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Within the hour, twilight had given way to night, and Emara was in the saddle of a sorrel mule tied on a long lead behind Baros’s snappish dun stallion. The cat had stowed away in one of the saddle bags, and together they rode in a knot of ten Rastgol bristling with all manner of blades, arrows, and even hatchets.

They rode south under a full, burnished moon casting a wash of silver over the flat plains that lined the western edge of Blackerd’s canyon. Even though they were still in Rastgol territory, the warriors rode quickly and quietly, their heads ever on a swivel. And despite the acrid fear still churning along Emara’s skin, she let her fatigue win out, her chin nodding to her chest as she dozed in the saddle.

The sky had lightened to a dark navy with the impending sun when, by some silent agreement, the Rastgol stopped next to a shallow stream to let the horses water and graze. They grumbled and muttered to each other as they went about making a fire, but to Emara’s relief, they almost entirely ignored her, as if she was just another one of the animals that would care for itself.

Dismounting, she grabbed the waterskin, a thin blanket, and a chunk of hard bread from the saddlebags… like she was part of a normal travel caravan instead of a captive of cannibalistic sadists. Her body ached from the night of riding, and the ropes chafed her wrists as she moved awkwardly through her tasks, making no sudden movements that might alarm her captors.

She filled her waterskin, relieved herself, and washed the tears and dried blood from her face and arms as best she could. Finally, she sank down against the trunk of a stubby tree, hoping against hope that they’d simply forget about her here in the pre-morning shadows and leave without her. She pushed her chin-length curls away from her damp face, folded her knees to her chest, and rested her forehead on them.

What did she do now? With a sigh, she shook her head at her own stupid question. She’d do the only thing she could do—wait for a moment to escape. The knife was still in her boot, she now rode a mule saddled with supplies, and she only had to escape ten Rastgol instead of the whole legion.

She hated to admit it, but the cat had been right. In the last twelve hours, her situation had vastly improved… as long as she didn’t think too much about the land of monsters they were walking into—tree-sized snakes, sanity-leeching shadows, and predatory swarms of rats. Not to mention the bloodthirsty dead. Then again, perhaps that could be a boon.

For she knew without a doubt, the undead Lost would swarm them like ants to sugar, craving her gift even more than the depraved Rastgol. Maybe in the chaos, she would be able to escape the cannibals. Of course… escaping the Lost would prove another challenge entirely. The thought of the undead warriors’ empty black eye sockets sent a shudder down her spine.

The soft brush of fur turned her head to the dark cat that had seemingly materialized from the shadows. She shifted in the prickly grass, not entirely sure how to feel about her deluded, halfway rescuer.

“Any other fabulous ideas?” she whispered, keeping one eye on the circle of Rastgol as they lounged about their small fire while two kept watch from their mounts.

“I am 118 years old and a font of wisdom. I always have fabulous ideas.”

Emara might’ve been surprised by this statement if she had the energy to be surprised at all.

“But this is certainly not the first time they’ve gone unappreciated.” He turned his sapphire eye to her, and she wondered what had happened to the other. Had a human done that to him? A magus? Had it been recent or a century ago?

Shad turned his gaze back to the Rastgol’s fire, his tail flicking idly, and a knife of guilt wriggled in her belly. Although she was far from safe, the cat had definitely rescued her from almost certain death.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You saved my life, and we haven’t even been properly introduced.” She touched two fingertips to her forehead in the traditional greeting of the southern tribes. “My name is Emara Akil, of the Kamuzu Merchant Tribe, now scattered to the winds, and I owe you a life debt.”

The cat scoffed. “If that is what you’re calling yourself now, so be it, but we have, in fact, been introduced before. You were barely a year old, toddling around after the Thane children.”

“Zephyr and Aza Thane?” Emara whispered. Though she knew the names of the younger Dragon and Shadow Heirs, she’d always pictured them as the fearsome generals of the Heirs’ army… not children.

The cat nodded. “And I was there the night you saved your first life, the same night your father died at the hands of the Lost, and your grieving mother forsook the Heirs.” His whiskers twitched in dusky light. “Do you remember none of it?”

Emara squeezed her knees tighter, casting her memory as far back as it would go, to the day Yaya had been gutting a fish and cut herself with a knife. Emara had tried to heal the wound and got a swat from her mother for her trouble. It was the first time her mother explained to her what an Odriel’s Blessed was, and the horrible creatures that would hunt her for it.

“I was five in my earliest memory, living with the Kumuzu tribe of the southern shore. My father was already gone, and my mother called me Emara.”

