Running through a brothel while royal soldiers broke down the front doors was considerably less graceful than stories made escape sound.
There were no dramatic cloaks.
No heroic music.
No perfectly timed leap through a window.
There was Mother shoving me through a narrow servant passage while I nearly broke my ankle on a bucket.
"Ow."
"Keep moving."
"I am moving."
"Faster."
"I have short legs."
"You have perfectly normal legs."
"They're short when someone's trying to arrest me."
Boots thundered somewhere behind us.
Men shouted.
A woman screamed.
Then something shattered.
Glass, probably.
Possibly furniture.
Possibly someone's head.
The Golden Veil had always been loud.
This was different.
This was the sound of fear moving through a building.
Mother grabbed my wrist and dragged me around a corner.
The hidden stairwell was barely wide enough for one person.
Old wooden steps curled downward between the inner walls of the brothel, steep and dark and smelling of dust, smoke, and things that had probably died before I was born.
I stumbled after her.
The pendant bounced against my palm.
Cold.
Far too cold.
I stared at it while running.
That was difficult.
I nearly walked into Mother's back.
"Eyes forward."
"Time stopped."
"Not now."
"What do you mean, not now?"
"Dama."
"You handed me a necklace and the entire world stopped moving."
"We need to reach the eastern wall."
"I heard a voice."
"I know."
That stopped me.
Mother kept going two steps before realizing I wasn't behind her.
She turned.
The passage was so narrow her shoulders nearly touched both walls.
"What?"
"You know?"
Her jaw tightened.
"Dama—"
"You know about the voice?"
"I know enough to know this is not the place."
I held up the pendant.
"No."
She looked at it.
Then me.
"No?"
"No more 'later.'"
Boots crashed somewhere overhead.
Mother looked toward the ceiling.
I stepped closer.
"Time stopped, Mother."
She grabbed my arm again and started pulling me down the stairs.
I let her.
For three steps.
"I heard a man who has been speaking to me in my dreams."
Nothing.
"You told me my blood woke up."
She pushed open a narrow door at the bottom of the stairs.
Bright morning exploded into my eyes.
We emerged into an alley behind the Golden Veil.
Mother ducked beneath a hanging awning.
I followed.
"So unless Riedana has a remarkably strange definition of normal, I think I've earned a few answers."
"Dama."
"I am nineteen years, three hundred and sixty-four days old."
"Not helping."
"I have been patient for nineteen years, three hundred and sixty-four days."
"That is not remotely true."
"Fine. I've been patient for approximately twelve minutes."
"Also not true."
"Mother."
We cut between two laundry lines.
A sheet slapped me directly in the face.
I tore it away.
Mother did not stop.
Neither did I.
"You knew something was going to happen when I turned twenty."
She said nothing.
"You knew the dreams mattered."
Nothing.
"You knew what the pendant would do."
"I did not know it would do that."
That was something.
I hurried beside her.
"Then what did you think would happen?"
She glanced over her shoulder.
Voices echoed at the mouth of the alley.
We turned again.
The streets near the eastern market were already filling.
Merchants shouted.
Carts rolled over stone.
Goats objected loudly to existing.
People had no idea royal soldiers were pouring through the Golden Veil two streets away.
Mother pulled her shawl over her hair.
"Cover yours."
I did.
Platinum hair had suddenly become very inconvenient.
Again.
We crossed the market.
Mother moved quickly but not so quickly that we looked like fugitives.
I hated how good she was at pretending not to be afraid.
She had probably needed that skill for most of her life.
I leaned closer.
"Answer me."
"Keep your voice down."
"Then whisper."
"Dama."
"Whisper angrily."
She gave me a look.
I waited.
She lasted eleven seconds.
Then—
"My mother was Jinn."
I stopped walking.
A man carrying melons nearly walked into me.
"Move!"
I moved.
Mostly because Mother grabbed my arm again.
I stared at her.
"Your mother was what?"
"A Jinn."
"An actual Jinn."
"Yes."
"The magical creatures from children's stories."
"Yes."
"The ones in lamps."
Her face darkened.
"Do not say that loudly."
Interesting reaction.
"The ones who grant wishes?"
"No."
"Three wishes?"
"No."
"Any wishes?"
"Dama."
"I'm trying to establish parameters."
"Keep walking."
I did.
Barely.
"My grandmother was a Jinn."
"Yes."
"You're serious."
"I have rarely been more serious."
"That's unfortunate."
"Why?"
"Because I was hoping the alternative was that you hit your head."
Mother almost laughed.
Almost.
The eastern gate was still several streets away.
We cut into another alley.
This one was quieter.
Tall clay walls blocked most of the market noise.
