An Accident of Stars

which can reknit skin and bone would stumble at the
manufacture of blood, or be unable to change one type into
another at need.”

Halaya chuckled. “The truth doesn’t always make for a good
story. Some lies are useful, not because they trick us into
thinking the world is different, but because they show us that it
could be. One girl needed purpose; the other needed blood. Had
they not been depleted from tending so many injuries, I’m sure
that Kada and Dom could have saved Zechalia alone; but as they
couldn’t, neither they nor I saw any harm in taking the
opportunity to give meaning to one who required it.”

“You couldn’t have known how she’d react.”
“Maybe, but I could guess.” Halaya sighed. “She was lost,
Gwen. Everything was beyond her control, and so we gave her a
choice that wasn’t – one that allowed her to help. Perhaps that
was a risk, but it still paid off.”
“And so it did,” Gwen murmured.
A brief silence fell between them, broken only by the
murmur of the surrounding camp and the sound of their own
footsteps.
“I know your son,” Halaya said quietly.
Gwen stopped dead.
Halaya stopped with her. They were distant enough from the
others not to be overheard, yet even so, Gwen’s heart was
hammering. Though the possibility had occurred to her in the
battle’s aftermath, she hadn’t let herself hope that her Louis
might be among their Shavaktiin rescuers; on top of everything
else, such yearning might have undone her. Now, though, the

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buried hope flared anew. She tamped it down sternly: if Louis
were here, he’d surely have sought her out himself, not sent
Halaya as messenger. Even so, it was several long seconds before
she trusted her voice enough to answer.

“Is he well?”
“He was, when last we spoke.”
“He’s not here then?”
“No,” said Halaya.
Gwen suppressed a wince. “Of course.”
“He’s a good man,” Halaya said softly. “He… Understand,
there’s only so much I can say about our politics to an outsider,
but the path he’s chosen – his guidance of the story – though
some in our order oppose it, we do not. I do not.”
“Is…” oh, it was a bad question to ask, especially today, but
she still couldn’t stop herself, “…is he safe, do you think?”
Halaya was silent for just long enough that Gwen’s heart
sank. She’d last seen Louis just before her departure to Earth
from Karavos; he’d hinted then that he was already involved in
something she wouldn’t approve of, and rather than argue, she’d
declined to press the issue. She hated to think of Louis putting
himself in danger, but given her current occupation, it would’ve
been hypocritical to deny him his own adventures, which made
for an uneasy truce between them at the best of times. And yet.
And yet.
Finally, Halaya said, “He is as safe as he can make himself.
Safer than we are now, certainly.” And then, some wryness
creeping into her tone, “It is, I’m told, safer to run beside a
charging horse than to stand in its way.”

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Gwen snorted. “I’ll bet.” And then, because she judged
herself to be happier without further details, “Come on, then –
show me this fabled bedroll. If I stay on my feet much longer,
they’re like to mutiny.”

Saffron walked through the field of burning flowers, her nostrils
filled with the sickly-sharp smell of hot sap. White smoke was
everywhere, and yet she remained as calm as if it were nothing
but fog. I don’t fear this, she thought, and as though her will had
the power to shape the space around her – which, this being a
dream, she supposed it did – the smoke began to thin, the fire
blown out like birthday candles. As the air cleared, Saffron found
she wasn’t alone: a thin, short figure stood up ahead, staring in
obvious mystification at their surroundings.

“Zech?” she asked.
The girl turned, surprised. “Safi? Is this real?”
“I’m not sure. I think it all depends on what you mean by
reality.”
“Oh. All right, then.” She blinked. “Have you been here
before?”
“Once. I’m still not sure why, though, or what it means.”
“Hmm.” Zech bent down and picked a flower, twirling the
stem between her fingers. “I don’t know why, but I feel like
there’s something I’m meant to find here. Will you help me
look?”
“Of course,” said Saffron. “But should you be walking

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already? You were so cold before. I don’t want you to get worse
again.”

“Maybe not,” said Zech, rubbing her injured leg. She peered
over Saffron’s shoulder and smiled. “We can ride, though.”

