Rebellions are like fires—something needs to burn to make a flame. Return to the Wardens’ Empire in this riveting conclusion to the visionary fantasy trilogy inspired by the mythology of Africa and Arabia.
The Wardens’ Empire is falling. A vigilante known only as the Truthsayer is raising an army against the wardens. Sylah and Hassa must navigate the politics of this new world, all the while searching for Anoor.
Across the sea, the Blood Forged prepare for war, requesting aid from other governments. Jond’s role as major general sees him training soldiers for combat, but matters of the heart will prove to be the hardest battlefield.
The Zalaam celebrate the arrival of the Child of Fire, heralding the start of the final battle. Anoor’s doubts are eclipsed by the powers of her new god. Soon the Zalaam will set off on their last voyage—and few expect to return.
Do you feel it? Cresting the horizon? The darkness drawing in, the shadows elongating . . .
The Ending Fire comes. Book Three of the Ending Fire Trilogy
Don’t miss any of Saara El-Arifi’s searing Ending Fire Trilogy: THE FINAL STRIFE • THE BATTLE DRUM • THE ENDING FIRE
Release date:
September 10, 2024
Publisher:
Del Rey
Print pages:
512
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Excavation efforts have begun in the eastern tower of the Keep where the tidewind caused irreparable damage. Allegedly, it struck the rooms of the former Disciple of Strength, Anoor Elsari, recently accused of Uka Elsari’s murder. No one is believed to be hurt, but the tower will be uninhabitable for some time. —The People’s Gazette
Hassa lifted her gaze from the Book of Blood and into the eyes of a ghost.
It cannot be.
The apparition spoke. “Hassa?”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Hassa’s blood seeped down the pen nib and onto the floor. As each droplet hit the ground, the ghost of Sylah flinched.
“Hassa?” She said her name again. “Did you just bloodwerk?”
The table that Hassa had just pushed across the room with runes separated her from the phantom image of her friend. But Hassa didn’t nod—she couldn’t. Her body had frozen with disbelief.
Because it was not a ghost. Sylah was really here.
She looked like she’d weathered a storm. Her eyes were deeply sunken and her skin was sallow, aging her beyond her twenty-one years. Though her hair had grown, her braids looked thin, the trinkets weighing them down, falling just past her ears. And if Hassa wasn’t mistaken, there were bald patches among the treasures, silvered and spherical like scars gifted by the moon.
Sylah took a step toward Hassa. A small frown growing between her brows.
“Are you all right?”
Was she all right? What a stupid question. Of course not. Kwame was dead. Anoor was missing, and the world seemed likely to implode at any minute.
And she could now bloodwerk.
Hassa carefully removed the quill from her wrist, then signed, Yes, Sylah. I am all right. How are you?
Sylah tried to smile, but her lips faltered in a grimace. “Yes, Hassa. I am all right.”
They held each other’s gaze, Hassa’s a touch defiant, Sylah’s a touch too knowing. Then they bridged the space between them until they grasped each other, holding on to the safety of their fierce friendship.
Hassa felt Sylah’s tears on her shoulder, sparking a sudden terror within her. The embrace was too tight, her love too strong. Hassa pushed her away and stood back, trembling.
“Hassa, what is it?”
Hassa moved her arms, the sign for his name too painful to convey without pushing through the heavy weight of grief.
Kwame. Kwame is dead.
Sylah shook her head in disbelief, flinging tears left and right. “No.”
Hassa nodded firmly and repeated the words, over and over and over again to match the even keening of Sylah’s cries.
Then they were back in each other’s arms, their bodies forming a mound of grief and loss. The only sound was the heaving of their breaths and the beating of their hearts in their throats.
They stood there for some time before Sylah rocked back on her heels and asked, “What happened? Tell me everything.”
Hassa looked to her wrist and down to the space where a hand once was. The skin around the scar was a deep gray, dulled by the clear blood that ran through her veins. Like all Ghostings, Hassa’d had her hands and tongue removed as a babe—a penance to silence the indigenous people of the continent. But the Ghostings weren’t silenced. They’d created their own language, and bided their time, because war was coming.
But what Hassa hadn’t realized was that the battle had already begun.
“Hassa?” Sylah prompted her again.
She dragged her thoughts away from her ancestral scars and back up to the red-rimmed gaze of Sylah. Red like her blood. Red like an Ember.
Red like Kwame.