Mother slowed.
Not stopped.
Just enough that we could speak without shouting.
"Most of what humans believe about Jinn is wrong," she said.
"Comforting."
"Some stories began with truth."
"Less comforting."
"Jinn exist."
"I gathered."
"They come from another realm."
"Klysium."
Mother stopped.
I nearly collided with her.
Her silver eyes widened.
"How do you know that?"
I stared.
Then pointed vaguely at my head.
"The dreams?"
Her expression changed.
"You've heard the name?"
"Not exactly."
"Then how?"
"I don't know."
That answer irritated both of us.
Mother looked around.
No soldiers.
Yet.
She started moving again.
"Klysium is their homeland."
"Where?"
"Not somewhere you can reach by horse."
"That's wonderfully specific."
"Dama."
"Sorry."
"No, you're not."
"No."
We crossed beneath an arch.
Mother's voice dropped.
"My mother was named Nayira."
The name felt strange.
Not unfamiliar.
That was impossible.
I had never heard it.
And yet—
something inside me reacted.
A warmth beneath my ribs.
I touched my chest.
Mother noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Dama."
"I said nothing."
"Which means something."
"Continue."
She hesitated.
Then did.
"Nayira was Amalaq."
I waited.
Mother looked at me.
"What?"
"I assume that means something."
"It does."
"Excellent."
Another look.
"Amalaq are among the oldest Jinn."
"How old?"
"Dama."
"Fine."
"They maintain balance."
"Balance between what?"
"Everything, depending on the Amalaq."
Now that was interesting.
Mother guided me through a narrow courtyard where women were hanging dyed cloth to dry.
We passed beneath strips of crimson, indigo, and saffron fluttering overhead.
"My mother's dominion was called Sacred Balance."
"Dominion."
"The part of existence an Amalaq is connected to."
"What did hers do?"
Mother's expression softened.
For the first time since the soldiers arrived, fear gave way to something else.
Memory.
"She could feel when living things were wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"Not morally wrong."
"Pity."
"Illness. Poison. Corruption. Growth forced too quickly. Decay that came too early. Life being pushed outside its proper course."
My feet slowed.
Mother continued.
"If a plant was dying before its time, she could restore its balance."
I looked at her.
"If poison entered a body, she could sense what the poison had disturbed and correct it."
I stopped.
Again.
Mother turned.
The market moved around us.
Voices.
Footsteps.
Animals.
Heat.
Everything seemed suddenly farther away.
"The moonrose."
Mother nodded.
"No."
"Dama."
"No."
"You told me it bloomed."
"Because I touched it."
"Yes."
"That's not possible."
Mother stared at me.
I laughed.
I couldn't help it.
"We are currently discussing your magical mother from another realm, but this is where I draw the line."
"Your coping mechanism is becoming irritating."
"Apparently I inherited it."
"You did."
That shut me up.
For a moment.
"What else could she do?"
"Restore diseased soil. Purify water. Calm magical corruption. Heal injuries if enough of the natural structure remained."
"So she controlled plants."
"No."
Mother shook her head.
"That distinction matters."
"Why?"
"She couldn't command a tree to grow because she wanted shade. She couldn't summon vines or shape forests. She restored what should have been."
I thought of dried leaves beneath my fingers.
Roots I somehow knew were sick before cutting them open.
Medicines I'd made correctly without understanding why.
Poisons whose effects seemed obvious to me after smelling them once.
A cold sensation crawled along my spine.
"Mother."
"Yes?"
"How much of that did you inherit?"
Her mouth tightened.
"Some."
"Some?"
"I could feel illness more easily than most people. Plants responded better to me. I learned healing quickly."
"That sounds familiar."
"I know."
"And you didn't think this was worth mentioning?"
"What was I supposed to say?"
She turned on me.
Her whisper became sharp.
"'Dama, darling, your grandmother was a magical being everyone thinks is a myth, your blood comes from another realm, and one day an immortal stranger may appear because your soul belongs with his?'"
I stared.
"That last part seems particularly relevant."
Mother closed her eyes.
"I phrased that poorly."
"You think?"
We heard shouting.
Close.
Mother's eyes opened.
"Move."
We ran again.
The eastern wall was farther than I remembered.
Everything was farther when people with swords wanted you.
Mother knew streets I'd never used.
Back alleys.
Covered passages.
Courtyards behind spice houses.
A narrow gap between two buildings where I scraped my elbow and learned I possessed several new opinions about architecture.
Only when the wall finally rose ahead of us did Mother continue.
"My father was human."
That surprised me almost as much as the Jinn part.
"Completely human?"
"Not completely."
"Of course not."