Turning, Saffron laughed to find a pair of roas, saddled and
waiting, woolly ears flickering back and forth. A brightly striped
cloak covered each saddle, and as Zech moved to choose a
mount, Saffron said, “Did these come from you or me, do you
think?”

“Maybe they came from themselves,” said Zech, shrugging
into the cloak. It was blue and purple, red and gold – a flowing,
gorgeous thing. A technicolor dreamcoat, Saffron thought, and
fought the urge to giggle as she donned her own. “Who knows?
Maybe roas dream too.”

“I’ve heard of stranger things,” said Saffron, and swung
herself into the saddle.

Together, they began to ride, the roas snorting softly. Ahead
of them, the field of flowers started sloping upwards, rising like
the flank of some sleeping beast. The higher they climbed, the
more it felt like riding up the spine of a towering wave, and
when they reached the summit, the view rendered both of them
speechless.

“Oh,” said Zech.
Before them stretched Karavos – the same vista Saffron had
seen on arriving with Gwen and Pix. There were the towers, the
broken walls; and there, perched high above everything else, was
the palace. Zech’s eyes were glued to it.
“There,” she whispered, “take us there,” and before Saffron

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could ask why, the whole scene warped about them like rippling
water, swirling and reconfiguring. The roas vanished as silently
as they’d come, though the cloaks remained, and with a jolt they
found themselves inside a palatial chamber. White stone
columns stretched overhead, while the floor was patterned with
gold and crimson tiles. A metal canal filled with burning oil ran
along the walls, illuminating the room. To the left, a pair of
double doors stood shut, their polished handles gleaming in the
firelight, and to the right was a square stone altar topped with a
flat, gold bowl.

The doors swung open, and in came the Vex’Mara Kadeja.
Saffron froze. For a single heart-stopping moment, she forgot
that this was a dream. Her missing fingers tingled unpleasantly,
and beside her Zech’s breathing was rapid and shallow, her pale
gaze fixed on Kadeja.
Forcing herself to stay calm, Saffron watched as the Vex’Mara
approached the altar. In contrast to the finery she’d worn in the
Square of Gods, she was now both barefoot and unjewelleried,
dressed in a strange, wraparound garment that only vaguely
resembled a taal. Made of faded pink cloth, it looked at first like a
loose, belted dress, except that the belt and dress were actually
all of a piece, the knotted ends hanging neatly from the small of
Kadeja’s back. In one hand, she held a lit candle; the other bore
a knife.
Reaching the altar, Kadeja set the candle down. Extending
her free hand, she nicked the tip of her index finger with the
blade, wincing only a little as her blood dripped into the bowl.
When the bleeding slowed to a trickle, she reached up and

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unbound her marriage-braids, slicing off a small hank of hair and
dropping that, too, into the bowl. Only then did she put down
the knife and reclaim the candle, murmuring words in Vekshi as
she dipped the flame over her offering.

The bowl contained more than blood and hair: the surface
came alight with flames, and Kadeja knelt before them.

“Ashasa, guide me,” she whispered in Kenan, touching her
head to the floor – and then she switched to Vekshi again, her
prayer rendered unintelligible.

“What’s she saying?” Saffron murmured.
For a moment, Zech said nothing. Her eyes were wide and
distant, her features calm as a sleeping child’s; which, Saffron
supposed, was technically appropriate, but nonetheless
disquieting. She was on the verge of repeating the question
when Zech began to speak, her words delivered in a soft, dreamy
monotone made all the eerier by their contrast with Kadeja’s
impassioned tone. Saffron’s scalp prickled.
“Mother Sun, why won’t you lift my guilt? I live only to
serve you; I heed your truth. Your will has been put before my
own. I work for the unity of your children; the unity of your
word. With Leoden, I will remake this world in your image, the
heathen gods revealed as sparks struck from your fire. And yet.
And yet. This grieving guilt still eats at me. I know it was your
will, your omen, your blessing; I know I acted only as you
wished. But still you withhold your greatest gift from me. My
penance continues. You will not give me a rightful child. Is this a
test? Have I failed you somehow? Mother Sun, shine on me.
Mother Sun, warm me. Mother Sun, light my path. Please, send

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me the child I’m meant to mother. Send me absolution. Send me
peace.”

