Excerpt from Strike the Zither by Joan He, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Thunder swallows the rumble of her departure. Clouds brew in the sky, and leaves drift around me in a breeze more stench than air. Pressure builds in my chest; I breathe through it and focus on my hair, still clasped back in its high ponytail. My fan, still in my hand.

This won't be the first time I've delivered the impossible for Ren.

And deliver it I will. Miasma isn't reckless; the impending rains combined with Lotus's intimidation will make her think twice before pursuing us up the mountain. I can slow her down.

But I'll also need to speed us up.

I jerk on the reins; my mare balks. The insubordination! "Turnips and figs later!" I hiss.

Jerking harder, I trot us down the slope.

"Forget the pack animals!" I bark to the sluggish stream of people. "Leave the wagons! This is a command from Xin Ren's military strategist!"

They do as they're told, scowling all the while. They love Ren for her honor, Cloud for her righteousness, Lotus for her spirit. My job is not to be lovable but to get every peasant off the mountain and into the town over, where Ren should already be waiting with the first wave of evacuees, the other half of our troops, and—hopefully—a boat passage south so that I can secure us some much-needed allies.

"Hurry!" I snap. People plod a little faster. I order someone to help a man with a broken leg, but then there's a pregnant woman who looks seconds away from labor, children without shoes, toddlers without parents. The humid air thickens to soup, and the pressure in my chest climbs to my throat. Harbinger of a breathing attack, if there ever was one.

Don't you dare, I think to my body as I ride farther down the line, shouting until I'm hoarse. I pass a girl shrieking for her sister.

Ten people later, I cross a younger girl in a matching vest, bawling for hers.

"Follow me," I wheeze. I barely see the sisters reunited before lightning strips the forest bare. The animals whine in chorus—my horse among them.

"Turnips—"

Thunder claps and my horse rears, and the reins—

They slip through my fingers.

* * *

Death and I have met before. In this regard, I'm no different from hundreds if not thousands of orphans. Our parents died to famine or plague or some rampaging warlord, rising up in droves under the empire's waning power. Death may have spared me then, but I know it's there, a lingering shadow. Some people have the physical abilities to outrun it. I don't bother. My mind is my light, my candle. The shadow flees me, not the other way around.

So I'm not scared, when I dream of heaven. It's familiar. A white wicker gazebo. Nested limestone terraces. Magnolia-bloom skies. Wind chimes and birdsong and always, always this melody.

This melody of a zither.

I follow the familiar music, over lakes of pink clouds. But the pink fades, and the dream becomes a nightmare of a memory.

Clash of steel. Steeds thundering down the street. A spearhead erupts through a torso, red. I grab your hand and we run. I don't know if these warriors are friend or foe, which warlord has seceded from the empire now and named themselves king, if they're empire forces come to relieve us or kill us. We're just orphans. Less than people, to these warriors. All we can do is run from them. Run. Your hand tears from mine; I scream your name.

Ku!

The fleeing tide is too thick. I can't find you. Finally, the dust settles. The warriors leave.

You've left me too.

I bolt upright, panting.

"Steady." Hands, closed around my upper arms. A face: hawk-beak brows, nose bridge scarred. It's Tourmaline, Xin Ren's third general—the only general of Ren's with a fitting sobriquet, seeing as Tourmaline's disposition is as solid as the gemstone. We tolerate each other, as far as warriors and strategists go. But right now, Tourmaline isn't the person I want to see.

Excerpted from Strike the Zither by Joan He. Copyright © 2022 by Joan He. Excerpted by permission of Roaring Brook Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.