"His name was Azem."
Something in Mother's voice changed.
I looked at her.
She smiled.
Small.
Painful.
"He was a healer."
"Like you?"
"Better."
"Like me?"
She gave me a sideways look.
"Less arrogant."
"Then no."
That smile grew.
Only slightly.
"He was also a priest."
That got my attention.
"You had a priest for a father and a Jinn for a mother."
"Yes."
"And somehow you ended up with me."
"I ask myself what went wrong daily."
"Rude."
"He would have liked you."
The words hit harder than they should have.
I had never had grandparents.
Not really.
They existed as blank spaces.
People Mother refused to discuss.
Suddenly they had names.
Nayira.
Azem.
A Jinn.
A priest.
People who might once have held Mother as a child.
People who might have known what her laugh sounded like before Gonaro.
"What was he like?"
Mother looked ahead.
"Patient."
"Unlike you."
"Dama."
"Sorry."
"Kind."
She swallowed.
"He believed healing was sacred because people were trusting you with the only body they would ever have."
I liked him already.
"He taught me most of what I taught you."
I looked at my satchel.
The herbs.
The salves.
The folded notes.
Pieces of a dead man's knowledge carried through Mother into me.
"Was he from Riedana?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you say he wasn't completely human?"
Mother adjusted her shawl.
"My father was Jinnborn."
I frowned.
"Like me?"
"Like you."
"And that means what, exactly?"
Mother looked at me.
"It means somewhere in our blood is enough of Klysium for its magic to remember us."
I hated how beautiful that sounded.
Mostly because it frightened me.
"How did he have Jinn blood?"
"His family descended from the Alnohr."
"Which are?"
"An ancient Jinnblood lineage."
"What could he do?"
"Light magic. Warding. Healing. Sacred rites."
"Could he stop time?"
Mother went very still.
"No."
There it was again.
Fear.
"Mother."
"No."
"You know something."
"I suspect something."
"Which is?"
"Something I don't want to be correct about."
"That's becoming a theme."
We reached a narrow gate used by workers carrying goods toward the outer farms.
Mother pulled coins from somewhere inside her robe.
I did not ask where she'd hidden them.
Some things between mothers and daughters required boundaries.
The gatekeeper barely looked at us after seeing the money.
Apparently royal security could be defeated by eight copper.
Comforting.
We stepped beyond the city.
Gonaro opened behind us.
Gold domes.
Sandstone walls.
Towers burning beneath the morning sun.
Beautiful.
Cruel.
Home.
I had never hated it more.
Mother didn't look back.
Neither did I.
Not yet.
We followed the road east until the city walls shrank behind us.
Then Mother abandoned the road.
"Where are we going?"
"Ntruba."
"The forest?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Soldiers will search roads."
"They'll search the forest."
"Eventually."
"Wonderful."
"It gives us time."
That word again.
My fingers tightened around the pendant beneath my robe.
Time.
The man's voice returned to memory.
Finally.
I didn't like the way my stomach reacted.
Fear.
Obviously fear.
Nothing else.
Definitely nothing else.
"What did you mean earlier?" I asked.
Mother glanced back.
"About what?"
"An immortal stranger appearing because apparently my soul has been assigned to him."
Mother groaned.
"I did not say assigned."
"You implied ownership."
"No."
"Good."
She stopped.
Actually stopped.
We stood where scrubland began giving way to the outer growth of the Ntruba.
Mother faced me.
"This matters."
Her expression was serious enough that I didn't joke.
Mostly.
"A Jinn does not own their Qarin."
"Qarin."
"Yes."
"That's what they're called."
"Yes."
"And what exactly is one?"
Mother looked toward the trees.
"Someone whose soul resonates with a Jinn."
"That sounds suspiciously romantic."
"It often becomes romantic."
"Often?"
"Not every bond looks the same."
Interesting.
"But a Qarin is their destined companion."
"Dreadful word."
"What?"
"Destined."
Mother sighed.
"Dama."
"It sounds like everyone decided my life without consulting me."
"You still choose."
"Then how is it destiny?"
Mother opened her mouth.
Closed it.
I smiled.
"Got you."
"This is why no one explains sacred traditions while running from soldiers."
"Yet here we are."
She continued walking.
I followed.
"Jinn remain in Klysium until their Qarin reaches twenty."
"Why?"
"Law."
"Whose?"
"Old law."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
"So tomorrow—"
"Today, technically, depending on how the crossing recognizes age."
I stared.
"That's reassuringly vague."
"Your Jinn will be permitted to enter Uniyani and search for you."
"My Jinn."
"Yes."
"I don't like how possessive that sounds."
"You can complain to him."
"Happily."
