Sunlight.

  Heat came with it. The haze of high summer. It felt like his skin might melt if he touched something. He’d have to live with this every day once he was old enough to join the brickyards. Didn’t look forward to it, not one grain of it. Why eight years old? Why not nine? Ten?

  Why not never?

  The reed-woven skiff floated down the river, creaking with every shift of weight. Kaleb sat at the back. Sweat ran down his neck, making his tunic stick to his skin. The river pulsed under the skiff like something living, something powerful. Calm, though. No need for oars.

  Other skiffs creaked nearby, and nets swished through the water. Pleasing sounds, joined by the odd splash of a catfish. The air smelled wet, earthy.

  Kaleb’s father stood at the front of the skiff, untangling a net. “I sense a catch and maybe more besides.”

  He wore a leather strap across his shoulder to hold his tools close. The sun never bothered him, only bronzed his skin. He was as strong as the river itself. Maybe even the river flowed through his veins.

  He studied the mud, the reeds, the shallows. Those were the eyes of a Toraphite. Dark, serious. They knew everything, full of the things he’d learned over the years. And look at his hands. Rough, like the bark of the tamarisks that lined the banks.

  He dragged the net through the water and pulled it back. Nothing yet, but he was a patient man. When he was ready, he cast the net again, this time harder, sending it sprawling over the water.

  Kaleb watched, feeling small yet proud.

  His father carried a long, bronze-tipped harpoon. It was tucked into a leather strap at his side, the other end tethered to the skiff with a length of cord. A shadow pushed through the murky water. Kaleb’s father slid the harpoon free, somehow soundlessly. The bronze tip gleamed in the hot light as he aimed, thrust, sent the harpoon straight into the water with a sharp splash.

  Kaleb gasped. There was something spellbinding about the way his father fished, how the nets and harpoons became outgrowths of him, how his legs melded with the skiff. He pulled on the rope, grunting, and the net surfaced with a catfish. It thrashed, gills pumping, blood spewing from the wound where the harpoon had landed. Kaleb’s father was stronger, though, hauling up his catch inch by inch.

  The catfish splashed into the skiff, nearly tipping it over. Kaleb caught himself. His father twisted the harpoon, loosened it. The catfish let out a final thrash, its mouth open in a silent yawn. Kaleb stared at the slick, heavy body, itching to touch those scales. They looked smooth, like cold stone, as if the fish had never lived at all.

  Kaleb reached out, shaking. The scales were cold indeed, but where the wound was, they were warm and slippery with blood. His fingers brushed the gash and came away red.

  His palm twitched before he could touch again, like it was being pulled tight, like it might tear open. He knew what was there, what always waited. It was wrong, this feeling he’d had for as long as he could remember. His hand had never felt quite like his, belonging to someone, something, else.

  The face’s eyes were closed, lips pursed. A child’s face, but all squished and strange, like it wasn’t meant to be there.

  His father looked. Kaleb kept his head down. There was a distance between them sometimes, and nothing could close it.

  Kaleb got that sick feeling in his belly. “Sorry, Father. I shouldn’t show anyone.”

  His father turned back to the catfish, watching lifeblood drip from it. “Does it still talk to you?”

  He nodded. “I think it wants me to do something, but I don’t know what.”

  “Everyone has burdens, some heavier than others. You carry them, though, because you’ve no choice.”

  “You have them too?”

  “Aye.”

  Kaleb nodded, though he didn’t feel any less sick. “There’s something I don’t get, Father. When you cast nets, do you catch the fish you want? Or does the river decide what you’ll take?”

  For a long while, it felt like his father might never speak. “Problem is, most of us don’t know what we want.”

  Kaleb frowned, trying to understand. “But we choose the nets, right?”

  His father turned to him, eyes tired. His grip tightened around the harpoon. “We choose the nets, the harpoons, even the bait. But the river’s not ours to control. We can’t change the flow.”

