worth pursuing, she thought, and she promised herself she would not forget to look in on Night’s Breath after they returned to the city.

The Scim grunted. “Look here. Another fallen human.” It was a boy in white armor, his chest caved in. “Ground to dust beneath the wheels of war. The Elenil could return what they have stolen from the Scim, and the bones of such little fools need not be grist. But until that time comes, I will kill as many as I have opportunity.”

This one looked to be too far gone. Madeline dreaded the thought of touching another dead body. Her heart beat faster. She didn’t know how many nightmares she would have in the weeks to come. “Let’s take off his helmet,” Madeline said. She steeled herself. If she was going to walk the battlefield looking for survivors, she was going to make absolutely sure who had survived and who had not.

Night’s Breath removed the boy’s helmet. His black hair was plastered to his face, but she recognized Jason immediately. Oh no. No, no! She fell to her knees at his side. He had come here because of her, and why was he on the battlefield already? He didn’t even agree to fight when he came —he shouldn’t be here, broken and bleeding. Madeline put her face near Jason’s. A faint stirring of breath touched her. He was alive. Barely. She leapt to her feet and screamed for Gilenyia, who made her way toward them with infuriating slowness.

Gilenyia’s bright eyes flicked between Jason and Madeline, and she seemed to know immediately who he was. “Ah. Your friend. He is grievously wounded. We would need someone in full health, or near enough, to recover him.”

Madeline’s mind raced. Someone healthy who could take Jason’s place? “Take me,” she said. It would be worth it, and she didn’t have long anyway.

Gilenyia shook her head. “Would that it were so simple, child. You are healthy only because of our magic. And you have a contract to fulfill to the Elenil. No, it will not work, though it is noble that such would be your first thought.”

“Okay, so could we help him enough that he could heal naturally? Is there another person on the field like the last one, who is going to die either way?”

Gilenyia shook her head. “He is too far gone for that, human child. But there are ways.” She turned her head slightly, enough that Madeline followed her gaze to see Night’s Breath, hunched just beyond the circle of human soldiers and attendants who had followed Gilenyia. Oh no. Could Madeline agree to that? She licked her lips, thinking hard.

Night’s Breath tightened his hands into fists. One of the soldiers, realizing what Gilenyia meant to do, turned, his ax at the ready. Night’s Breath swung one massive arm in a punishing blow, and the soldier flew backward, his helmet toppling from his head. Another soldier moved toward him, but Night’s Breath shattered his knee, then broke into a desperate gallop over the battlefield.

“His life for your friend’s,” Gilenyia said.

Jason’s face was almost white. She couldn’t tell if he was still breathing. “That’s not fair,” Madeline said. It wasn’t fair at all. Who was she to make this decision? She knew Jason, knew him to be a loyal and kind person, and she barely knew this Scim soldier at all, but every indication was that he was a terrible creature, bent on destroying every good thing in this beautiful city. Look at this disgusting field, for instance. Dead bodies, ruined war machines, trampled grass and stinking mud. The Scim had done this, not the Elenil. But could she agree to kill him? Her head spun, and her stomach turned over. She couldn’t make this decision. She couldn’t be the judge, the executioner, even if it meant saving her only friend from home.

“It is precisely fair. What did the beast say to you? No doubt that he would kill us all. That he would rather die than join the Elenil?”

Blood rushed into her face. “He said both those things.”

“They are an irredeemable race, Madeline. Violence and shadow are their meat and drink. They choose death over life, darkness over light, filth over food. And your friend —is he a good man?”

Madeline brushed the hair from Jason’s face. A breath rattled out of him, as if in reply. Her hands shook. She waited for him to take another breath. Please take another breath! He gasped, pulling in another long drag of air. Madeline slumped against him, relieved. There wasn’t time for this, wasn’t time to make this decision. “He took me to the hospital when no one else would help. He came to the Sunlit Lands with me just because he is my friend.” She didn’t know if this was a eulogy or if she was convincing herself to do this thing. All she had to do was say yes to Gilenyia. One simple word and Jason would live.

“A noble soul,” Gilenyia said. “And you would let him die so that beast can escape and kill yet more noble souls?” She clucked her tongue. “The human morality is so muddied, I cannot make sense of it.”

Jason’s body began to shake. “Are you going to save him?” Madeline cried.

Gilenyia smiled, but it was a sad smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “With your approval, child, I will.”

Jason’s body trembled, and his breath seemed to be all exhalation now, a single sigh coming out for an eternity with no sign he would ever breathe in again. His hands were cold, and she tried to unbuckle his breastplate, but it was caved into his body. She couldn’t tell where it ended and Jason began. “Can’t you just —?”

“Quickly, child, the beast is nearly away.”

Night’s Breath was so far now that Madeline didn’t think they could catch him if they tried, and every second that passed he moved farther away. Then Jason’s body went strangely limp, and Madeline shouted, “Yes, yes, do it!”

Gilenyia whirled and grabbed a spear from a soldier. She hurled it, and it flew across the field, impossibly far and fast. Madeline didn’t know if it was the angle of the light, or if the sun glinted off the shard of metal at the tip, but for a moment the spear flashed like a bolt of lightning. It struck Night’s Breath in the back of the thigh. He cried out and fell.

Gilenyia’s people scurried across the field toward the Scim, their weapons at the ready. Gilenyia herself scooped Jason up from the ground, paying no attention to the blood that spread across her gown. She leapt across the field with the grace of Rondelo’s stag, overtaking her own people and arriving beside Night’s Breath before anyone else. Madeline ran as fast as she could, choosing her footing carefully so she wouldn’t fall on any of the broken remnants of the day’s battle.