Kadeja fell silent first, so that Zech’s final words were spoken
into a vacuum. Saffron stared at the Vex’Mara, trembling with
an emotion she couldn’t name. She hadn’t understood half of
what Kadeja was talking about, and yet, somehow, she felt… not
pity exactly, but perhaps a sort of empathy for a woman praying
in private, battling some secret sense of loss. All too well, she
understood uncertainty. But that fleeting connection frightened
her too; she didn’t want to sympathise with the woman who’d
cut her fingers, whose actions ultimately threatened her life and
the lives of those around her. Zech, too, looked perturbed: some
of the dreaminess had left her face, replaced with confusion. The
two girls looked at each other.

“I don’t understand,” said Zech.
“Me neither,” said Saffron. “I–”
The double doors opened again.
All three of them – Kadeja included – jumped, watching as a
handsome man in his thirties entered. He too was barefoot,
dressed in loose trousers beneath a plain red tunic whose short
sleeves served to emphasise the sun-darkened skin of his
forearms and face. His black hair was short, tousled and threaded
sparsely with silver; his lips were expressive and mobile, and his
dark eyes were full of secrets. Kadeja rose to meet him, smiling
as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, my love,” said Leoden,
dropping a kiss on her forehead. “But we’ve had a change of
plan regarding Iviyat. I thought you’d want to know.”

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“Of course,” said Kadeja, tilting her head to meet his gaze.
“She’s been recovered?”

“The opposite. We’re letting her go.”
For a moment, Kadeja looked shocked, then a gleam of
understanding crept into her eyes. “She’s running to Veksh,” she
said.
“As best we can tell, yes. Her only other option is the traitors’
camp, but whether she’s been kidnapped by Vekshi radicals or
tricked into treason by rebels, dear Iviyat is the perfect excuse for
moving our soldiers further north.”
“Wonderful,” said Kadeja, and then they were kissing, deep
and slow in a way that made Saffron profoundly uncomfortable.
Not wanting to watch, she turned to Zech and murmured, “We
need to remember this. We need to tell Gwen and Yasha what
they’re planning, only last time I woke up from here, I’d
forgotten everything. Have you done this before?”
“Remember,” Zech said dreamily. She was staring into space.
“I think… I think…”
“I think,” said another voice, “you’ve trespassed long
enough.”
Saffron yelped and whirled around. Instead of a wall, she
found herself staring once more at Luy and his endless field of
flowers, the palace, Kadeja and Leoden all gone. Luy rolled his
eyes, as though he didn’t know whether to be amused or
exasperated at her obvious confusion.
“I didn’t expect to find you here again so soon, let alone with
a friend,” he said. “And who is this?”
Moving slowly, Zech turned to face him. “Zechalia,” she said.

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“I came to find something important. A lost thing.”
“Oh?” Luy quirked an eyebrow at her. “And did you

succeed?”
“I’m not sure,” Zech said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Why did you take us away from the palace?” Saffron asked.

“I mean, I know they were kissing and everything, but we were
learning something important.”

Luy raised a finger. “A better question is, how did the two of
you get there in the first place? True-dreaming might not be
magic in the conventional sense – not always, anyway – but that
doesn’t mean the palace isn’t warded against it. And yet there
you were, eavesdropping on the Vex and Vex’Mara as easily as
falling from horseback. You, I can almost understand,” he said,
pointing at Saffron. “You’re not from this world, which lays parts
of its dreaming open to you that might otherwise be closed. But
as for your friend…”Abruptly, he fell silent, staring at Zech with
a look on his face that somehow contrived to be horrified, elated
and revelatory all at once. “No,” he said, disbelievingly.

Zech paled. Reaching out, she grabbed Saffron’s arm, hard
enough to hurt. “I’ll remember,” she whispered fiercely – and
then, with a strange, small smile, she vanished.

Saffron blinked at the empty space beside her. “What just
happened?”