  Kaleb glanced back at the water, annoyed for some reason. The river stretched on forever, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt his father’s words were about more than fishing.

  “What if I don’t want to fish?” Kaleb asked. “What’ll the river do then?”

  “You’ve no choice but to fish,” his father said, quieter this time. “There’s no escaping the river. You take what it gives, or you don’t…”

  Kaleb jolted awake, his face dewed with sweat. Damp sheets clung to him, and his back itched against the coarse, straw-stuffed pallet. He lay still, heart hammering. A scorpion scuttled across the ceiling, snapping its pincers at nothing.

  Jaspeth sighed. “Next time you roll around like that, I’ll slap you awake.”

  Kaleb knuckled his eyes, not ready for the struggles that awaited him. Who’d be worse: Jaspeth or Entunki? Groaning, he pulled himself out of bed.

  That morning, bronze-clad guards rushed Kaleb out of the servants’ quarters, not letting him breakfast, not even letting him lace his sandals.

  The building had long halls and high walls, all built from baked brick. Kergalonians lived in greater numbers here, but there was always the odd groveling Toraphite. Kaleb was reminded of his chieftain, the old bastard. Toraphites in name only. Didn’t look like hard work. Fetching meals, pruning gardens, watering flocks.

  Granted, Kaleb didn’t want to be seen tending to Prince Entunki.

  Still, being a manservant couldn’t be as grueling as working the brickyards. Or maybe Kaleb was made for grueling work, not tame, mindless drudgery. He wouldn’t last long here, would he? By day’s end he might lose his tongue, or his hand.

  Outside, he stepped into the shadow of the ziggurat he’d seen the other night.

  He mounted countless steps, passed countless shrines and terraces. The guards led him through a dimly lit hallway and into Entunki’s bedchamber. Such a place didn’t belong in Toramesh.

  The walls sparkled with mosaics made from mica, lapis, and mother-of-pearl, depicting beasts that might’ve been the twisted offspring of goats and serpents. There were chests, chairs, tables, all hewn from ebony and polished to blinding sheen. Oddments were scattered throughout, including the skins of zebras and giraffes, alongside ivory idols set with turquoise eyes.

  Entunki stood before a window, one arm raised as a maidservant fastened his shawl with an eight-pointed clasp. He turned. “There’s my manservant.”

  Kaleb considered throwing him into the river alongside those Gilgamites.

  The maidservant powdered the prince’s cheeks with red ocher and painted whorls in bright henna along his arms. She adorned him with that ugly, cup-shaped crown.

  “I can’t wait to leave this backwater,” Entunki said. “Kergalon calls to me, the land of my nativity. Oh, how I long for home!”

  The maidservant fetched a fan plumed with green feathers and handed it to Kaleb.

  “Come, Toraphite,” Entunki said, turning on his heel. “I don’t like the way that old bricklayer looked at me. We’ll feed to the Brazen Dove.”

  Kaleb glimpsed a passing chain gang beneath the blue sky. Doubtless bound for the copper mines, poor bastards. Taskmasters lashed their backs, and their chains clinked as they marched barefoot. Instead of hollering in pain, the prisoners made grim work chants.

  The leader sang, “O Most High, come and deliver us!” and others added, “O Most High, come and deliver us from the lash!”

  Kaleb was shown a gleaming white camel in the stables. The beast snorted at him, stamping its feet in the dirt.

  Entunki mounted up and wrapped the reins around his fists. “You’ve seen Kudu, yes? She’s the only camel fit to bear me, the fastest swiftwind in Kergalon.”

  A rope was tied around Kaleb’s wrists, tethering him to the saddle. Entunki pulled the camel’s long, slender neck to the left, coaxing it into motion. The moment the camel took its first step, Kaleb stumbled forward.

  “Faster, Toraphite,” Entunki taunted. “You wanted to be brave, right? Run!”