Mother gave me a look.
I smiled.
Then something occurred to me.
"Yours never came."
Her steps changed.
Just slightly.
I knew immediately.
"No."
"You said your Jinn."
"Not every Jinnblood is a Qarin."
"Oh."
"A bloodline can continue for generations without producing one."
"You thought you might be."
"I knew it was possible."
"And when you turned twenty?"
"Nothing happened."
I studied her.
"So even mythical immortal creatures rejected you?"
Mother glared at me.
"I am attempting to explain your ancestry."
"I'm coping."
"Poorly."
"Consistently."
She shook her head.
But she was smiling.
That mattered.
More than I knew at the time.
"I wasn't rejected," she said. "There simply wasn't a Jinn whose soul matched mine."
"Did that bother you?"
She considered.
"At twenty?"
"Yes."
"No."
That surprised me.
"I had my parents. My home. My work."
Her expression softened.
"I didn't feel incomplete."
Good.
I liked that answer.
"Then what happened?"
The smile disappeared.
Mother looked ahead.
The Ntruba trees waited.
Silver-brown trunks.
Wide canopies.
Dark green leaves.
Tiny pale flowers.
Shadows spread beneath them like cool pools against the heat.
Mother's voice became quieter.
"Everything."
The Ntruba Forest wasn't truly a forest in the way northern travelers described forests.
The trees didn't crowd one another.
They didn't form walls of leaves.
They grew apart.
Patient.
Ancient.
Their roots descended deep enough to find water beneath stone.
Their broad crowns spread outward, creating islands of shade across the dry earth.
Thorns guarded younger branches.
Older trunks twisted in shapes that looked almost deliberate.
I knew Ntruba.
Everyone in Gonaro did.
Farmers used the leaves medicinally.
Travelers ate the dark fruit.
Healers ground bark for fever treatments.
Beekeepers guarded flowering groves because Ntruba honey sold for absurd prices.
Mother had taught me how to find underground water by watching which direction the youngest roots leaned.
Apparently Grandfather had taught her.
That knowledge felt different now.
He was becoming real one detail at a time.
We moved deeper.
The city disappeared behind the trees.
Mother finally spoke.
"I was twenty when the Azalym came."
My chest tightened.
"You were still in Riedana."
"Yes."
"What did they want?"
"I don't know."
"You never found out?"
"No."
Her voice was flat.
Too flat.
Memory made people strange.
"We were eating."
I said nothing.
"That's what I remember most."
She stepped over a root.
"Dinner."
Something about that was terrible.
Not a battle.
Not a warning.
Dinner.
"My father had made flatbread."
She smiled faintly.
"Badly."
"How do you make bad flatbread?"
"You would have to ask him."
"I'll remember that."
Mother's smile vanished.
"He heard something outside."
The world seemed quieter.
"He told me to stay with the table."
"Did you?"
Mother gave me a look.
"Of course not."
"Good."
"Dama."
"Sorry."
"I followed him."
She brushed past low branches.
"There were people in the courtyard."
"Azalym?"
"Three at first."
"How did he know?"
"The magic."
"What did it look like?"
Mother's gaze became distant.
"Wrong."
I waited.
"That's all I can call it."
Her fingers curled.
"Darkness with fire inside it. Not ordinary flame."
"Hellfire."
She flinched.
"Yes."
"What did Grandfather do?"
"He told me to run."
"Naturally."
"He had never spoken to me like that before."
Her voice cracked.
Tiny.
Barely there.
"I asked where Mother was."
Nayira.
"What did he say?"
"Nothing."
Mother stopped walking.
"I asked again."
I wanted to reach for her.
I didn't.
"He pushed me behind him."
Her breathing changed.
"And then I saw his hands."
"What happened?"
"Light."
The word came with something like wonder.
"Everywhere."
She looked at her palms as though expecting to see it again.
"I knew he healed people. I knew he knew old rites. I knew our family had Alnohr blood."
"But you'd never seen him fight."
"No."
A humorless laugh escaped her.
"My quiet father lit up half the courtyard."
I could picture it.
I didn't know his face.
Still, somehow I could.
A man standing between his daughter and monsters.
Light pouring from his hands.
"Did he kill them?"
"Some."
"How many came?"
"More."
Of course.
"There were screams from nearby houses. People running. Something burning."
She swallowed.
"I kept asking for my mother."
"Where was Nayira?"
"I don't know."
There it was.
The wound underneath all the others.
"She sometimes crossed into Klysium."
"For what?"
"Amalaq duties. Things she couldn't explain to us."
"And she'd gone that night?"
"I think so."
"Think?"
"I never saw her leave."