“She woke up,” said Luy. “And by design rather than
accident, I suspect, despite appearing to be an unpractised
dreamer. Interesting.”

“Why did she leave?”
“I’m not sure,” Luy said slowly. “Whatever I might’ve

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thought, I can’t confirm it now, and without confirmation such
words are worthless. You’ll have to ask her yourself, if either of
you remembers this on waking.”

Saffron hesitated. On the one hand, Luy’s answer was deeply
unsatisfactory – he was clearly hiding something, and she
wanted to know what it was. But on the other, dreams were his
domain: she had no power to compel him, and in any case, a
more pressing question had wriggled its way to the forefront of
her thoughts.

“This dream, whatever it is,” she said, weighing her words
carefully, “is it magic? You said true-dreaming sometimes is, but
not always, and I was wondering, if it is magic, is it yours or
mine, or does it just exist on its own?”

Luy grinned. “Why can’t it be all three at once?”
At Saffron’s expression, he laughed. “Every sentient creature
dreams, and whether they know it or not, every sentient race in
the Many – that’s the multiverse to you – has the power to walk
the dreamscape. On your world, your Earth, that gift was
sometimes called oneiromancy; here, the Kenans call it the
ilumet, and say its usage is the province of the priests and
priestesses of Hime, the sky-goddess. But dreaming is a sideways
sort of talent, Saffron-girl. Some people have it strongly, and for
them it really is magic, wielded consciously through will and
thought with unmatched skill. Others who lack an inborn gift
can learn it through hard practice, but even then it’s a matter of
luck; no matter how hard they try, not everyone can learn the
trick of it.
“But even so, everyone dreams – every sentient soul on every

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world, all pouring their thoughts into a great subconscious web
we call the dreamscape. Well, I say we; not everyone believes it.
The Shavaktiin, though, we know the truth: that the dreamscape
connects all minds across the Many, heedless of time and
distance, because the Many doesn’t care about clocks and
seasons, decay and ageing, relative positions in time and space.
There is only one moment in all of existence – one eternal beat
in which every universe is born and breathes and dies, the way
milliseconds and femtoseconds inhabit what we commonly think
of as the smallest unit of time – and that moment is always now.
And so it is with the dreamscape: the dreams of the past don’t
die because the past is past. Why should they, when neither past
nor future truly exists?

“And when you dream – when anyone in creation dreams –
they’re connected to the dreamscape; a realm created solely by
its visitors, by the very act of visiting. But sentient minds, and
particularly human ones, are limited: the dreamscape is far too
vast for any one soul to traverse, and there’s a kind of
topography to it, a sort of enforced proximity, so that the dreams
you visit most easily are the dreams of those nearest to you – the
dreams of others of your world, whether forwards or backwards
in time. Unconscious dreams, where the daylight mind sleeps,
everyone has those, and their substance lends deception to the
dreamscape, which doesn’t distinguish between beauty and
nightmare, history and lies. But conscious dreams, like this one?
Well, then your daylight mind is alive to that deception; it helps
you parse true from false. But unless you remember it on
waking, you might as well have dreamed nothing at all.

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“And so, to answer your question, Saffron Isla Coulter – is
this magic? Only if consciousness is, or if brains are. Wherever
magic occurs in the Many, in whatever manifestation, it’s always
a disturbance: a specific usurpation of the norms of its world, or
of similar worlds, whose ultimate origins and logic not even the
Shavaktiin know. But everyone dreams, and everyone feeds the
dreamscape – which makes it normal, and that means it isn’t
magic. Not really.”

For the longest moment, Saffron simply stared. Part of her
had drunk in every word, but the rest of her was dumbstruck,
unable to comprehend the scope of Luy’s response. Falling into
another world was one thing, but the sudden possibility of
endless new realms all interconnected even while stretching into
infinity… It was too big to believe – and Luymust have known
that. He was looking at her with suppressed humour, eyes
gleaming as though, by answering her question, he’d also laid a
challenge before her. Which, Saffron realised, he had: not just to
accept it, but to remember.

Softening slightly, Luy reached out and tapped the side of her
cheek with a finger. “You’re no oneiromancer, worldwalker girl.
But you might learn something yet.”

