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I shook my head in frustration. “I don’t understand you. You speak in riddles. Who are you?Whatare you?”

“Ankaret.” The firebird’s voice softened around the word. The syllables came haltingly. “Her name is…Ankaret.”

“Ankaret,” I repeated, trying out the unfamiliar word. My bloodroared in my ears. I wanted desperately to run, but if we moved, would it—she—strike us down?

Before either of us could utter another word, Ryder shot to his feet. He was lightning fast, even after what had just happened, and furious; the arrow of his crossbow flew true and hit the firebird’s right wing.

She shrieked and flailed, all human voice stripped from her—only bird now, only beast. One of Ryder’s thick black arrows pinned her to a mammoth tree just behind her. Her light had dimmed; her form flitted frantically from human to bird to pale fire, and back again.

Ryder strode toward her, his expression murderous, and nocked another arrow.

I scrambled to my feet and raced over to put myself between them. “Wait! Ryder, wait.”

He swore and spun away, lowering his bow. “Gods, Farrin. Wait? For what? For her to trap me in fire again? For her to actually burn one of us next time?”

He was right; my common sense told me that. But something else gave me pause, a strange idea that had started turning in me at the sound of the creature speaking. And her cries were terrible, shredded with pain.

“She can speak,” I insisted desperately. “We can talk to her.”

He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, and maybe he was right. “I have nothing to say to her except goodbye,” he ground out.

“Let me try something first,” I said, still with my hands up, placating him.

“Farrin—”

“Please, trust me. Let me try this.”

He glared at the creature. “If it hurts you…” he began, his voice tight and miserable.

“Then you can loose all your arrows at it. But first Imusttry this. Do you trust me?”

He finally lowered his crossbow to his side. He nodded once. “Of course I trust you,” he said, in a rough whisper.

I gave him a quick smile, my heart racing, hoping fervently that I wasn’t making a terrible mistake. Then I swallowed hard and turned to the creature. She writhed in pain upon a bed of thorns, sprawled across the tree’s roots. She had taken on a more solid form, as if the arrow in her wing, pinning her to the physical world, had eroded whatever Olden power she possessed. Her dim fire flickered quietly: flame, feather, flame once more.

I approached her slowly, crouched so I could meet her unblinking eyes. Each was a brilliant blue jewel wreathed with white fire.

Then, my palms sweating, my skin cold with fear, I began to sing.

It was a folk song from Big Deep, the great region of canyons and rivers on Gallinor’s eastern coast where Gareth’s ancestral home stood. He’d first sung it to me on that night long ago in his bed—rather badly, every word slurred with wine. We hadn’t yet undressed, hadn’t even kissed, but I’d sensed nonetheless that something new and momentous was about to happen, and so I recalled every word, every lilting note, with tenderness.

As I sang, the firebird began to calm, and so did I. This song couldn’t have been more different from the song of anger I’d launched at her only moments before. My voice rose up from my chest on an unbroken rush of supple air. Each note felt round and full in my throat; the melody fell like a tumble of smooth stones through their river. By the time the last note faded, the firebird had ceased her struggling. Her former effulgent glory was gentle but steady—fresh candlelight flickering on a bedside table. She stared at me with an expression I couldn’t read. How was one to read a face made of fire?

I hesitated, and then, ignoring Ryder’s gruff, tearful plea, reached out to touch the feather nearest me: thick, long, glossy red as a polished ruby, each silken fiber glowing softly with light. Warmth flooded myhand, raced up to tickle the back of my throat, but it wasn’t scalding or even unpleasant. In its wake, I felt more alert, more clearheaded, as if I’d just scrubbed myself clean in a hot bath.

I gave her a tight smile. “All right, then. You said your name is Ankaret. Mine is Farrin. That’s Ryder.”

The firebird’s eyes cut to Ryder.Ankaret’s eyes. White-hot. Angry, maybe, or afraid. “She wasn’t going to kill you,” she said mournfully, her voice a multitude of eerie tones—not quite human, not quite animal. “Please, let her go.”

Ryder came to stand over us. I was glad to see he had yet to raise his bow again. “Can you notburnyourself free?” he asked caustically.

Ankaret shook her head, dislodging a soft shower of sparks. “The arrow has broken her wing. She cannot burn with real strength, not like this.”

The sadness in her words made me ache, but I kept my own voice cool. “You said you weren’t going to kill him. Why, then? Why did you make me think you were?”

“In war, there is no room for grief or terror.” She looked right at me as she said it, her bird’s head tilting sharply. Each word bent under the weight of some great emotion I could not name. “You need to understand. War is coming. In your blood is old power, and you cannot be afraid to use it.”

Philippa’s story from the cottage slithered back into my mind.Demigods is the word. Cold slipped down my arms.