Mother's eyes shone.
"She was there that morning."
Then gone.
I suddenly understood why Mother had always hated people leaving without telling her where they were going.
Another little piece.
Another wound with a name.
"What happened to Azem?"
She already told me.
Still, I asked.
Mother stared toward the trees.
"He died."
The words were simple.
Merciless.
"He held the courtyard long enough for me to run."
I looked down.
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
There was no good thing to say after that.
I reached for her hand.
She let me take it.
We walked like that for a while.
Mother and daughter.
Her fingers warm around mine.
For a few minutes, I forgot soldiers existed.
Then I asked the question I shouldn't have.
"Your mother could still be in Klysium?"
Mother's hand tightened.
"I don't know."
"Then why didn't she find you?"
She stopped.
That question hurt her.
I knew immediately that I should not have asked it.
Mother looked away.
"I've wondered that every day for twenty years."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"Maybe she couldn't."
"Maybe."
"Maybe she thinks you died."
"Maybe."
"Maybe—"
"Dama."
I stopped.
Mother took a breath.
"I have invented every possibility."
Right.
Of course she had.
For twenty years.
Every night.
Every possibility.
Nayira dead.
Nayira alive.
Nayira searching.
Nayira unable to search.
Nayira choosing not to.
That last one was probably the worst.
I squeezed her fingers.
Mother squeezed back.
"What happened after you ran?"
She started walking again.
"The Azalym didn't take me."
I frowned.
"I thought—"
"No."
She looked almost embarrassed.
Which made no sense.
"I was injured."
"How?"
"I fell down a ravine."
Of course she did.
"You?"
"Yes."
"My graceful mother?"
"Be quiet."
I smiled.
A little.
"It broke my ankle."
The smile vanished.
"I hid for almost two days."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"No food?"
"Some."
"Water?"
"Enough."
I imagined my twenty-year-old C.
Injured.
Her father dead.
Her mother missing.
Hiding from people wielding hellfire.
My chest hurt.
"Then traders found me."
"Riedanan?"
"No."
She said it differently.
Not traders.
I understood.
"Slave traders."
Mother nodded.
My hand tightened around hers.
"They saw my hair first."
Of course.
"Then my eyes."
Of course.
"They knew they'd get a good price."
I hated every word.
"They said they'd help me."
Mother laughed once.
Bitter.
"I believed them."
"You were hurt."
"I was stupid."
"You were twenty."
"Same thing sometimes."
I almost argued.
Then remembered several of my decisions.
Fair.
"They chained me that night."
I looked at her wrist.
There were faint scars there.
I had seen them all my life.
Never asked.
Now I knew.
"They moved me west."
"How long?"
"Months."
"Mother."
"I don't remember all of it."
That frightened me.
My mother seem to remembered everything.
If she didn't remember—
she had chosen not to.
"I was sold."
Her voice became distant again.
"Then sold again."
I already knew this part.
Except knowing as a fact and hearing Mother say it while standing beside me were very different things.
"Eventually I reached Gonaro."
"And Vesra."
"Eventually."
"And Idias."
Her entire body changed.
I hated that.
One man's name.
Still capable of reaching across twenty years and touching her.
"Yes."
I wanted to ask more.
I didn't.
Some doors didn't need opening while we were running for our lives.
We continued deeper into Ntruba.
The farther we traveled, the stranger the forest felt.
At first I blamed nerves.
Then a branch moved.
Not in the wind.
Toward me.
I stopped.
Mother almost walked into me.
"What?"
I pointed.
The branch remained still.
"Nothing."
"Dama."
"It moved."
"Branches do that."
"Not like that."
"Wind."
"There is no wind."
Mother looked upward.
The leaves were motionless.
Wonderful.
I approached the tree.
"Don't."
"Why?"
"Because everything about today suggests you touching mysterious things is unwise."
"The tree isn't mysterious."
"Neither was the necklace ten minutes before you froze time."
Fair.
I touched the bark anyway.
Mother made a sound of profound maternal disappointment.
The Ntruba was old.
I knew that immediately.
Not from its size.
Not from the bark.
I knew it.
Like knowing feverroot was bitter.
Like knowing how much clotroot Leina needed without measuring.
The tree was old.
Tired.
Thirsty.
One section of root had begun rotting beneath the soil.
I could feel it.
My hand jerked away.
"What?"
Mother was staring at me.
"Something's wrong with its roots."
She went pale.
"What?"
"Rot."
"Dama."
"Left side. Deep."
"How deep?"
I stared at the ground.
"I don't know."
Then corrected myself.
"Four feet."
Mother stopped breathing.
I crouched.
Pressed my fingers into the dry earth.