Her heart constricted as she was taken back to the scent of iron in the air. Kwame had died quickly—it took only twelve turns of the rack—and for that Hassa had been grateful. She had once seen a Duster make it to thirty turns before their limbs were finally torn from their bodies. She squeezed her eyelids, trying to shut out the image of Kwame’s body. But it did nothing to stop the cheers of the crowd surging up from her memory. The Dredge-dwellers had rejoiced in watching an Ember murdered by the device used to kill only Dusters and Ghostings, those discarded to the edges of society. Hassa couldn’t begrudge them their joy of vengeance.
But he hadn’t been just an Ember to Hassa. He’d been her beloved.
Hassa stood and went to withdraw a bottle of firerum from her supplies. The Nest was all but empty now the Ghosting elders had left, but Hassa spent a lot of time in the underground cavern and had stocked it with the essentials. Firerum was the preferred vice of plantation workers. It numbed the wounds of the flesh and mind. Hassa knew they’d need it now.
She poured a tall glass for herself and Sylah.
There have been three deaths of note since you left, Hassa started. First the Warden of Strength was murdered.
“What? Uka Elsari was killed?”
Drink, Hassa commanded. It will make it go easier.
Sylah scowled and took a sip of the firerum. She grimaced. Hassa found it odd. Normally Sylah could finish a bottle without a twitch of a brow, and here she was balking at a mere taste. More had changed about Sylah than Hassa could know.
Warden Uka was killed in her home three mooncycles ago. Anoor was accused of her murder. As both her daughter and the person to have found her, it wasn’t a difficult leap to make.
“Of course she didn’t kill her.”
Hassa looked up. Heat rose in Sylah’s dark cheeks and the fierceness of her gaze was so scalding, the edges of Sylah’s silhouette blurred like a flame.
This is love, Hassa thought. Unquestioning, unwavering love. Because not for one second had Sylah entertained the thought that Anoor could have murdered her mother.
Hassa looked away. She had to, for she couldn’t watch as she broke Sylah’s heart.
No, it wasn’t Anoor. It was an act of revenge—one of Anoor’s Shadow Court, a new addition, killed her. Zuhari, she was called. But she inadvertently set up Anoor’s demise, leading the wardens to think Anoor had done the crime. Anoor had no choice; she had to go into hiding.
The glass of firerum clinked as Sylah set it on the tiled floor with too much force. Her lips were a firm line. “Where is she?”
Hassa didn’t want to answer the question. The last time they had gone to Anoor’s hideout, she hadn’t been there.
I don’t know.
“What?” Sylah looked to the tunnels as if she were about to launch out into the tidewind to find Anoor.
Let me rejoin my tale, Sylah. Hassa chastised her with sharp movements.
Sylah waved a hand for Hassa to continue.
While Anoor was in hiding I discovered that people were going missing in the Dredge. Before Uka’s death Anoor launched the tidewind relief bill, and one of the elements was offering succor and food to those who needed it. A shelter was built in the Dredge. But it became clear that those who entered didn’t always come back out.
“What has this got to do with anything?”
Hassa bared her teeth. It has to do with everything, Sylah.
“Sorry,” Sylah said, looking a little guilty. “I am impatient to understand what’s happened to her.”
I shared my findings with Anoor, and we decided to try and get someone inside to investigate. Hassa hesitated.
In that moment Sylah spoke.
“Wait, you said there were three deaths. The second must have been Kwame. Who was the third?”
When we took Anoor out of the Keep we brought her to Lio’s. We thought your mother would protect her, given the fact that Anoor is Lio’s blood daughter.
Sylah cocked her head and frowned. “Anoor was staying at my house?”
Hassa wanted to counter the comment and say that it wasn’t her house any longer, that Sylah hadn’t been here, hadn’t known what they had all been through while she was away. But Hassa knew her next words would be a blow.
Lio agreed to go into the shelter to investigate. The first time she found nothing. The second time . . .
“Yes?”
She didn’t make it.
“What do you mean, she didn’t make it? She didn’t make it out?” Sylah’s voice was full of anger, but Hassa knew it wasn’t directed at her.
She died, Sylah.
Tears were falling from Sylah’s eyes again. Hassa watched them with a curious fascination. Sylah was frowning, her expression confused, as if she were unaware that she was grieving, or, rather, was in denial about it.
Sylah and Lio’s relationship had always been complicated at best. Lio had been part of the Sandstorm rebellion—a group of Dusters who had stolen children from their cribs and raised them as weapons to one day infiltrate the empire. But then they had all died, killed by the Wardens’ Army after they were discovered. Only Lio, Sylah, and another of the Stolen, Jond, had survived.
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