Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2) by Intisar Khanani Page A

succeeded.
    I gesture weakly behind me. “The magefire above the bridge — how does it keep burning? And how were the barriers you mentioned set up?”
    “The barriers took decades to build,” the phoenix says. “And they do not block the flow of magic, though the mages who built them tried hard to achieve that. In the end, it was all they could do to contain what had been made. As for the magefire, it was one of the few successful adaptions they made to the spells of the Burnt Lands, channeling some of the magic gathered by the draining spells into the fire rather than the spell-beasts.”
    “If they did that much, surely they could have—”
    “Three of them died in the making of that spell,” the phoenix says quietly, cutting me off. “Only now that the spells have begun to … fray does it seem possible that another attempt should be made.”
    “Perhaps,” I allow. “But not by me. I’m not even a full mage.”
    “You are mage enough.”
    I have the distinct feeling he doesn’t care a whit for human designations of power or rank. “I have things I must do, someone I—” I clear my throat, try again. “I need to make sure a friend is well.”
    That earns me his full attention. “A friend in Fidanya?”
    I nod.
    “You said the mage you traveled with was not your master. You have one?”
    “I— yes.”
    The phoenix and I contemplate each other.
    I should have mentioned my supposed mistress at once, argued against being able to help him on the basis of my obligations to study. I should be naming her now, explaining all of that. But—
    “Would your master return here with you?”
    “No,” I say. “I doubt it. But I must go to Fidanya.”
    I owe the phoenix a debt, a life debt. By rights, he can demand I stay here and set to work on the curses that hold the Burnt Lands in their thrall, and I would comply, at least for a time. I ought to — I know I should. But I owe Stormwind something greater than a debt, and I have no idea how she is, if she’s well or in danger, free or imprisoned. Until I’ve done what I can to aid her, neither my heart nor my conscience will let me rest.
    The phoenix’s feathers glimmer and spark as he considers me, my words, all the things I haven’t said. “Of course you must go,” he says finally. He dips his head, his beak searching through the feathers at his breast.
    When he lifts his head he holds a single iridescent gold feather in his beak. I reach out, cupping my hands beneath it as he lets it drop. It is burnished gold, the very edges shimmering with all the colors of the sunset.
    “I will fetch the desert dwellers who roam these lands to guide you to your destination.”
    I nod.
    “When you are done with what you must do, burn that feather and I will come.”
    I hold my breath to keep from speaking, from arguing. A life debt is a heavy thing. I owe him at least an attempt at what he asks.
    “And if you are in need,” the phoenix continues, “I will help you.”
    He opens wide his wings and takes to the air, the heavy beat of his wings sounding in my ears, the brush of warm air across my face raising gooseflesh on my arms.
    The feather shivers against my palms, as if I hold the rest of my life in my hands, a delicate and fragile thing.

It’s late afternoon before the phoenix’s aid reaches me. I’ve spent the intervening couple of hours resting, and have just finished a light meal of bread and cheese when I catch sight of a dark shape moving over the ridge of the hills that line the valley before me. The shape gradually resolves into the loping form of a camel carrying a rider garbed in black.
    I push myself to my feet, assessing how injured I am. The same points of pain remind me of their presence: hip, thigh, ribs. But they’re bruises, and not as deep as they might have been. I’ll keep.
    The rider’s camel gains the valley and continues toward me at speed, slowing only as it reaches the broken road leading to the bridge. This close, it’s clear