Around her, the dreamscape began to fade, the field of
flowers whitening into mist.

“How…” she began, but before she could form the rest of the
words, both Luy and his world had fallen away, leaving only
muzzy dreamlessness in their wake.

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In the cold dawn light, Zech lay still and watched as Safi began to
stir – she’d been lying awake for hours, thoughts churning with
all the revelations of their shared dream. She’d already thought
of a way to tell Yasha what she’d learned about the soldiers
without mentioning that they’d seen inside the palace, but first
she had to see if Safi remembered too – and if so, how much.
The wait was agonising enough that even the pain in her leg
couldn’t wholly distract her. And what if Jeiden or Yena woke
too? Though neither had so much as twitched in the time that
Zech had been watching, Jeiden was a light sleeper and Yena
was still curled against Safi, making it difficult for one of them to
rise without disturbing the other.

Finally, Safi’s eyes slid open. Zech held her breath, willing her
to look over. For one heart-stopping moment, the older girl
almost went straight back to sleep, but at last she met Zech’s
gaze, blinking slowly.

Speak now, privately, Zech mimed at her. Please?
Safi nodded agreement. Gently disentangling herself from
Yena (the other girl only sighed and rolled over) she stood away
from the others, waiting politely while Zech, still unsure how
much strain her leg could bear, came slowly to her feet. Pain
shot through her thigh, but it was a marked improvement on
yesterday. The realisation made her overconfident – no sooner
had she taken a step than she was stumbling, toppling forward.
Only Safi kept her upright: the other girl lunged forward and
caught her, lending support while Zech, red-faced, looped an
arm around her shoulders.
Clearly, walking anywhere was out of the question until

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she’d seen the healers again. At Safi’s tacit suggestion, Zech let
herself be lowered back down, the pain easing as soon as she
took the weight off her feet. Casting a wary eye at Jeiden, she
opted instead for a different sort of secrecy.

“Safi,” she asked in English, “what did you dream last night?”
Beside her, the older girl stiffened. “I think… ugh, I feel like it
was something important, but I can’t remember. Maybe you
were there? I don’t know, it’s all sort of vague, like the more I
try to hang onto it, the more it slips away. Maybe it’ll come to
me later.” She paused, looking quizzically at Zech. “Why? Did
you dream something too?”
The hope in her tone made Zech wince with guilt, but if Safi
noticed the expression, she must have attributed it to yet more
pain as she said nothing. Maybe I should tell her. We could work
together. Maybe we could be allies. But the risk was too great,
she knew that now; she wanted to trust Safi, but first she had to
find out more on her own – had to figure out who knew what,
and how badly she’d been lied to.
Instead, she shook her head. “It was nothing,” Zech
murmured. “Just a nightmare.”

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PART THREE

THE COUNSEL OF QUEENS

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FIFTEEN
NEITHER THE RIGHT THING NOR ITS OPPOSITE

Three hours north of the riverside camp, when Pix and Viya
were due to turn for Avekou, Zech suddenly announced, “I had
a true dream of Leoden last night.”

The hairs on Saffron’s arms stood up, though she didn’t know
why. She stared at Zech, trepidation coiling through her stomach
as Gwen and Yasha, Pix and Halaya all demanded details of the
dream.

“He’s called off the search for Iviyat,” Zech said, her gaze
lighting on everyone but Saffron. “He ordered his commanders
to turn around. He doesn’t want to find us any more.”

A whirlwind of discussion followed. Pix alone was sceptical,
not of Zech’s claim, but of the idea that the dream could be
trusted in isolation, while Yasha was almost feral with pride at
this newly-manifested talent. All agreed, however, that the news
should change the distribution of the Shavaktiin between the

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two parties – if Leoden was no longer hunting Viya, then there
was potentially less need to protect her, and all four women
began to haggle the details out in earnest.

“Is that a kind of magic here?” Saffron asked Matu, who was
the closest adult not involved in the conversation. “Dreaming
true dreams?”