  The rope tightened, dragging Kaleb with a sudden jerk. Rough fibers bit into his wrists, and his feet skimmed the ground as he was yanked forward.

  Entunki grinned at the guards riding alongside. “Look at him, dragged like a dog!”

  Then came the thundering of those padded feet. The rope pulled taut, lifting Kaleb off his feet, pulling his arms almost out of their sockets. He crashed onto his belly.

  “Nothing but dead weight,” Entunki said.

  The ground was rough, stones and bits of broken pottery scraping Kaleb’s skin, cutting through his tunic. The wind stung his face and filled his mouth with the taste of dust. His breath came in ragged bursts. Onlookers gathered along the side streets, pointing. A trader selling figs dropped his barrel, jaw hanging slack.

  Children clapped, one shouting, “Faster!”

  A cry broke from Kaleb’s lips. His wrists were raw from the rope, but he couldn’t wriggle loose. The world spun, his heart pounded in his ears, and his muscles screamed from the strain.

  It stopped.

  Kaleb was worse for wear, but still alive, still breathing. He picked himself up, feeling as if a passing breeze might shatter him. A guard untied his restraints, then handed him the green-plumed fan from earlier.

  Though it took him a moment to find his bearings, Kaleb recognized the Upper Market. Entunki directed his camelry to bar the exits. Standard-bearers erected poles topped with eight-pointed stars.

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  In the heart of the market loomed something brilliant, terrible. The Brazen Dove.

  It stood twice as tall as the common man, a copper-beaten masterwork whose feathers were sharper than spearheads. A guard swung open a door on the dove’s breast, revealing the hollow where the condemned would be roasted alive. Between the talons lay a pile of acacia logs, and not far off sat the sled that’d transported the dove.

  Nearby stood His Holiness Chamoreb ben Kofimeb. Zazeb ben Laheb was with him, awaiting his fate in manacles. Entunki dismounted, his bangles and pendants jingling.

  The chieftain sank to one knee. “Welcome, Your Radiance.”

  “Rise,” the prince said, picking his nose. “Make this quick.”

  The chieftain’s eyes widened when he saw Kaleb. “Why are you here?”

  Kaleb spat.

  “He’s my manservant,” Entunki said.

  The chieftain turned to face everyone. “Hear me, fellow Toraphites. Under my watch, no harm shall befall you. Yet I must warn you of a grave threat to our tribe, the one called Yasha.”

  Murmurs passed through onlookers.

  “He seeks disciples,” the chieftain continued. “Those who he can lead down his unholy path. Should your children tread that path, Yasha will make whores and vagabonds of them.”

  Entunki pushed ahead, arms akimbo. “Listen to your chieftain, Toraphites. You belong to Kergalon, not Yasha. Whoever he is, he’d do well to stay far away. Once found, he’ll be given no quarter. I’ll have his head right here in this square.”

  That earned a few gasps, followed by halfhearted claps.

  “But enough of that,” Entunki said. “Let us remember the covenant between Kergalon and Toramesh, a covenant that must be replenished with blood. Today the Brazen Dove will feast, and whoever’s foolish enough to follow Yasha will be the next—”

  “Your Radiance!”

  Entunki’s eyes snapped toward the interruption. A messenger shuffled into view, flanked by spearmen, their faces flecked with blood. A ram’s horn blared in the distance.

  “Your Radiance,” the messenger panted, “I’ve urgent—”

  “Silence,” Entunki hissed, waving him away. “Whatever it is, it cannot be more important than this.”

  “But, Your Radiance, we—”

  “Do you wish to join the Toraphite?” Entunki indicated the Brazen Dove, and the messenger fell silent. “Begin!”

  A guard prodded Zazeb with the tip of his spear, forcing the old bricklayer into the Brazen Dove. Kaleb’s tribesman didn’t flinch when the guard slammed the metal hatch shut. Another guard lowered a torch onto the kindling beneath. Flames licked the dove’s belly, blackening its surface with a fresh layer of soot. Zazeb’s cries were warped by the pipes embedded in the dove’s throat, sounding eerily close to birdsong. Entunki couldn’t contain his laughter.

