Zu emerged from the negotiations with Peryn, the last of the peace talks mercifully ended. Three days. Three trying, miserable days of posturing and negotiating and bickering over the wording of writs and decrees when he should have been tending to his friend. Three days spent on all the worst parts of war and peace.

  The crisp air cooled the sweat on his skin. He and Ulula, finally given leave to be at Yechvan’s side, mounted their horses to make the journey. It promised to be a long but peaceful night as they rode north to the once sleepy town of Go’hai.

  A day’s ride from the battle lines, Go’hai had seen a massive influx of people since the onset of war: injured and dying soldiers, riders carrying letters to and from loved ones back home, volunteer merchants supplying food and arms to the western flank. The conflict had lasted almost a year. Over the course of those six seasons, the population tripled. To house those who came and went, makeshift homes were hastily erected. Lean-tos and tents peppered the outskirts of the original town.

  The haphazard buildings, the scattered campfires, the laughter of soldiers sharing stories reminded Zu of the war camps. He was sick to death of war camps, fed up with living in a tent. He wanted little more than to sink into a feather bed. Preferably one at Madame Sho’s.

  When they reached the town center, Zu dismounted. He made to help Ulula, but she hopped from the horse with ease, her injured shoulder an afterthought. They skirted the edge of an amphitheater, a cavernous pit in the heart of town, and crept along the narrow street that led to the feisty old shaman’s hut in the north.

  The cobblestones were rough beneath Zu’s boots, and the dusty clay caught in his nose, taking him back those ten long days since he’d carried Yechvan through the streets. He and the other survivors had fashioned a litter from broken weapons and torn clothing to transport their unconscious general after the battle. The memory was so vivid, Zu could almost feel Yechvan’s weight straining against the straps that constricted his chest. He could taste the sweat as it trickled over his lips, hear Yechvan’s labored, unsteady breaths. Zu reached for those straps now, but a glance over his shoulder revealed only his tired horse.

  Ten soldiers survived Gard Pass. Ten, including Yechvan. Two of the injured hadn’t endured the journey down the mountain. Perhaps thirty of the Perysh had withstood the onslaught, but too few to carry out their plan. So they had run. Faster and faster they’d fled on the heels of Zu’s chant, his prayer to Koruzan, as it shook the snow from the mountains.

  “You go on in,” Ulula said when they reached the shaman’s hut. “I’ll take care of the horses.”

  Zu was going to tell her to tie them up, to tend to them after they checked on Yechvan, but the emotion was plain on her face: the nerves, the anger, the regret. Instead, he nodded and ducked through the snug doorframe.

  Inside, it smelled of rosemary and mint and lavender and death. Little Grask slept on a wooden chair, exhaustion having won out over vigilance. His hand rested atop his mentor’s. Yechvan looked pale and wasted on the small bed. His breath was ragged and shallow. His situation had somehow worsened under Shaman Kezza’s care. In two determined strides, Zu was at Little Grask’s side. The boy started, fear gripping him with the force of Zu’s rough hands.

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  “Wh-what?” Little Grask stammered. He brought his hand up to wipe at his eyes and lunged at Zu, burying his face in his brother’s breast.

  “Your last letter told me he was well.” Zu’s deep voice rattled the walls. “What has changed?”

  “Only the gods know.” The shaman groaned, creaking out of her cot.

  “When were you planning on telling me?”

  “I sent a letter earlier today, as soon as his condition worsened,” Little Grask said, still clinging to Zu.

  “Come now, Little Grask,” Zu said, cursing the delays in the peace talks. He patted the boy on the back.

  “I’m afraid he’s dying.” Little Grask’s trembling words were muffled in Zu’s shirt.

  “We don’t know that.” Kezza transferred the kettle to the hook above the fire and eased into a chair by the table littered with herbs. “He woke for a few moments today, disoriented and in pain. I thought it a promising sign at the time, but now I’m not so sure it wasn’t Trilan’s last breath blowing through his body.”

  “Trilan’s last breath. Gru,” Zu cursed. He’d seen it in wartime. A wounded warrior would awaken in good spirits, have a laugh, a conversation, seemingly on the mend. And then Trilan would steal them away.

  Zu embraced Little Grask more firmly. The past year, Yechvan had been more of a father to the boy than Grusk ever would be. The qish had never been much of a father to Zu either. But unlike Little Grask, Zu had been fortunate enough to have several maternal protectors to fill that void. He remembered what it meant to rediscover a loving, nurturing touch after his mother’s death, when Madame Sho took him under her wing. Even his Perysh mentor, Algena, had cared for him. She’d shown him firm discipline but also love, in her own way. He remembered the emptiness, the gaping wound of pain and loss her death opened in him. It was much like the hole he’d felt when Sekku had dragged Yechvan to the Five Nations on his doomed diplomatic mission. Much like the hole growing in his breast as he stood over his truest of friends. Dying.

  Ulula knocked timidly, something Zu had never known her to do, and cracked open the door. Upon taking in the scene, sensing the grief, she went rigid. She refused a drink when Kezza offered it. She refused to sit, refused to believe that Yechvan might be…

  “Is there nothing that can be done?” Ulula asked, bitterness and resentment warring with hope at the rough edge of her voice.

  The shaman looked up from her tea, from Ulula to Zu. She hesitated, and Zu sensed that what she was about to say was with immense trepidation. “There is a ritual.”

  “And…?” Ulula prodded, patience ever fleeting.

  “I saw it performed once, as a girl, but it was a very long time ago,” Kezza said, colorless lips drawn tight across the dark canvas of her face.

  Ulula tapped her foot as she waited for the woman to continue.

  “It is called Gar Hira. It’s dangerous,” Kezza said in careful, measured tones. “When my Daboo taught me the ritual, it was because he needed my help to perform it. He hadn’t been strong enough to power it alone.”

  Magick. Of course. Yun’s words came back to Zu, a whisper in his ear. When magick was corrupted, it became unpredictable.

  “What of the price?” Zu asked, avoiding Ulula’s narrowed eyes. “All magick comes at a price, is that not so, shaman?”

  “Of a sort,” she admitted. “But the gods’ price is never readily foreseen. It may be a dram of blood. It may be that a life for a life is Trilan’s price.”

  “And what of the Corruption?” Zu pressed.

  “The Corruption has made everything unpredictable, young one. More so than before.”

  “What was the result of your previous attempt?”

  Ulula huffed her irritation.

  “The woman died in agony,” Kezza said, before adding, “but I believe I have learned how to avert such a fate.”

  “Can you be certain?” Zu asked.

  “What are doing, Zu?” Ulula cut in, no longer able to contain her rage. “Don’t you want to save him?”

  “Of course I do. But you know as well as I that Yechvan would never forgive us if the price was one he wasn’t willing to pay.”

  “Nothing in this life comes without risk,” Little Grask said with wisdom beyond his years. He wiped away his tears. “But Yechvan Uldi is worth saving, no matter the cost.”