Wrong.
There.
A disturbance.
Decay spreading where decay shouldn't.
Not yet.
Too soon.
I didn't know how I knew that.
I just did.
"Mother."
"Move away."
"I think I can—"
"No."
Warmth moved through my hand.
Not heat.
Something gentler.
Like sunlight passing through skin.
The ground trembled.
Very slightly.
Mother grabbed my shoulder.
"Dama."
The tree shuddered.
Leaves rustled.
A crack split one dry branch.
Then—
green spread along it.
Tiny.
Bright.
New leaves unfurled.
Mother stared.
I stared.
One pale flower opened.
Then another.
Then dozens.
The air filled with the sweet scent of Ntruba blossoms.
Bees somewhere in the distance apparently received an invitation.
"Oh."
That was all I had.
Mother's hand tightened around my shoulder.
"This is why I'm afraid."
I looked at her.
"Because I can heal trees?"
"No."
Her eyes filled with something much more complicated.
"Because you shouldn't be able to."
That wasn't reassuring.
We moved again.
Faster.
"Explain."
"Dama—"
"Absolutely not. We're beyond the point where that works."
Mother sighed.
"Your blood is unusually strong."
"Because Nayira was Jinn."
"Partly."
"And Azem was Alnohr."
"Yes."
"So I inherited both."
"Yes."
"And Idias?"
"Gonaran."
"Tragic."
"Focus."
"I am."
Mother stepped over another root.
"Magic usually weakens through human generations."
"Usually."
"Your grandmother was full Amalaq."
I nodded.
"My father already carried Jinn ancestry."
"Alnohr."
"Yes."
"So when I was born..."
"You got both."
"Not equally."
"What happened?"
"I showed stronger traits than Father's family expected."
"Silver eyes."
"Yes."
"Hair."
"Yes."
"Plants."
"Sometimes."
"And me?"
Mother looked at me.
"You got more."
That wasn't what I wanted to hear.
"How much more?"
"I don't know."
"Useful."
"Dama."
"No, really. Very comforting."
"Your abilities shouldn't have strengthened this early."
"Yet they did."
"Yes."
"The dead plants."
"Yes."
"The herbs."
"Yes."
"The poison."
Mother frowned.
"What poison?"
I hesitated.
"You always know when I've handled poisonous plants."
"Because you smell like them."
"No."
She stopped.
"What?"
I shrugged.
"I know what they'll do."
"Because you've studied them."
"Sometimes before."
Silence.
"Before what?"
"Before studying them."
Mother stared.
"I thought everyone could."
"No."
"Oh."
"Dama."
"That seems to be today's most common response."
Mother grabbed both my shoulders.
"Listen to me."
I did.
Mostly because she looked terrified again.
"What your grandmother could do was not healing in the ordinary sense."
"Then what was it?"
"She recognized balance."
"Meaning?"
"She could feel what something living was supposed to be."
The words sank into me.
Mother continued.
"What belongs."
"What doesn't."
"What has been damaged."
"What has been forced."
"Poison."
"Yes."
"Disease."
"Yes."
"Decay."
"Yes."
"Magic?"
Her expression changed.
"Especially magic."
I thought about the pendant.
Time.
The man's voice.
"Is that why I understand plants?"
"Probably."
"I thought I was good at herbs."
"You are good at herbs."
"Because magical blood cheats."
"Do not undermine twenty years of study because your ancestry gave you an advantage."
"Nineteen."
Mother stared.
"What?"
"I'm nineteen."
"For a few more hours."
Right.
That again.
My stomach twisted.
"There's something else."
Mother's voice had gone quiet.
I looked at her.
"What?"
"The dreams."
"The man."
"Yes."
"What about him?"
"That's not Sacred Balance."
"No?"
"No."
"The time stopping?"
"No."
"The ticking?"
"No."
"His voice?"
Mother shook her head.
"Then what is it?"
She looked at me.
And said the worst possible answer.
"Your Qarin."
"My what?"
"The Jinn whose soul is bound to yours."
I stopped so fast she took three steps before noticing.
"No."
Mother turned.
"What?"
"No."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I reject the entire sentence."
"You can't reject—"
"I can reject anything."
"Dama."
"You said companion."
"Yes."
"Soul bound."
"Yes."
"Destined."
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
Mother rubbed her forehead.
"This is going better than expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Screaming."
"I'm considering it."
She started walking.
I followed because apparently the conversation was going to continue regardless of my objections.
"So somewhere out there is an immortal magical man who has apparently been waiting for me to turn twenty?"
"Yes."
"That's unsettling."
"It's sacred."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
Mother gave me a long look.
I waited.
She sighed.
