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        Contents Cover Title Page Prologue One: Marked Two: Omens Three: The Darkness Four: Into the Wild Five: Secrets Revealed Six: Sprix Seven: The Burned Town Eight: A Poem of Old Nine: Night Visitor Ten: Inyanga Eleven: Toru Twelve: A Golden Thread Thirteen: The Burning Branch Fourteen: Strangers Fifteen: A Door of Stone Sixteen: The Tale of Amira & Saka Seventeen: Secrets Revealed Eighteen: The Shining Spear Nineteen: Keeper of Songs Twenty: Two Warriors Twenty-One: To Arms Twenty-Two: The Tower Twenty-Three: The Fiery Hand Twenty-Four: She Who Brings Light Twenty-Five: Empress About the Author Copyright About the Publisher    Prologue A TOWER OF BLACK ROCK rose up on the desolate plains of the Burned Lands. Its surface reflected sunlight, but no rays of warmth could penetrate its exterior. All life fled from this place but for one: Shrikes. A multitude of black birds, their hooked beaks as sharp as thorns, perched at the very top of the tower like sentries, their eyes taking in the dead landscape with a curiosity that could only be called human. Deep inside, along twisting corridors, creeping black vines snaked their way along the bare ground, as if to strangle anyone foolish enough to venture in. This was the dwelling place of the Shrike, a sorcerer of great power. A tangled mask of dark feathers adorned his face, and his throne was carved from the bones of some unfortunate beast. A Tokoloshe, a goblin of sorts, or some creature so corrupt and soulless it forgot its own name, stood before him. “Speak,” the Shrike said softly. “What have you learned of this . . . child?” His voice was serene yet full of power. The creature groveled before the throne, his bulbous nose twitching. “Master, our spies say the child is with a troupe of players, an unruly group of tricksters and charlatans. She is a puny thing with hair as black as pitch.” The Shrike gazed upon his subject. “Look at me, worm,” he said calmly. With hesitation, the creature raised its eyes. “Did I not say to send word of this child as soon as she was found?” “Yes, my lord, but we only just learned of—” “Silence!” the Shrike bellowed. “Find her. And bring her to me . . . alive.” The servant lowered his head even more, if that was possible. “Yes, Master. I will not fail you.” “Begone!” the Shrike commanded him. “Leave my presence. I grow weary of your . . . groveling.” He rested his head on a closed fist. The Tokoloshe backed away, bowing the whole while, until the iron doors of the throne room clanged shut behind him. Once free of the master’s gaze, he raised a crude horn to his lips, and sounded a call to arms for the Shrike’s terrible flock.    One Marked ASHA COULDN’T STOP HER MIND from racing. It was her Telling Day, the time when a young person comes of age and leaves the playfulness of childhood behind. Suna had sent her into the forest to gather more bitter leaf—she was always sending Asha on an errand for something—and on the way, she’d passed by Kowelo, the masquerade troupe’s juggler. He was a tall scarecrow of a man with a pointed black beard and a scar that ran from his earlobe to the corner of his chin. Asha always wondered how he came by it, but never got up the courage to ask. His skin was as black as ebony. “Teach me to juggle,” Asha demanded. She must have asked this question a thousand times, but Kowelo always took it in good stride. He tossed the balls into the air, maneuvering three, then four. He balanced one on his nose as he answered. “Again?” “Yes, again,” Asha insisted. “I know I can do it.” The juggler laughed, sending the ball on his nose into his palm. “You must practice, child, if you ever really want to learn.” Asha scowled. “One, I’m not a child,” she began, “and two, I have practiced.” This wasn’t really true. Asha wanted to learn but she didn’t have the one thing that would help her: patience. “Okay, then,” Kowelo said, letting the balls drop to his feet, “let’s see what you’ve learned.” Asha picked up the balls and weighed them in her palms. Now what did he say last time? Don’t think of all three balls at once. Just think of them one at a time. She blew out a breath. One, two, three. She threw the first ball up into the air. Right as she was about to catch it, she tossed another, but much to her dismay, they both fell to the ground and rolled toward Kowelo’s bare feet. He gave her a reprimanding grin. “You’re going to make me look like a bad teacher.” Asha picked up the balls and tried again. This time she kept two balls in the air but couldn’t get the hang of all three at once. “That’s better,” Kowelo encouraged her. “Keep practicing and one day you might take my job.” He laughed then and, as if to mock her, picked up the three balls, added an empty bottle, and tossed them skyward, where they began a revolution of circles above his head. “Show-off,” Asha muttered under her breath. She picked up her basket and headed toward the forest that bordered the troupe’s camp. Asha often took long walks in the woods, when Suna wasn’t ordering her around: Asha, fetch more wood for kindling. Asha, gather some bean pods from the moringa tree, don’t dawdle. She was often annoyed by Suna’s demands, but in truth, Asha loved the woman dearly. Twelve years past, Asha was told, Suna had found her in a brown wicker basket at the foot of her tent. Asha knew nothing of her parents and Suna always changed the subject when she brought them up. “You are an orphan, child,” was all she