  Kaleb caught a waft of burning flesh.

  That ram’s horn still blared in the distance, but Entunki didn’t bother asking about it. As Zazeb’s screams filled the space, the onlookers lowered their heads, some folding their hands in prayer, others turning away. No one lifted a finger for Zazeb ben Laheb.

  Kaleb glimpsed his mother in the crowd. Her expression wasn’t one of pity, but of disappointment. What did she think of him standing here at Entunki’s beck and call? How’d I let this happen? Was Jaspeth right about our tribe? Is there no one strong enough to fight?

  Entunki spun toward him, eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you fanning me, Toraphite? Don’t you see the sweat on my brow?”

  Kaleb, transfixed by the firelight on the Brazen Dove, dropped the fan and stepped forward. His heart pounded, but everything else fell away, the ram’s horn now a distant echo. His legs moved of their own accord, as though the spirits of his forebears had seized control of his muscles and sinews. Jaspeth urged him to stop, but he couldn’t.

  “Seize him!” Entunki cried.

  Guards leveled spears at Kaleb.

  But before they could strike, a tailwind sent them tumbling to the dirt. Kaleb steadied himself, confused. The air had been still a moment ago. The guards traded startled glances, but Kaleb couldn’t have been the one to frighten them. He turned.

  Yasha.

  He’d taken on a man’s form today, his shoulders broader than two nights ago.

  Entunki set his jaw. “Name yourself!”

  “Careful, Your Radiance,” the chieftain warned, hobbling to his side. “That’s Yasha.”

  The prince’s nostrils flared. “Kill him!”

  Kaleb leaped aside as spearmen charged past.

  “Heavens,” Yasha said, scratching his chin. “Is it always violence?”

  He inhaled deeply, and his face purpled, chest swelled. When it seemed he might burst, he exhaled and scattered his foes to the wind. Kaleb’s breath caught.

  Entunki and His Holiness dropped to the ground beside Kaleb, shielding their heads. Yasha’s gust struck the Brazen Dove, lifted its talons from the earth, and toppled it. Flames darted outward, catching stalls and canopies, causing them to crumple like dead leaves.

  Smoke billowed into the air and Kaleb pulled his collar over his nose. Entunki writhed in panic as his sleeve caught fire. A guard stamped it out, then helped the prince to his feet.

  Yasha swigged from his wineskin. “Pray excuse me, Your Radiance. I won’t be long.”

  Entunki stomped once. “You bastard! You scoundrel! I’ll send your family to the copper mines!”

  “I have no family.”

  The chieftain leaned on his staff. “Enough, Yasha. Leave Toramesh.”

  “Not without my disciple,” Yasha said.

  Kaleb lowered his head, grimacing. Don’t name me, fool.

  His tribespeople breasted into the guards that blocked the exits, only to be battered by copper clubs. Kaleb had lost sight of his mother, damn it. The chieftain called for calm, but his plea was lost amid the baying voices, crackling flames, and distant ram’s horn.

  One man bore the blame.

  Kaleb slapped Yasha. “Look at what you’ve done!”

  He rubbed his cheek. “Apologies, my disciple.”

  “I’m not your disciple.”

  “Not yet,” Yasha said. “In truth, I come bearing a warning. Not just for you, Kaleb, but for you as well, Your Radiance.”

  Entunki, still patting his singed sleeve, straightened.

  “That horn sounds because this camp is under attack,” Yasha continued. “By the Scarlet Scorpions.”

  Entunki crossed his arms, as though trying to stave off a sudden chill. “Scorpions? Here? But I don’t have the men to—”

  “Move quickly, then.”