“You were young, so it’s possible you forgot such a trauma. Or…” The cat’s eyes narrowed, his expression distant and thoughtful. “I once ran across an Odriel’s Blessed that could make one forget, but her methods were imprecise at best. In any case, it seems your mother went to great lengths to hide you from us. Even going so far as to hide you from yourself.”

The thought of someone stealing precious memories of her father nearly punched the breath from her lungs. How many times had her mother told her tales of his kindness and wit? The way he’d courted her mother with pure buffoonery, forever making them all laugh, and how fervently she wished she could even just remember his face. She screwed her eyes shut against the bitter sting of the worn grief.

“Why would she hide me from you? I thought the Heirs were supposed to be the ones to save us from the Dead King,” she said with a sniff. “Not that they’ve saved any of the fifteen towns I’ve seen fall.”

“She did it to protect you, of course,” the cat answered. “As you must know, the Heirs have many enemies. When your father died, she doubted the Heirs’ ability to protect you.”

Emara wanted to deny this, but she could not refute the blue glow of her hands. Nor could she forget how her mother forbade all talk of the Heirs with a stern look or a sharp word. Then again, she’d never seen her mother heal anyone. Had she really been able to suppress their gift so thoroughly? For Emara, using yanaa felt akin to stretching her legs. If she went too long without exercising her meager gift, her whole body felt cramped and stiff.

But even if she was the Time Heir, what did that mean? Well, for one, it might explain why despite her slight frame, she’d always been as strong and fast as even the largest men. It also meant that she was probably a stronger healer than she’d originally thought, and that she’d pass the gift on to her child if she had one. Was that it?

Those things seemed unimportant with all the other facts that would stay the same. That her family was long dead and gone. That she would be hunted for her gift. That her yanaa would draw the Lost to her in furious droves.

She shook her head. At the heart of things, it changed nothing.

“All right, fine. Even if I was once Ioni Rao, who… or what does that make you…? Are you truly a cat? Or something else?”

The cat’s tattered ears twitched, and his expression turned almost wistful. “I, too, was once someone I don’t remember. When I was a youth, I tried to steal from a magus, and Everard sentenced me to be his spy and servant for 100 years as a cat.”

“But didn’t you say you were 118… Shadmondor?” Emara tripped over the name.

“It’s Shadmundar, but if you can’t manage that, most settle on Shad, and yes. Though I have searched the land from end to end, Everard has not been seen in the last twenty years, and without him to lift the curse, it seems a cat I shall remain for all time.”

“Oh… I’m sorry, Shad.” Emara’s heart squeezed for him. What must it be like to have freedom yanked away after waiting for it for a century? “Do you miss being a human terribly?”

For a moment, Shad was silent, studying her. “For better or worse, I can’t even remember life as a human.” He looked toward the horizon, a sliver of gold peering over it. “But I always thought it would be nice to have arms to embrace, to lift a sword, to not be the only one…”

His voice trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. Emara knew exactly what it was like to be alone and wandering. In fact, even she hadn’t embraced another human since Yaya died, and that had been two years ago. To continue like that for a century? She looked at the cat, his fur patchy from whatever hardships he’d endured, and resisted the urge to hug him to her.

“So when you become human again, will you be a 118-year-old man?”

“The details are rather unclear. Everard once said if I served well, he would restore me to who I was before the curse… whoever that was.” His tail swished.

Emara studied him, trying to imagine what he would be like as a human. One-eyed, scarred, shabby clothes, and yet with a lofty stride. A smile curved her mouth at the strange image. “I hope you find him one day.”

Shad turned his luminous eye to her, ears twitching with surprise. “Thank you… Emara.”

“And if I survive this, I’ll be the first to give you a hug.” She smiled weakly, her eyes flicking to the Rastgol rousing from their brief respite.

Shad turned away quickly, almost as if he was embarrassed. “You will survive. I sent for help before we left Faveno. You don’t have to worry about the Dead King or, more importantly, his commanders.” His ears flicked again, and his voice dropped into a grumble. “Not yet anyway.”

A flicker of hope curled in Emara, and she immediately tempered it. After all, she’d seen many long-eared harehawks sent with desperate pleas of help to the Heirs of the North, and none had ever been answered. Emara had more questions, but she couldn’t find the words before Baros’s hard gaze landed on her. She jumped to her feet, shuffling to her mule and climbing on before he could haul her back himself.

Shad jumped into the saddle bag shortly after, only his small dark ears poking from the leather satchel. And although Emara was in the exact same situation she’d been in an hour before, her spirit lifted with the rising sun, an ominous dark sliver marring its golden face as always