"Fair."
"Thank you."
"He isn't entitled to you."
"Better."
"The bond doesn't erase choice."
"Much better."
"But you will feel him."
I frowned.
"Feel him how?"
"I don't know."
"Mother."
"I wasn't a Qarin."
Right.
That was going to become inconvenient.
"How do you know any of this?"
"Riedana."
"Everyone there just discusses immortal soulmates casually?"
"More or less."
"Your homeland sounds exhausting."
"You would love it."
I probably would.
Annoying.
"What happens when he finds me?"
Mother hesitated.
"Your magic may strengthen."
"May?"
"Will."
"Wonderful."
"The bond will deepen."
"Vague."
"You may eventually begin changing."
I stopped again.
"Changing into what?"
"A Jinn."
Silence.
A bird called somewhere overhead.
I stared at Mother.
She gave me an apologetic smile.
"You're joking."
"No."
"I'm becoming a Jinn."
"Eventually."
"How eventually?"
"Years. Decades."
"Good. Plenty of time to panic."
"Dama."
"No, continue. This is fascinating. Yesterday my greatest problem was buying your freedom."
Her face softened.
That hurt.
I kept going anyway.
"Today I've learned Grandmother was an immortal magical guardian of natural balance, Grandfather descended from ancient sorcerers, my blood remembers another dimension, and an immortal stranger is apparently searching for me because our souls have decided to become involved without asking."
"When you say it like that—"
"How would you say it?"
Mother thought.
"More romantically."
I stared.
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
I hated how relieved I was to hear it.
Then I remembered something.
"Which Jinn?"
Her smile vanished.
"I don't know."
"You said there are different kinds."
"Many."
"And you have no idea which one he is."
"No."
"Could he be Amalaq?"
Mother was silent.
Too silent.
I narrowed my eyes.
"What?"
"The time."
"What about it?"
"Nayira once told me some Amalaq governed forces far beyond healing or nature."
"Such as?"
"Gravity. Boundaries. Truth."
She looked at the pendant.
"Time."
My stomach dropped.
"You think he's Amalaq."
"I think the entire world stopped moving and you heard a man's voice."
"That could happen to anyone."
Mother stared at me.
"Fine."
She looked genuinely frightened now.
"An Amalaq Qarin bond would be..."
"What?"
"Rare."
"How rare?"
"Very."
"That's all?"
"No."
"What else?"
"Powerful."
I hated that word.
"How powerful?"
"Dama."
"Mother."
She looked away.
"Enough that I don't want the wrong people discovering it."
"The king."
"Yes."
"Azalym."
Her head snapped toward me.
"Especially them."
I touched the pendant beneath my robe.
Cold again.
Quiet.
No ticking.
No voice.
Just silver and stone.
Somewhere—
if Mother was right—
a Jinn was looking for me.
Not merely a Jinn.
Potentially an Amalaq.
Potentially someone who could stop time.
Potentially the man who had whispered finally like he'd been waiting longer than I could imagine.
I swallowed.
"What happens if I don't want him?"
Mother looked at me.
"You tell him."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"And if he doesn't listen?"
Her expression hardened.
"Then he isn't worthy of being your Qarin."
That answer settled something.
A little.
Not enough.
But something.
I nodded.
Then—
a sound carried through the trees.
Faint.
Distant.
Dogs.
Mother froze.
I did too.
Another sound.
Horses.
The moment between us shattered.
"They found us."
Mother grabbed my hand.
"Run."
So we ran.
Deeper into Ntruba.
Branches scraped my arms.
Dry earth kicked beneath our feet.
The pendant struck my chest with every step.
Behind us—
dogs barked.
Men shouted.
Horses crashed through brush.
Closer.
Much closer.
Mother pulled ahead.
I followed.
My lungs burned.
"How far?"
"There's a river beyond the eastern ridge."
"And then?"
"We follow it south."
"To where?"
"Anywhere that isn't Gonaro."
Reasonable.
A branch caught Mother's shawl.
She ripped free.
Voices echoed.
"THERE!"
Wonderful.
Mother shoved me forward.
"Faster!"
"I'm trying!"
An arrow struck a tree beside my head.
I screamed.
"DOWN!"
Mother yanked me beneath the spreading branches of an old Ntruba.
Another arrow passed overhead.
Then another.
"They're shooting at us!"
"I noticed!"
"I thought the king wanted us alive!"
"Perhaps he forgot!"
That sounded like Idias.
We ran again.
And for one impossible, terrible moment—
I thought we might actually make it.
The ridge appeared ahead.
Beyond it—
water.
Sunlight flashed against the river.
Freedom.
Mother laughed.
Breathless.