  The prince grabbed fistfuls of his hair, trembling. “What’ll Father think if I lose Toramesh? He’ll gut me. Someone, gather the troops!”

  His soldiers fetched spears and camels.

  Yasha turned to Kaleb. “Let’s speak elsewhere.”

  Kaleb’s eyes welled with tears, flames flickering all around, smoke thickening. “I need to find my mother.”

  “Of course.”

  “Leave. I’m not joining you.”

  Someone gripped Kaleb’s shoulder. He turned to find Entunki, the sorry bastard.

  “What’re you doing, Toraphite? Kill Yasha! He’s the enemy. You’ll be rewarded handsomely. I’ll even let you—”

  Kaleb backhanded Entunki for earlier, right across the jaw. The prince crashed to the ground. His crown slipped loose. He let out a peaceful snore.

  Yasha nodded. “Best way to silence men like him.”

  “You’re the reason the Scorpions are here,” Kaleb said. “Once you leave, they’ll follow.”

  “Enough, Kaleb,” Jaspeth spat. “Now that you’ve struck Entunki, they’ll throw you into the Brazen Dove.”

  Kaleb lifted his hand. “What’re you telling me to do?”

  “Need you ask?”

  Kaleb turned back to Yasha, knowing what that meant. “You want a disciple? Fine, I’m yours. But promise me one thing. You’ll help me find my father, wherever he is. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Not at all, Kaleb ben Zohar,” Yasha said.

  Kaleb squinted through the haze of smoke and flame. “Call that cloud of yours.”

  “Sheeba? She’s not very fond of fire. Leave this to me.”

  Yasha raised his staff and conjured a gust that burrowed through the flames. Kaleb covered his nose, pressing on through the scorched path. The heat was enough to melt him.

  He felt a tug on his robe. He glanced down to find Zazeb ben Laheb sprawled on his belly, like a serpent half-buried in the ash. He’d been crisped, patches of blackened cloth clinging to ruined flesh.

  “You don’t know mercy, boy,” the old bricklayer hissed, smoke leaving his mouth. “Is mercy sacrificing the young for the old? Does a lioness throw her cubs to the jackals?”

  Kaleb stepped back.

  Zazeb groaned, close to the end. “His Holiness told you not to follow Yasha. Damnation would find you if you did. Look around, boy. Damnation’s already here. I say leave it in your dust.”

  Kaleb turned away. Yasha kept his staff raised, pushing the flames into flickering walls. A hundred more paces, and Kaleb reached open air. The market had emptied, leaving only corpses and stragglers. His mother was nowhere to be seen.

  Worse, he was surrounded by enemies.

  The men wore bronze helmets adorned with stings and pincers, and at their feet lay bloodied Kergalonians.

  “Scorpions,” Yasha said, stepping forward.

  He raised his hand, and a greenish patina spread across his enemies’ helmets and breastplates. Their armor crumbled away in rusted clumps, and the same befell their spearheads. Yasha swung his staff and sent them flying.

  “I’m losing strength,” he said, pushing forward as bodies crashed around him. “If I keep this up, we’ll never—”

  An arrow whistled through the air, grazing Kaleb’s scalp. “Agreed.” He yanked Yasha into an alley between two shanties, letting more Scorpions pass. “Before I go, I need to see my mother.”

  “Where would she have gone?” Yasha asked.

  Kaleb’s mother couldn’t have been one of those smoldering corpses in the market. She had to be alive. A Toraphite doesn’t die so easily. If she wasn’t alive, there’s something Kaleb wouldn’t be able to tell her. If she wasn’t alive, he’d never forgive himself.

  It struck him. “Wait, I know where to find her.”

  He and Yasha slinked out into the open and faced another wave of Scorpions.

  These ones were better armed, better armored. At their head was Apharoth, riding a rust red camel. He brandished his sickle, its blade gleaming. Kaleb’s blood ran cold.

  “There you are,” Apharoth said, leering at Yasha. “Come. Your father wants you.”

