I nodded to reassure her, and we both slid from our horses and joined them. She did not care for talk of ghosts, even in the brightness of a high sun. She was strongest of us all, but her round hips remained firmly planted in her saddle. Synové hesitated, watching me uncertainly. Wren dismounted too, her thin limbs gliding to the ground as silently as a bird. Who would remember? Midway, as the valley narrowed, Natiya stopped and slipped from her saddle, pulling a folded square of white cloth from her saddlebag. Soon, all the destruction would be in the belly of the earth. Our gazes scanned the rugged cliffs and the crumbling devastation of a war that was slowly being consumed by earth, time, and memory, like the awkward swallowing of a fat hare by a patient snake. Natiya led us deeper into the valley, unafraid. One of them slid a cool fingertip along my jaw, pressing a warning to my lips, Shhh, Kazi, don’t say a word. I felt the ghosts hovering, watching, wondering. It had been six years since the Great Battle, but the scars were still visible-overturned wagons eaten up with grass, scattered bones dug from graves by hungry beasts, the skeletal ribs of giant brezalots reaching skyward, birds perched on their elegant bleached cages.

My horse’s ears pricked, watchful, a rumble deep from his throat. We rode through Sentinel Valley, ruins of the Ancients looking down upon us.

They call to you in unexpected moments, their hands lacing with yours and pulling you down paths that lead nowhere. The words lingered in the air, each one a shimmering spirit, cold whispers of caution, but I wasn’t afraid.

Dance of thieves mary e pearson