“I found some bones. They look like adult bones. I think they took the Stolen’s away.”
He cursed.
“A few more fucks and you’ll be close to capturing how I’m feeling.”
“What are we doing here?”
“I want to burn them. Properly.”
He nodded, his eyes downcast.
“Release me and I will help.”
Sylah snorted. “No chance. I’ll release your feet so you can wander, but let’s not have a repeat of yesterday. Boey’s starting to think of you as prey, and you can’t blame me if you become her next snack.”
“Erus are herbivores.”
“You haven’t seen her when she’s really hungry.”
“Fine, Sylah, just release the bonds on my feet.”
“Civility at last. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten my name. Because it’s certainly not ‘Fuck You.’ ”
It had been a rough journey. Sylah couldn’t keep track of the number of times she regretted letting Jond live. But she couldn’t let him go back to Nar-Ruta and threaten Anoor’s reign, and she couldn’t kill him. Not until she got more answers from him about Loot, about the Sandstorm, about all of it.
Yellow blood.
Sylah shuddered. So far Jond’s life had reaped no rewards. He claimed he didn’t know anything about the Sandstorm’s plan and knew even less about Loot’s origins. Sylah didn’t believe him. She fingered the spider brooch in her pocket, her fingers running over the engraving on the back. “Inansi” had been carved into the center of the spider’s underbelly.
“I’ll gather the bones,” Sylah said.
“I will attempt to collect firewood. Are you sure you can’t release my hands?”
“I could.” Sylah smiled. “But I won’t.”
Together they toiled in the afternoon sun like they were children again. There was no laughter, no grumblings about the extra duty they were forced to do for pulling a prank on Fareen. Though guilt was an invisible line that now tethered them together.
They built a fire in the Sanctuary’s courtyard. The ten bodies were the foster parents, the teachers, the leaders of the Sandstorm. The original Dusters who had given up their children for a cause they believed in so wholly. Sylah wondered which bones were Papa Azim’s as they placed them on the fire.
Sylah and Jond stood on opposite sides of the fire, their families’ remains burning between them. The smell of rubber had returned to the Sanctuary, and it burned Sylah’s nostrils. She breathed deep and embraced the pain.
The heat waves from the fire rose tall, casting a haze over the whitestone building, blurring her home like the faded edges of a dream. A nightmare.
“We should say some words,” Sylah said.
“We should.”
“I—” Sylah exhaled in a rush. She had no more air, no more words. “Sorry” would never be enough, “thank you” would never be true.
Jond looked at her through the smoke. The smoke that the Abosom believed carried souls to the sky. Sylah wasn’t sure. Jond cleared his throat and spoke into the silence.
“Some knew you as the Sandstorm. We knew you as family.” Jond’s voice boomed across the valley. “A dancer’s grace.” He thumped his bound hands to his chest, adding percussion to his tribute. “A killer’s instinct, an Ember’s blood, a Duster’s heart.” He looked at Sylah, and she knew what he wanted her to say. He wanted her to repeat the mantra that had sustained them, more than food, more than air.
She inclined her head, let him ring out the words that churned her stomach so.
“The Final Strife.”
It meant something else to her now. It meant survival, it meant freedom, it meant Anoor.