“Such indelicate manners,” came a woman’s voice. Silken. An amused sort of boredom. She entered the room slowly, her gait supple and unhurried, and dragged the blade of a long, curved sword across the floor. She was golden-skinned, tall, slender, her hair a net of shining bronze knots. She wore a high-collared, square-shouldered gown of indigo and gold—one sleeve dark, the other woven with golden thread. The gown fell to her heels, leaving slits on each side for her trousered legs to move freely.

Her eyes flickered from an inky black, like those of an imperial general, to brown, to gray, and back to black. An ever-shifting cascade of ill color.

Eliana recognized her at once. The sensation of the woman before her matched the rising currents of fear Zahra had been sending her only moments before.

Sarash. It must have been.

“Yes, that’s me,” Sarash said, her words lazy and smooth. She nodded at Eliana’s pocket, where the strange box now rested. “It was a mistake to trust her. Too weak to claim a body for more than a few moments at a time. Too small-minded to both protect you from my friends upstairs and also sense danger coming. Until it’s too late.”

She stopped, tilting her head. Her eyes shifted to gray and stayed there.

Eliana’s stomach dropped. She recognized that look. All at once, she was back in the outpost in Ventera. Beneath her, Lord Morbrae sat rigid and gray-eyed in his chair.

Harkan shifted. “Eliana,” he muttered. “What’s happening?”

“Eliana,” Sarash said, her voice changing. Now it was no longer simply her, speaking. It was someone else, too—a voice Eliana recognized.

Her mouth went dry, the fingers of her right hand clenching around Arabeth’s hilt. Her grip pressed her casting hard against her palm.

The Emperor. Corien. He was speaking to her through this wraith, from half a world away.

Sarash’s gaze dropped to Eliana’s hands. A tiny smile played at her mouth. “A pity,” came her double voice—woman and man. Near and far. “Your mother didn’t need those.”

Then, with no further warning, Sarash attacked, the blade of her sword cutting a mean grin through the humming galvanized light.

Eliana and Harkan lunged to meet her.

The wraith moved like a dancer, coattails flying. She blocked every jab of Eliana’s dagger, every thrust of Harkan’s sword. Eliana flung Arabeth at her heart. Sarash dodged it, and the blade went skidding across the floor.

Then Harkan threw one of his small knives, catching the exposed juncture of the wraith’s neck and shoulder. She roared in fury; her form quaked, shifting, and then realigned itself. Harkan’s dagger went clattering away into the shadows.

Sarash recovered quickly. Grinning, sword raised, she ran at Harkan. Their swords crashed silver, and then Harkan spun away from her, avoiding a deadly swing. Eliana ran after her, daggers flashing—Whistler and Tuora. Harkan stayed quick on his feet as Sarash volleyed between him and Eliana.

The wraith whirled, slammed Harkan’s sword out of his hands, and sent it flying across the floor. Then she knocked Harkan off his feet with an elbow to the face. She did not stab him; she wanted to play. She laughed as he staggered off, blood gushing from his nose.

Eliana darted forward. Sarash knocked Whistler to the floor, but then Eliana ducked under her arm and thrust Tuora into Sarash’s gut.

The wraith howled, then spun around, ripped the knife from her belly, and let her sword fly.

The blade caught Eliana on the shoulder—not a deep cut, but a cut nonetheless. She cried out, stumbling, and then Harkan shouted her name. He tossed Arabeth to her, but Sarash smashed it out of the air with her sword. Eliana grabbed Harkan’s discarded sword from the ground and jumped to her feet right as Sarash attacked.

They moved together between the stacked shelves, swords spinning. Eliana’s skin was drenched with sweat, her weakened muscles pulsing with fire.

Then, at last, Sarash growled and tossed away her sword. Eliana faltered, caught off guard, and swung hard for Sarash’s torso.

But the wraith caught her blade with both gloved hands and held it fast. Eliana fought to jerk the sword from her grip, but Sarash would not budge. She backed Eliana against the wall, blood darkening her sleeves and her eyes flickering black-gray.

“I’ll find you, Eliana,” came her voice—half Sarash, half Emperor. Livid, and strangely tender.

A wave of revulsion swept through Eliana’s body, scraping hard against her bones.

Without warning, her castings flared savagely to life.

A jagged force erupted from her palms, an explosion of light like the birth of a new star. It blinded her. She saw a solid field of white. The ground shook underfoot. She could not feel her fingers; instead she felt only a blazing, biting heat. Smoke stung her throat. At the rim of her vision, orange light snapped and flickered. The hairs on her arms stood rigid, and her mouth felt suddenly parched, as if all the moisture had been sucked from the air.

Whatever had happened, it sent Sarash flying. She collided with the nearest stack of shelves, toppling it. A cascade of tins rained down upon her, and she scrambled away, dazed, just before the shelves themselves teetered and crashed to the floor, pinning her beneath them.

She howled in rage, her scream more the Emperor’s than her own. Eliana felt immobilized by the sound. It scrabbled for her with unseen fingers. It wrapped itself around her throat, voracious.

“El, move!” Harkan shouted, then grabbed her arm and pulled her back with him, toward the door. As if through a fog, Eliana watched him, his mouth and chin streaked with blood, uncap a bombardier and throw it at Sarash. They ran from the explosion, Harkan pulling her on, out into the corridor, up the steps, into the winding basement corridors.

But she could hardly breathe, her ears ringing, and no matter how insistently Harkan pulled her onward, she couldn’t keep up with him. Smoke clogged her lungs, stung her eyes, and that orange light still flickered at her eyes, chasing her. It wasn’t until they were upstairs in one of the abandoned lounges—the air thick and sweet, lachryma-stained rags littering the tile—and then tumbling out onto the street that Eliana understood what was happening.

She had unleashed a fire. Massive and hungry, it had already consumed the wraith’s hive, and was climbing higher, faster, zipping through the tiled roads of Annerkilak, climbing up the sculpted stone pillars, reaching for the roof gardens. Faster than ordinary fire, tenacious and unnatural. It roared, it devoured. Her ears filled with screams, with the crashing groan of buildings collapsing beneath the weight of the fire’s rage.

She searched dizzily for Harkan. There, very near—his skin gleaming with sweat and blackened with ash. He was pulling her on, from light into darkness, from the inferno of her fire to the cool black of the outer caves. People were pushing past them, fleeing the flames, climbing up staircases cut into the cave walls, cramming themselves into tunnels, jumping into boats that would take them down subterranean rivers out to the sea.