She began to chant her death-song, the one she had sung in the arena on the day she had become a Queen’s Talon.

Hea-hai! Hea-hai!

Yes, I live for the Garden,

But I died when the blessed Garden died.

Yes, I live for the Queen,

But I died when her son the White Prince died . . .

Suddenly, she saw a bright light sputter across the gray sky, then a burning ball of flame roared down into the center of the goblin swarm only a dozen paces from where she stood. Fire splashed over the swarming creatures as the arrow struck ground, in an instant changing their hungry chattering into shrieks of terror so high-pitched she could barely hear them. Another burning ball came hurtling down, striking closer to her this time. Nezeru threw herself to one side and began crawling. The digging creatures spattered by the fiery bolts shrieked and ran in all directions across the snow, blinded by pain and terror; a substantial number never moved again, but lay blackened and burning in the spots where the fire had struck them, their ugly little bodies twitching like the legs of dying insects. This was no ordinary fire, Nezeru recognized, but something thicker and hotter, a fire that clung where it fell and kept blazing.

As most of her enemies scattered, at least for the moment, she scraped with her knife at the clawing Furi’a that still clung to her, sawing loose some who would not release their grip, even in death. As she did, she saw a shape sliding down the nearby hill, a white figure against a white slope, carrying something that burned far brighter than the dim dawn skies. It was a flaming arrow, and even as the white-clad figure slid, the arrow flew from his bow like some mortal fable of an angry god flinging thunderbolts. The arrow splashed fire through the ranks of diggers still climbing from the hole in the ground. At first Nezeru thought this must be Saomeji wielding the powers of his order, but the figure did not have the Singer’s compact size and, even in the weak light just before sunrise, his partially hooded face seemed oddly dark.

Nezeru felt the rumble beneath her feet a long moment before she heard it, then turned in time to see something huge erupt from beneath the snow like a mountain created in a single moment. It was Goh Gam Gar, roaring as he thrashed his way free of the broken ice, his fur matted all over with blood.

“To me!” someone shouted again, and Nezeru recognized the voice as Makho’s. He was alive, although she still could not locate him. She could see the white-clad newcomer, who had a blazing arrow balanced on his bow and had almost reached the bottom of the slope; for a moment she could see the stranger’s face clearly.

Their would-be savior was a mortal.

This mortal stopped a few long paces from the bottom of the slope and waved his arm urgently, then sent another streak of flame into the swarm of diggers where they were thickest, around the hole where the giant had first broken through. As the flames splashed them, the little creatures milled in screeching confusion, some still trying to climb out of the tunnels while others, many badly burned, fought to get back in. The din was terrible and shrill, like the piping of terrified bats. Nezeru saw now that the mortal carried a pot of flames in his hand, but had to set it down each time he wanted to draw his bow, which slowed him considerably on the steep slope.

Goh Gam Gar had dug his way out of the collapsed snow and out onto open ground with only one hand, because his other clutched the limp body of one of the Hikeda’ya as though it were a child’s doll.

“Up here!” the mortal cried. “Up here, where it is only rock beneath. Their tunnels do not reach here!” To Nezeru’s further astonishment, he said it in flawless Hikeda’yasao, the speech of Nakkiga.

Now that fire was no longer falling on them from the sky, the diggers were beginning to find their courage again. The terrified horde that had seemed about to disappear back into the earth only moments earlier now came rushing back out into the blue dawn. Nezeru knew she should wait for Makho to command them, but she could not see the hand chieftain at all and could barely hear his voice, so instead she scrambled over the bloody snow mounds toward the slope where the stranger waited, treading on tiny, burned bodies with almost every step.

A moment later Makho himself appeared at the opposite edge of the great hole. He was clearly exhausted and had taken many wounds—his arms, neck, and face were all dripping blood—but he found the strength to reach back down into the pit and help another red-smeared figure that Nezeru guessed must be Kemme, and then began dragging him up the hill. After a moment Kemme found the strength to stumble after Makho on his own. Even the giant had managed finally to clamber out of the hole, and was crawling up the icy slope on all fours, leaving broad streaks of red on the blue, dawn-brightened snow.

The stranger led Makho’s Talons up the snowy hill until they reached a flat overhang of rock a hundred steps above the valley floor. Only when they were far enough beneath the overhang to feel stone both beneath their feet did they let themselves slump to the ground in exhaustion, gasping for breath. Nezeru’s heart was beating even faster than it had in her fight to escape the island of the bones; she had been so certain death had come that it was hard for her to understand that she was still alive. Her very bones seemed to quiver within her. The smell of blood and burning goblin flesh was everywhere, fouler even than the stench of the giant at such close quarters.

For long moments no one spoke, then Makho stirred and sat up, glaring at their rescuer where he crouched a few yards away. For half a moment the golden color of the stranger’s skin almost made Nezeru believe she had misidentified him as a mortal, that he must really be a Zida’ya, the Hikeda’ya’s untrustworthy cousins, but the bones of his face were nothing like theirs. It was only a long life in the sun that had given such strange color to his skin.

“Who are you?” Makho demanded of him. “How do you dare interfere in the great queen’s business?”

The mortal, who wore clothing made of scraped white hides, gave Makho a look that Nezeru could only interpret as amused, as bizarre and dangerous as that seemed. He was tall and almost as slender as a Hikeda’ya, and his short, straight hair was colored a much lighter gold than his skin, so pale that it was almost white. “Ah, I beg pardon,” he said to Makho. “Was it your business to die, then? Because otherwise, instead of interfering, I just saved your queen’s hand from being eaten by goblins. I was taught that the Cloud People brought courtesy with them from the Garden as well as witchwood—”

Before the mortal had even finished, Makho lunged across the distance between them and pressed the tip of Cold Root, still festooned with the bloody hair and rags of dead Furi’a, against the stranger’s throat, leaning so close that their faces were only a few handspans apart. “Why do you speak of witchwood, mortal?” Makho said in a serpent’s hiss. “You are a spy.”

The mortal only stared back at him, then said, “Look down.”

Nezeru saw it at the same time as Makho himself did: even with the chieftain’s sword at his throat, the stranger managed to draw his own long, thin blade in an instant. In a blink, its point was touching Makho’s ribcage, poised just above his heart. Nezeru was stunned. Even Makho, for all his fierce scowl, seemed slightly unnerved, and no wonder: Who had ever heard of a mortal as swift as one of the Hikeda’ya?

“If I die, then you die in the same second,” the stranger said with surprising mildness. “If you prefer another conclusion to this ra’haishu—” he used an old Hikeda’ya term that meant “tunnel meeting” and implied a mistake that could lead to sudden death—“then I suggest you take your blade (which by the way is in need of cleaning) away from my neck and we can begin again. I imagine this time you will begin by thanking me.”