“We call it the ilumet,” he said, and Saffron shivered with
déjà vu. “Some people are more gifted with it than others, but
everyone dreams, and having another type of magic often makes
you more sensitive to the dreamscape.” He paused, then added,
“Zechalia wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

“I know,” said Saffron – too quickly, because even though
she trusted Zech, she had a nagging feeling that she was missing
something. But then she’d felt that way about most things since
coming to Kena; that was just her being out of her depth, not a
sign of something important. The thought sent a pang through
her chest, and she hunched in on herself, remembering Kadeja’s
blade at the fountain, the blood of the Envas road.

“Here now,” said Matu, giving her shoulder a gentle nudge.
“You look like you’ve swallowed the moon.”

“Like I’ve what?”
Matu laughed. “Forgive me, it’s a tale we tell children. Once,
they say, there was a third moon in the sky, and she knew all
the stories in the world, but she was too shy to share them. So
her elder sisters wove a spell in moonlight, that if anyone drank
the youngest moon’s reflection from a pool, one of her stories
would pass to their keeping until they died. And people drank,
and the younger moon, once fat and round, grew thinner and

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thinner, only waxing full again when those who knew her
stories passed into death.

“But as the legend grew, we began to drink the moon’s
stories faster than our dying could replenish her, until one night
a lonely child saw the moon’s reflection and drank until she was
gone forever. His belly was full of stories, but he grieved her loss,
knowing then that he’d taken her duty on himself, but fearing it
was beyond him. And from then on, there were only two moons
in Kena’s sky, and our stories stayed with us even after death.
And that’s why, even now, the tales we tell to children are called
moon-tales.”

He looked at her, his dark eyes kind. “I say you’ve swallowed
the moon because you look burdened with stories. As if you’ve
taken more weight on yourself than you rightly know how to
carry.”

“Oh,” said Saffron quietly. Hot tears pricked her eyes. “Oh.”
Ahead of them, the women had sorted out the dispersal of
the Shavaktiin. Pix and Viya broke away from the main party,
accompanied by fewer riders than initially planned, but still
enough that their absence left Saffron feeling strangely exposed.
She raised a hand to wave them off, as did Matu – she’d already
said her proper goodbyes to Viya that morning – then watched
them ride away, the smaller party taking a curving path through
the trees until they were out of sight. When her own mount
started moving again, it was almost a shock; she jolted in the
saddle, fingers clutching at the reins, and stared at a fixed point
in the distance, unfamiliar earth beneath a too-white sun.
“We’ll start your lessons in Vekshi tomorrow,” Matu said,

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into the not-quite-silence of hoofbeats and creaking leather.
“Mm,” said Saffron. She didn’t look up.
“I could teach you other things, too, if you wanted.”
There was a pause as the offer sank in. “Like what?”
“How to defend yourself,” said Matu. His voice was calm and

even, as though they were discussing the weather, but Saffron
felt her cheeks burn, ashamed to be so transparent. “Not how to
fight with a Vekshi staff – there’s not enough time, and I’m
hardly proficient – and Pix is the one to ask for lessons in knives.
But there are… tricks, I suppose you’d say, that are helpful for
defence. Ways to use your size to your advantage, your speed.
Nothing complicated. Just enough to keep yourself safe, disable
an opponent or get away clean. If you wanted.”

Saffron thought of how helpless she’d felt when Kadeja had
cut her fingers; how frightened she’d been in the battle; how
vulnerable she still felt now. It wasn’t that she wanted more
violence – she just didn’t want other people to hurt her again.

“I’d like that,” she said softly. “Please.”
“All right, then,” said Matu. “I’ll talk you through the forms
as we ride, and this evening, I’ll show you in practice. How does
that sound?”
Saffron took a deep breath, and for the first time that
morning, it didn’t feel tight in her chest. “Good. It sounds…
good.”
In the days that followed, Matu was better than his word.
Though he never probed openly about Saffron’s fears, he was
quick to intuit their parameters, adapting his conversation to suit
her level of comfort. Their second morning out, when talk of

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self-defence became too much for her, he segued effortlessly into
a description of Yevekshasa, a stone-carved city set atop a
massive mesa, punching up out of a plateau like the earth god’s
fist. The sevikmet flowed between them, Vekshi words and
Kenan twisting in her head, and when she tried to speak aloud,
he never once mocked her accent. Gwen joined in for some of
these lessons, muttering about agile young brains whenever she
stumbled over a word, but Matu didn’t tease her either; just rode
between them, reins tied to the saddle as he grazed his fingertips
against their skin, the touch both chaste and comforting.

