book title

Emara woke with a start, awakened from an unremembered dream that left an empty space of unease in her gut. The white fabric walls of the tent shone with the midmorning sun, illuminating the gold whorls that wove through the rich red and purple cushions lining the ground. Emara looked down to where her hand had been laced with Jai's but found it empty, as were Jai and Chipo’s places on either side of her.

Rubbing her eyes with a frown, she rose and parted the tent flap. She winced at the bright sun, shielding her eyes with one hand as she grabbed her waterskin from her pack with another. As she drank, her gaze wandered until she spotted the larger tent with the sides folded up, where Jai and Chipo were seated around a mat of food. She stopped briefly to wash at the water’s edge before she joined them.

They sat on opposite ends of a woven mat filled with a modest spread of eggs, cheeses, and vegetables she could only assume came from the gardens on the oasis banks. The other food sources were easier to identify as the goats and chickens roamed freely through the brush.

As Emara approached, Chipo waved to her with her characteristic bright smile. “Mari, glad you’re finally up. Come eat!”

“Good to see you back to your cheery self.” Emara sat down on one of the thick rugs, the sun’s bright rays warm on her back.

Jai poured himself a cup of what smelled like periapple tea. “Yeah, tired Chipo is scary.”

“If you think that’s frightening, you should see me when I’m hungry,” Chipo said absently, biting into a small pink fruit.

Emara only nibbled at what she was sure had to be an extremely limited food supply. But it was hard to refrain when everything tasted so deliciously fresh. “What about Bellaphia? Have you seen her this morning?”

Chipo and Jai exchanged an uneasy glance before Chipo answered. “She is… worse than she was last night. I fear our presence is costing her.” Chipo tapped her nails on her gold-whorled mug. “When I ran into her this morning, I could barely understand a thing she said except… your names, over and over. Emara Alik, Ioni Rao, Emara, Ioni.” She shuddered and gripped her mug tighter. “Her yanaa was all over the place, you know, like sometimes happens when the magi get upset. It felt… unsafe.”

Jai leaned closer to Emara. “Are you sure Everard said Bellaphia was the one you should find? Maybe he meant one of his other sister magi?”

“I’m sure it was Bellaphia.” Emara popped another small egg into her mouth and grabbed a handful of meatier dried fruits before standing again. “No sense wasting time though if she’s calling for me.”

Chipo stood with her. “Do you think I should go with you? Maybe we could be stronger together.”

Emara considered this for a moment before shaking her head. “Perhaps, but in matters of the mind I feel a needle may be more helpful than a club.”

“You’ll call us though if you need help,” Jai said, in more of a command than a question. “We won’t be far.”

Now Emara had to laugh. “And when did the two of you turn into a couple old hedge hens?” She motioned Chipo to sit. “Eat and relax. If we have to make our way back across the desert later, we need to be sure we’re well rested.”

This thought seemed to mollify Jai, and his shoulders relaxed once more as he picked up his ceramic mug. “Good luck then.”

But Chipo took another step, lowering her voice. “I’m afraid she might not have much time left, Emara. She’s even worse than when I saw her last time.” She pointed to a small, unassuming tent with all the sides down. “You’ll find her in there.”

Emara’s mouth went dry, and she tried a brittle smile. “I’ll do what I can. It’s all any of us can do, right?”

But it wasn’t a comforting thought as she walked on the sandy red dirt toward the tent. After all, she could only heal injuries. If it was a sickness, she couldn’t change that, and even if it had been caused by an old wound, it would be harder, if not impossible to heal.

And injuries of the mind… Well, those too were a mixed bag. Concussions, smaller traumas, and lingering wounds—she had dealt with them all. But some ran deeper, with vines all twisted together in snarls she could never unknot. Often it seemed even if she could untangle them, she would undo a part of their soul they would never reclaim.

In short, she probably wouldn’t be able to do anything for this woman.

But she still had to try.

She stopped in front of the tent standing separate from the others and took a long, deep breath. For a moment, she fumbled with how to properly address a magus. Hadn’t one of the guards called Everard a Lord? Would that make Bellaphia a Lady? She wrinkled her nose but decided it would have to do. “Lady Bellaphia,” she called, gripping her hands behind her. "My name is Emara Ioni Rao. Everard sent me here to find you, and I believe you’ve been—”

The tent wall snapped back, and a pale hand beckoned inside, the small black snake still coiled tightly around her wrist. “Emara Ioni, yes, you are here. You were here. You will be here. But so will they.”

“O-okay.” Emara followed her inside the claustrophobic tent. A few books peppered the rugs on the floor, and several large trunks bolstered each side of the tent with a low, round table dominating the middle of the space. A large, shallow bowl filled with water sat in the center of the table, and on either side, two ceramic cups had been set in front of two cushions. Bellaphia had certainly been expecting someone.

“Stand, sit, stand, lay, rest.” Bellaphia gestured impatiently to the cushion on the floor, pushing her thick glasses up on her small nose. She shed her robe and tossed it onto one of the trunks, standing in only a sleeveless chemise. “There’s no time. Never any time. Always time.”

Even though she could comprehend little of what the woman was saying, Emara moved quickly to the cushion. Maybe her lucidity the night before had been due to some kind of dreamlike state, and this was how she was fully awake. Bellaphia settled into a cushion across the table, and Emara tried to get a better look at her. She had dark eyes so deep they were almost disconcerting, especially in contrast to her pale skin and hair. They were the same black eyes of Everard and Ivanora—of the magi. They were dangerous eyes, and Emara could not risk underestimating this woman.

Emara squeezed her hands together as she tried to gather her thoughts. “I was sent here, but I don’t know why.”

