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“I see.” He was considering. “My acolytes will contain the demon’s touch to just his wing. But I cannot guarantee that he will recover fully. You will find out only once he is a man again.”

A pang of worry stabbed my chest. “Will he live?”

“Yes.” The shaman glanced at Takkan, whose long silhouette stole along the walls. “It is this one I am more concerned about. He may not stay at the temple; his presence will attract demons. It has already, I gather.”

“How did you know?” I asked.

The shaman offered Hasho water from a jug. “I speculated. Demons are drawn to those who bear their mark.”

“You seem to know much about them.”

“Tambu is the birthplace of demons. They are a part of our lives.”

That idea was so foreign to me I needed a moment to let the words sink in. I believed it, though. Magic here wasn’t buried, as it was in Kiata; it was woven into the very fabric of Tambu. I could feel—in the air, in the trees, even in the small lizards that scampered up the walls—the potential for wonder, for chaos, for miracles. Like most Kiatans, I’d never been abroad. I’d never been to a place where gods and demons and mortals lived side by side. That was unfathomable in my homeland. Yet here it felt like the most natural thing.

“You don’t fear demons?” I said.

“I fear humans more than demons,” the shaman replied. “There are many kinds of demons, but the majority are simpleminded. Most in Tambu stick to the forests, though one or two a year will cause mischief in the village: last month there was one who wouldn’t leave the local well—kept making the water salty.”

I tilted my head. Such mischief was far different from the experiences I’d had with demons.

“We teach the children to treat them like wasps,” continued the shaman. “So long as we do not bother them or rouse their attention, they keep to themselves.” He straightened the pleats of his sash, his tone so bland he might as well have been talking about the laundry. “Rare is the demon with the cunning and power to cause great harm. But this Bandur…”

“He was an enchanter,” I whispered. “Before he turned.”

“As I thought,” he replied. “Demons are drawn to power, weak ones to strong ones. It is their nature to bring ruin and chaos, but they tend to follow by example. So when an enchanter turns demon…the combination of his human greed, his enchanter magic, and his demon hunger brings many into his thrall. As you witnessed when you arrived.”

The shaman’s eyes were on Takkan, and I understood what he was thinking. “Takkan isn’t a—”

“I know he is marked,” the shaman interrupted, “and I know what he bears in that amulet. There is a place not far that will be safe for him. I will take you there while my acolytes tend to your brother.”

I swallowed, uneasy about leaving Hasho alone.

Your brothers will watch him, Kiki said. Don’t worry, they’ll make sure nothing happens.

The shaman was still waiting for my answer. “Thank you…” I faltered, not knowing what to call him.

“Oshli is enough,” he said. “There is no need for honorifics.”

Without another word, Oshli led me behind the temple and down a winding dirt road. The houses we encountered on the way were in ruins, their tiled roofs blanched by the sun and their gardens left to rot. They looked long abandoned.

“Is this the main road?” I asked.

“It was once,” replied the shaman. “People only come down to Puntalo Village on their way to visit the shrine. The area is believed to be cursed.”

“Cursed?”

He did not smile. “It is superstition. I have lived here all my life, and I am well enough.”

He ushered us into the last lot on the road. “In here. The demons will not come to this place.”

It was a small plot of land, deserted years ago, with weeds thriving in the cracks of the stone path. Three wooden huts stood in the open yard, overridden by cobwebs and moss. A kitchen, a bedroom, and a storeroom, I guessed. Village houses in southern Kiata had similar layouts.

A flicker of movement drew my eyes to the largest hut—inside, a muslin curtain undulated in the warm wind, and through the broken windows I could make out a wobbly stool. There was no one else here, yet I could hear someone singing faintly—the lilting melody of a song I’d known since childhood.

“Why do demons not come here?” I asked. “Whose home is this?”

Oshli must not have heard my questions, for he didn’t reply. “This tree is descended from a sacred grove,” he was saying. “Every house on this street once bore such a tree, but only this one still lives. When dusk falls, you must tie your companion to the tree and light the braziers.”