  “Not good,” Yasha muttered, looking skyward, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Help, Sheeba!”

  A cloud streaked across the sky, wisps trailing in its wake. Apharoth and his men drew rein, craning their necks to watch. Sheeba descended, swallowing man and beast alike. The soldiers inside yelled and shrieked by turns, their voices muffled. How long could Sheeba keep them at bay? If Apharoth died, though, that would be enough. Kaleb didn’t need that bastard chasing him another day.

  “I hope Sheeba gets away,” Kaleb said.

  “Never doubt Sheeba, Kaleb,” Yasha said. Never.”

  The clamor had fallen to a whisper by the time Kaleb and Yasha reached the old barracks.

  Smoke hazed every inch of the camp, blotting out the sun. The bloodshed would continue until nightfall, or until one side crushed the other. Strange though it sounded, Kaleb sided with the Kergalonians. He knew the depths of their cruelty but couldn’t say the same about the Scorpions.

  His tribespeople huddled among crumbled walls and shattered columns. Some of the chieftain’s soldiers were present, their breastplates battered, their spears held warily at the ready.

  Yasha halted. “I mean you no harm.”

  “Did plenty o’ harm back there,” one soldier said.

  “Kaleb,” said a familiar voice.

  His mother emerged from the crowd, her hair thick with ash, the edges of her robe singed black. She wasn’t alone. Of all people, Baqareb and Tevreb stood at her side.

  Reins in hand, Baqareb led a camel whose padded feet clacked against old limestone. A sunrunner, good breed. “Take the western gate. The wall is unmanned.”

  Kaleb ran his fingers through the camel’s mane.

  “If you’re his disciple,” Tevreb said, eyes narrowed at Yasha, “there’s no place for you here. Goodbye, Kaleb.”

  “Thank you,” Kaleb said, both to her and Baqareb. “I won’t forget this.”

  His mother stepped forward, gnarled fingers hanging at her sides. “Going now?”

  Kaleb fought the lump in his throat. “Aye.”

  “You never belonged here. I could say the same about your father.”

  “I’ll find him, you know. You’ll see him again.”

  “Don’t lie, boy. I don’t wish to see him again.”

  Kaleb turned to the others. “What’ll the rest of you do?”

  Baqareb raised a spear. “We’re deserting.”

  “Fools. They’ll kill you all.”

  “We’re finding a new way,” said the soldier from earlier, his face crisscrossed with scars. “The chieftain would sooner let us rot in chains. We’ll build something without him.”

  Had Kaleb made the wrong choice? Should he remain here, at his mother’s side?

  Yasha laid a hand on his shoulder. “We must go.”

  Kaleb gathered the reins, trembling as he mounted up. Yasha settled into the saddle with him. Kaleb’s grip faltered. Was there no way to repay his mother?

  He rode no more than ten paces before yanking the reins and turning to face the woman who’d granted him life. “I’m a liar, am I?”

  She stood frozen save for the single tear trickling down her cheek.

  “Hold me to this. One day I’ll return.”

  Her eyes flickered. She brought a hand to her mouth.

  “Father will be at my side. We’ll have an army behind us, ten thousand strong. No one’ll stand in our way.”

  Her knees gave way beneath her. Tevreb rested a hand on her shoulder.

  Kaleb inhaled, his breath strong enough to level this forsaken land. He bellowed, “I’ll crush Kergalon myself, and I’ll free my tribe!”

  He turned his back on his mother and wheeled away. The sight of her weeping on her knees had already seared itself into his memory. He’d see it whenever he closed his eyes.

  But he put it from his mind for now, riding onward, sharing a saddle with someone he hardly knew. Someone who now considered him a disciple.

  Baqareb’s camel carried them through the western gate, beyond the last trace of life, onto a windswept plain. Whatever awaited Kaleb, he’d no one to blame but himself.

  And Yasha.