“Answers. Strength. Time.” Bellaphia shook her head with a moan, frustration creasing her brow. She cupped her hands together, and the snake moved from her wrist to spiral up her arm. “There is blood covering the palace floors. You cannot heal your father. You cannot escape the Lost.”

Emara blinked at her quick words. Was Bellaphia talking about her? “Do you know what happened to me?”

Bellaphia barked out a laugh. “Everything in tiny pieces all at once.” Her gaze sharpened behind her glasses, and her yanaa suddenly swelled through the air. “I see you Emara Ioni, but I need you to see me.” The air turned electric as Bellaphia’s hands shot out, snatching Emara’s wrists and pinning them to the table.

Emara's pulse jolted with alarm as she instinctively struggled against the magus. “I don’t know what you mean, I can’t—”

“You can. Please, know this, and try.” Bellaphia’s face softened even as her grip remained firm. “They’re on their way, and we’re running out of time.”

Emara stilled, shoving down her panic as she looked into the war of desperation and anguish on Bellaphia’s face. Steeling herself, she twisted her hands, took Bellaphia’s soft, papery wrists in her own, and let her yanaa go.

The rush of power was so intense, it almost swallowed Emara—a tidal wave of yanaa flooding her, choking her, threatening to burst her chest. More than she’d felt from Everard, Aza, the Maldibor, Chipo… and anyone else she’d ever put her hands on combined. But it was chaos, and it was pain. So much pain. Coming from where?

Sweat beaded on Emara’s temples as she fed her yanaa into Bellaphia, hoping the magus wouldn’t suddenly burst with too much power. She threaded her yanaa through Bellaphia’s in small tight stitches, trying to project her own calm into the storm that raged within this woman. Taking shallow breaths, she let her mind empty as habit took over. This was just another patient, another mystery she had to solve.

“Bellaphia, it looks like you’ve been hurt. Can you tell me when this happened?”

Clammy sweat started to collect on Bellaphia’s arms. “It hasn’t happened yet.”

Emara barely heard her as she continued to entwine her yanaa through Bellaphia’s every fiber, calming each one. The answers were less important than the distraction, and Bellaphia certainly needed one. For whatever reason, her body seemed to think it was dying and was desperately trying to save itself. Honestly, it seemed like a miracle she was still alive, but no matter where Emara looked, she could see no damage.

“It’s not your body.” Emara opened her eyes to find Bellaphia staring at her with her onyx gaze. The yanaa coursed around them like a strong gale, tossing their hair and pulling at their clothes. “But, if I go into your mind, I don’t know what will happen. I’ve… never done it before.”

Bellaphia’s grip tightened around her wrists. “If you don’t try, all is already lost.”

Her words sent a spike of resolve through Emara. If something in Bellaphia’s mind was killing her, then this could be her only chance. Taking in a deep breath, she plunged into Bellaphia’s yanaa with all she had, coursing through her body and into her mind.

A thousand voices threatened to deafen her in the crashing storm of memories, their faces flashing too quickly for her to catch, their fingers brushing against her skin—cold, clammy, feverish, sweaty—and even the pungent scent of them nearly overwhelmed her.

Who were these people? And where was Bellaphia?

She was about to call out for her when a familiar face flickered through the images—her own. She flinched back as she watched herself—crying, smiling, screaming—the faces were nearly too fast to make out, but without a doubt, that was her. Then she began to recognize others—Chipo, Jai, and… Aza? But how? How could Bellaphia see Aza when she wouldn’t be born for almost another century?

“Bellaphia, what is this?” Emara shouted, the roar of yanaa and wordless voices flooding her senses. The strain was almost too much to bear, and Emara resisted the urge to fold over her knees, close her eyes, and put her hands over her ears. “Bellaphia?”

She’d come too far to let this woman suffer. The intense storm of yanaa started to tear at her, threatening to unravel her here in Bellaphia’s mind—a labyrinth she’d never escape. But she couldn’t turn around. She’d been sent here to help this woman. Or else all was lost…

No matter what, she had to do this.

Emara’s fingers tingled with the power of her yanaa swirling with Bellaphia’s in the tormentous whirlpool. She didn’t know what this was, but it could not go on. She entwined her yanaa further into Bellaphia’s, the maelstrom intensifying as their bond tightened. Emara’s fingers dug into the magus’s arms as Bellaphia’s pain became her own, the yanaa tearing at both of them, fraying Emara’s mind as reality blurred with faces and voices.

“Bellaphia. These voices, these people… they’re not here,” Emara said.

“They grow near,” Bellaphia moaned, her hands slipping from Emara’s grasp, but Emara tightened her grip, refusing to let her go.

She focused on the faces now, the yanaa bringing the nightmare of sensations to maddening levels. Then, with every muscle in her being, she swirled it all to her like an incorporeal cloak. She hugged it to her as if it were just another kind of pain, her muscles straining as she bound it with her yanaa, packing it into the smallest ball she could muster and shutting it into the farthest corner of her mind. Away, away, down, down, down into the yanaa’s abyss deep within her.

Her breath grew ragged, and her muscles screamed as she built a trunk of yanaa around it, just like the ones in this very tent. Then she slammed the lid shut, and with a trembling, weak thought—locked it.

With the snick of the catch, Emara released Bellaphia’s hands and collapsed on the rug, her chest heaving and her body drenched in sweat. But around her, the room was deathly still.

What had she just done? What if she’d killed Bellaphia?

Emara tried to push herself up on a shaking elbow but crumpled once again into a useless heap on the floor. “Bellaphia?” Her voice came out dry and raspy. “If you’re okay, please say something.”

Then Bellaphia’s ashy blond head popped over the table, tears streaming down her plump cheeks and her hair a complete mess. “My darling girl.” She beamed a snaggle-toothed grin. “You’ve done it.”