Sometimes, during these moments, Yena would catch
Saffron’s eye and wink at her, leaving her flushed and smiling.
Though Matu undoubtedly noticed, he politely refrained from
comment. And whenever they stopped – whenever Saffron
could bear it – he taught her his tricks of self-defence in earnest.

On the evening of the third day, as they sat beside the
campfire, Matu explained about the nine branches of Kenan
magic, each discipline tied and attributed to a particular god,
though their limitations were, in his view, a product as much of
custom as natural law.

“We use our magics like tools, the way we’ve been taught,”
he said. “The shape of a tool defines its use, but the substance of
a tool – the how and why of its making – is a human choice.”

“You’re saying all magic is the same?” asked Saffron.
“I’m saying,” said Matu, “that Veksh and Kena are different
lands, but where their magic is different to ours, it’s not because
of blood.”
She dreamed of the Envas road that night, a paralysing melee

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of blood and screams, the woman she’d killed looking up at her
from under the dying horse. Saffron woke with tears on her
cheeks, but not alone: she was cuddled between Zech and Yena,
with Jeiden’s small hand sneaking over Zech’s flank to curl
around her wrist.

“It’s all right,” Yena murmured sleepily, nuzzling into
Saffron’s shoulder. “We’ve got you.”

Zech made a sleepy noise of assent, and Jeiden squeezed her
wrist, and when she fell asleep again, she didn’t dream at all.

Not that night, at least. But in the days that followed, more
unsettling than her periodic nightmares were the dreams she
didn’t remember, their absence niggling at her like a half-
completed chore.

Just as she’d done for the last ten days since setting out for
Avekou, Viya woke to the ungentle nudging of Pix’s boot. She’d
protested at first, angry at having her status so thoroughly
disregarded, but Pixeva only smiled and said that the dignity of
rank while travelling was like a three-legged roa: both mythical
and conceptually pointless. Thus far, Viya had endured the
indignity of riding through rainsqualls, pissing and shitting
behind innumerable bushes, and nightmares of the Envas road
that unfailingly woke her from sleep. Though her complaints
were only ever about the first two problems, in her secret heart
she knew the latter was truly responsible for her upset. Like all
women of her class, Viya had been raised to fight and defend

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herself, taught from childhood that there was no dishonour in
taking the lives of others if it were done to save one’s own. And
yet the battle weighed on her – not the loss of the dead
themselves, but the fear and fury of it, and the sharp uncertainty
she’d felt as to whether or not she’d live.

Her nightmares were always the same: an endless, looping
replay of when she’d fallen. Only seconds had passed between
Mara’s demise and her hitting the ground, but both at the time
and in memory, it felt much longer. Viya had been paralysed, so
terrified that she’d wet herself; so dislocated from her living flesh
that, for the smallest increment of time, she felt as if she were
floating outside her body, leaving her with an incongruous,
impossible memory of staring in disbelief at the back of her own
head. And then she’d slammed back into the moment, spurred
by an overwhelming desire to fight, to win, to live. She’d slashed
the hocks of the horse above and rolled away, fast enough not to
be crushed by its body but too slow to avoid the sword of its
rider. Her face burned as the blade came down, and after that
there was nothing but blood and darkness, interspersed with
flashes of light and the far-off sound of screaming.

That was when she invariably woke, sweat-drenched and
trembling in the night air, the whole world silent except for the
whir of insects and the breathing of her companions. Sleep never
came easily after that, but eventually her body’s exhaustion
overruled her brain’s alarm, and she’d drift back into a shallow,
dreamless oblivion. She said nothing of this to Pix, of course –
pride forbade her – but sometimes as they rode, she’d caught the
courtier watching her with speculative sympathy, as though she

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