Gilenyia knelt between the two figures, a bridge between the too-still form of the crushed human boy and the writhing, furious Scim. “Let me live!” Night’s Breath shouted. “Lady, let me live!”

Gilenyia pushed the Scim down with her left hand and placed her right palm on Jason’s face. A horrible sound, half scream and half defiant shout, echoed across the field. Night’s Breath’s face went slack. The tattooed whorls on his arms and shoulders faded as Madeline watched, and his chest fell still. He looked even more like a beast now that he was dead, his waxy lips falling back from the jutting yellow fangs, the skin of his face sagging toward the ground.

It made it worse, almost, to see Night’s Breath like that. Like he was an animal and didn’t know any better. That maybe the horrible things he’d said had all been brute instinct. Madeline’s stomach dropped away beneath her, and she fell on her knees beside him. She leaned down beside the Scim. She whispered in his ear, “May the Peasant King welcome you today.” Isn’t that what he had said to the dead Scim woman? She couldn’t remember the exact words.

A stinging slap knocked her face to one side. Her own hand flew to her cheek, which burned with the imprint of Gilenyia’s palm. “The Majestic One gives you back your friend, and you speak the Peasant King’s name? Such small decencies should be common sense.”

“I didn’t know,” Madeline said.

Gilenyia’s gaze did not waver. “Now you do.”

Jason coughed, and his eyes fluttered. Madeline rushed to him. Gilenyia removed her gloves from her cloak and meticulously pulled them on, straightening each finger.

Jason opened his eyes, and they focused in on Gilenyia, who now stood a few feet away, the sunlight catching her pale hair. She looked glamorous and perfect despite the smoke and ash of the battle, despite Jason’s blood on her gown. “I knew it,” he said. “I’ve died and gone to Hollywood.”

Madeline, beside herself with joy, threw herself onto him and hugged him, long and hard. “You’re not dead!”

Jason frowned. “Madeline?”

She laughed and helped him to his feet.

He leaned on her for a moment while he got his balance. “I didn’t even know you were one of my groupies.”

“It has been a long day,” Gilenyia said. “Return to your homes, all of you.”

Jason seemed slow, almost dreamy, most of the way back to the city. He kept talking about his unicorn, needing to find his unicorn. Then he stopped, agitated. “Where’s Baileya?” he asked. “Did you see her?”

“I don’t know who that is,” Madeline said.

“Baileya. And the burning girl. I can’t remember her name . . . Schoola? Something like that.”

“Shula?”

“Yes! They took her, Mads. They took her, and we have to get her back.”

“They’re long gone by now, Jason. It’s been hours since they retreated.”

Gilenyia looked back at them. “The Knight of the Mirror has given chase,” she said. “He will not fail. They will soon be returned to us.”

Madeline didn’t answer. She looked away, pretended not to hear, though she desperately hoped it was true that the Knight would bring Shula home.

Jason’s face darkened when he saw a group of people carrying a Scim body between them, throwing it into a large pile. “Something isn’t right,” he said.

Madeline squeezed his arm. “Let’s get home.”

“Something’s wrong.” He stopped short. He stared out across the field, toward the ridge the Scim had appeared on hours ago. “Does the name Night’s Breath mean anything to you?”

“Night’s Breath?” she asked, her heart beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. “Nothing,” she said. Nothing, nothing, nothing, she said to herself, and kept saying it all the way back to the city walls. She promised herself never to tell Jason this one thing. To spare him, at least, knowing that he owed his life to a fallen Scim warrior.

There was a strange squeaking sound from somewhere behind them, like a balloon the size of a van squealing as air forced its way out. Jason perked up, a glint of light returning to his eyes. “My unicorn,” he said. “I hear my unicorn.”

Madeline turned to see a rhinoceros barreling toward them over the battlefield. She thought it was farther away than it was, because it was so small. It was about the size of a golden retriever, and it leapt up onto Jason, knocking him over and leaning against him like an overly affectionate dog.

“They shrank you!” Jason shouted. “This crazy magical battle. I can’t believe they shrank you. It’s good to see you, girl, good to see you.” He scratched her ears and patted her belly. She wouldn’t leave his side, practically tripping him as they walked the rest of the way to the city.

They passed through the shimmering golden curtain that awaited them at the city’s gates. Hanali met them there with a jovial shout and a promise of a ride back to their homes. He clapped Jason on the shoulder and laughed along with him as he described discovering his unicorn was actually a rhinoceros, saying, “We have always called such beasts unicorns.” His carriage came, and Madeline scarcely remembered climbing into it —rhinoceros and all —or the journey to Mrs. Raymond’s house. She barely said good-bye to Jason. She didn’t think he noticed, because two bloodied human boys came rushing up to him, cheering and jumping around and admiring his unicorn and congratulating him on his first battle.

Her room was empty. Shula’s bed was perfectly made, like in a hotel room, like no one had ever been there. Mrs. Raymond brought Madeline a steaming wooden bowl filled with stew. Madeline set it on the wooden table under the window and sat in front of it for a long time. She kept thinking of the grey-skinned corpse that had been Night’s Breath. I did the right thing. I did the right thing, she said to herself again. He was a monster, bent on destroying the world. He wanted only darkness and pain and death.

Which is what she had given him.

Outside the birds sang, and the sun shone as bright and clear as ever.