Wild.
"Come on!"
I smiled.
We were going to make it.
We were—
Something hissed through the air.
Mother jerked.
Her hand slipped from mine.
I took two more steps before I understood.
Then turned.
An arrow protruded from her back.
Everything inside me disappeared.
"Mother?"
She looked down.
As if confused by the blood spreading across the front of her robe.
Then her knees buckled.
I caught her before she hit the ground.
"No."
Behind us—
men shouted.
Horses thundered closer.
I didn't hear them.
Didn't care.
I lowered Mother into the dirt.
Her silver eyes found mine.
"Dama—"
"No."
Blood touched my hands.
Too much.
Far too much.
"I can fix this."
I reached for my satchel.
"Hold still."
My fingers shook.
"No, that's stupid. Obviously hold still."
"Dama."
"Don't talk."
I snapped the arrow shaft.
Mother screamed.
"I'm sorry."
Blood.
So much blood.
Clotroot.
I needed clotroot.
Pressure.
Needle.
No.
Arrow first.
No.
Don't pull it.
Not yet.
Think.
Think.
Bodies obeyed rules.
Blood needed stopping.
Wounds needed cleaning.
Infection—
No.
Not now.
"Look at me."
Mother touched my wrist.
"Look at me."
"I'm looking!"
"No."
Her voice softened.
"You're healing."
"I know."
"No, Dama."
Something inside me moved.
Warmth rushed down my arms.
The ground beneath my knees trembled.
Around us—
Ntruba blossoms opened.
All at once.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
The forest filled with white flowers.
I stared at Mother's wound.
I could feel it.
Not the wound.
Her.
Her body.
The blood loss.
The torn muscle.
The punctured lung.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
I reached toward it.
And something answered.
The torn flesh pulled together.
Mother gasped.
For one beautiful second—
the bleeding slowed.
I laughed.
"I can fix it."
Then—
something burned.
Black.
Deep inside the wound.
My magic recoiled.
The flesh tore open again.
Blood poured through my fingers.
"No."
I tried again.
Pain shot up my arms.
The arrowhead.
Something on it.
Something wrong.
Something that didn't belong in any living body.
Corruption.
"No."
Mother knew.
I saw it in her eyes.
"Dama."
"No."
"Listen."
"No."
"Dama—"
"Don't say my name like that."
She blinked.
"Like what?"
I pressed harder.
Blood pushed between my fingers.
"Like you're saying goodbye."
Her mouth trembled.
"I need you to listen."
"No."
"Find Riedana."
"Stop."
"Find out what happened to my mother."
"Mother."
"Find him."
I looked at her.
"The man in your dreams."
My vision blurred.
"I don't even know his name."
"You will."
"I don't want him."
A weak smile.
"Liar."
I laughed.
It broke into something horrible.
"You're dying and still insulting me."
"My final privilege."
"Not final."
"Dama."
"No."
Her bloody fingers touched my cheek.
The same way she'd touched me upstairs.
Hours ago.
A lifetime ago.
"You were never his."
I couldn't breathe.
"What?"
"Your father."
I shook my head.
She smiled.
"You were always mine."
Something in me shattered.
"Mother."
"I love you."
"No."
"I love you."
"Stop."
"I'm proud of you."
"Stop."
"More than anything."
"Mother."
Her fingers slipped.
I caught them.
Held them against my face.
"No."
Her eyes remained on mine.
Silver.
Lavender.
Blue.
Beautiful.
Then—
nothing.
"Mother?"
No answer.
"Mother!?"
Nothing.
The forest moved around us.
Flowers swayed.
Bees hummed.
Men shouted.
Horses approached.
The world continued.
How dare it.
I bent over her.
Pressed my forehead against hers.
"Please."
Nothing.
"Please."
My magic tore through the ground.
Every flower around us bloomed.
Then died.
Then bloomed again.
Leaves burst green.
Withered brown.
Roots twisted.
Life and decay fought beneath my hands.
I tried to force her back.
Something inside me screamed that her body was wrong.
That I could restore it.
That I could—
No.
There was a boundary.
A balance.
Something had ended.
And no amount of begging could make her body believe otherwise.
Hands grabbed me from behind.
I screamed.
Kicked.
Bit someone.
A man cursed.
"GET HER OFF!"
"Mother!"
Another soldier grabbed my arms.
"Mother!"
They dragged me away.
She grew smaller.
Silver hair against dark earth.
White Ntruba flowers surrounding her.
"NO!"
I fought until someone struck me.
The forest tilted.
Darkness rushed upward.
And the last thing I saw—
was my mother's hand lying open beneath the blossoms.
Empty.
Then nothing.