“Let’s get on with it, then,” Izamal growls.
We walk on and on, the path winding through changing, stark landscapes. But we keep coming back to the tree.
Our third time past the tree, Dalca calls us to a stop. We’ve all lost our packs, snatched from us without us noticing. Dalca and Izamal have lost their weapons and cloaks, and Casvian’s hair no longer reflects like a dull mirror, but is a pale silver not unlike his father’s.
I had less to lose, but what I have is gone.
This time around, the path takes us through a land of caverns and stalagmites. Every whisper echoes, but each echo comes back transformed; a whisper becomes a guttural moan, a murmur becomes a keening shriek.
Izamal coughs, and it comes back a scream.
Casvian sets to making an ikon fire. His hands shake, and Izamal puts a calming hand on Cas’s shoulder, taking the paper from him. Cas blinks in surprise, cheeks pinkening, and murmurs, “Thank you.” Dalca stands beside me, both of us doing nothing useful.
“I think...” Dalca puts a hand on my arm, keeping his voice as low as humanly possible. “The little boy—I think he’s me.”
“He looks like you?”
“He’s about the age I was when my mother became the Regia. I think I’m supposed to follow him.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll all go.”
Dalca hesitates, and I shiver with premonition.
“Dalca,” I say. “We’ll all go. Together.”
“Right. Of course.” Dalca smiles at me, a cocky imitation of something genuine. It’s not a good reproduction. “You see a shadow?”
He’s changing the subject. I pick through my thoughts. “I think mine might be me, too.” I’ve seen a shadow in my dreams ever since thenight I slept by the Storm. And the feeling of vertigo I get when I look at it—it’s a feeling of fallingwithin.
Izamal whoops as a great blaze rises up from the little ikon. His voice echoes back louder, a roar like a thunderclap.
It startles a laugh out of Casvian.
“What do you think they are? The things we see?” I ask Dalca.
Casvian answers. “I think they want to lure us deeper into the Storm.” His gaze goes to whatever it is he sees. The look in his eyes is at once incredulous and hungry.
“I don’t know,” Izamal says. “I don’t want to get any closer to mine.”
“Vale wrote that the Storm is a catalyst,” Casvian says. I startle. I didn’t read that. “Whatever we bring into it is what it works with. It’s a certain kind of energy, one that’s eager to work transformations. It’ll take seeds and grow trees—so watch the seeds you’ve brought with you.”
“Like the power that works through an ikon,” Izamal says.
“Yes, but the difference is that an ikon represents a perfectly equal exchange. A catalyst introduces additional energy. The Storm is immeasurable. When immeasurable energy is applied to an input, who knows what the output will be? All we know is that it will be something made with untold power.”
“And right now...” Izamal trails off as it dawns on him.
Dalca finishes the thought. “We’re the inputs.”
I touch my chest, where Ma’s locket would’ve hung.
Chasing Dalca’s shadow, we walk through a land of ice that freezes the soles of our feet and the wetness in our eyes.
We walk through a land of rain with lightning that blinds us and thunder that deafens our hearing.
We walk through a land of vines and overgrown earth that smells of honeysuckle and decay.
The seventh time we pass the blackened tree, a heavy fog descends. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, much less any of the others. Which might be a good thing, considering how little any of us have left.