Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology)

by Addie Thorley

  “If you trained her, she would know not to do such things.”

  I spear him with a death glare.

  “And if she did,” he relents, “she would at least know how to do it safely. Just think about it, En. We’ve nearly accomplished what we set out to do, and this could cement the alliance. King Ihsan has agreed to investigate our claims, but he’s much more likely to view the findings in a good light if we appear invested.”

  I whirl around and poke Serik in the chest. “What happens when the Shoniin and Zemyans show up before Ihsan’s scouts return? We both know they’re coming; we don’t have weeks to wait. And once they attack Namaag, nothing we’ve said or done will make a sheep’s dung worth of difference. So I’d rather not waste my time. Or compromise my integrity.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Serik growls, pulling me away from the homes and shops built into the enormous trunk of the tree we’re in. All around us, Namagaans bustle about the day’s chores, so he leads me down another bridge, deeper into the canopy, where there are fewer ears to overhear. “We don’t know if or when the Shoniin and Zemyans are coming, so we proceed with the plan until then. It’s our only option. And you’ve required so many sacrifices of me and the shepherds, it would be nice if—”

  I slam to a halt and gape at Serik, the bridge swinging erratically around us. “You don’t think I’ve made sacrifices?”

  “I never said that.”

  “That’s sure how it sounded….”

  Serik drags his fingers through his hair and puffs out his freckled cheeks. “Burning skies, En. Of course you’ve made sacrifices. I just meant … Never mind. We should be celebrating the fact that King Ihsan agreed to consider our proposal, not fighting over Ziva. I’m sorry,” he adds as I resume limping across the bridge.

  “I’m sorry too,” I grudgingly admit. “I just hate feeling like I’m disappointing you. I wish I could be the courageous mentor you want me to be. But I can’t.”

  “You’re everything I want you to be,” Serik insists, reaching for my hand.

  But the words sound as hollow as the flute reeds whistling in the swamp below, and I shove my hands into my pockets.

  The shepherds don’t utter a word of complaint when Serik announces we’ll be staying in Namaag for a time. In fact, their joyous cries and jubilant hugs are nearly as excessive as when we first arrived in Uzul. It bothers me—even though I’m just as relieved. We desperately need the rest, and it’s a miracle King Ihsan is considering our proposal. But as I watch the shepherds gleefully unpack their trunks, unease burrows beneath my skin, hollowing me out like a brood of termites feeding on these ancient trees.

  The need for my Book of Whisperings is bone-deep—a twisting pain in the center of my chest. With it, I could ask the First Gods directly what to do, if we’re still on the right path. I’d even be grateful for something as simple as a prayer doll. Anything to soften the razor edges of doubt. But since my Book of Whisperings was lost on the winter grazing lands, and my prayer doll burned in Kartok’s xanav, I have to find another way to commune with my gods.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I tell Serik.

  “Do you want some company?”

  “Do you mind if I go alone? I just need a moment of quiet….” I nod at the shepherds, pressed all around us.

  “Go. I’ll be here when you get back.” He smiles, but it’s thin and watery and doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Guilt nibbles the edges of my heart but not enough to stop me from fleeing the barracks.

  Outside, the sun shines directly overhead, and warm light sifts through the canopy of leaves, dappling my skin and shimmering across the wooden platforms. I pull the humid air into my lungs and let it out slowly, feeling instantly lighter as I strike out across the nearest bridge. I don’t have a particular destination in mind, and I don’t know where anything is located in this treetop kingdom anyway, so I drift from platform to platform, past bustling markets and quieter clusters of homes. The Namagaans eye me curiously. A few offer tentative smiles or nod politely in passing, but no one attempts to talk to me. I’m so grateful for the reprieve—to not be summoned or scolded or shunned—I could cry.

  After wandering for a good hour, I find myself standing in front of a long, boxy building that’s unremarkable save for the bundle of aloe leaves hanging over the door. The plant is expensive and rare, since it grows only in Namaag, so only the best imperial healers can afford to carry it on the battlefield.

  I smile up at the bright green parcel. The Lady and Father always know just what I need. They have led me to the infirmary. To my king.

  If Minoak is awake, he can fix all of this. He will be more forceful in his negotiations with King Ihsan and ensure we march on Verdenet before the Shoniin and Zemyans arrive. Seeing him alive and well will remind the shepherds that we never planned to hide out in the marshlands while the rest of the empire crumbles.

  I limp up to the door, more eager than ever to see my king, but as I reach for the handle, the door swings inward and I stumble into a sobbing mess of a woman. Her turquoise dress is rumpled, the makeup across her eyebrows is smeared, and she catches herself against the door frame, as if her legs are too weak to support her weight.

  She looks so disheveled, a long moment passes before I realize it’s Yatindra.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was leaving,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  Is Minoak okay? I try to peer around her into the infirmary.

  Yatindra glowers down at me, nearly a full hand taller. “My brother still hasn’t stirred, so no, I am not okay.”

  “Oh.” I look away, trying to mask my disappointment. “I was hoping he’d be much improved by now. We all were.”

  She gives a harsh little laugh. “Don’t pretend he matters to you.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s my king. Of course he matters.”

  “He matters inasmuch as you can use him. You don’t care about the actual man beneath the crown.”

  “Why would you think that?” We rescued Minoak. We brought him here to recover. And we’re attempting to restore him to the throne of her home country. We’re on the same side, yet she swipes beneath her eyes and shoves past me, shaking her head with disgust.

  I want to grab her long cattail hair and yank her back. Call out her ingratitude. But as I watch her storm away, I think about what Serik said—how worried and overwhelmed and afraid she must be—so I take a deep breath and limp after her.

  I can be the bigger person. I can bridge this gap.

  “Wait!” I call.

  She hesitates before turning. “What?”

  “I recognize how difficult all of this must be for you. We arrived with a lot of somber news. I don’t blame you for resenting us.”

  She waves a dismissive hand. “I’m just grateful my brother and niece are alive. And I’d like to ensure they stay that way.”

  “We’re united in that purpose.”

  “Are we?” Yatindra challenges.

  Her skepticism makes me want to scream. “Yes! And it would be considerably easier if your husband didn’t oppose our propositions to King Ihsan.”

  She scoffs. “You’re missing the entire point.” Then she turns in a whirl of black hair and turquoise fabric and strides away.

  I mumble curses at her back. What more does she expect us to do? She’s even more impossible than Ziva.

  I stomp back to the infirmary, my bad leg throbbing painfully—and for nothing. I extended an olive branch, I tried to put myself out there, and Yatindra spat in my face.

  At least I can tell Serik I tried.

  Inside the infirmary, I jump at the sudden surge of darkness. Only two jars of lightning bugs illuminate the space, giving the night plenty of shadowed corners to occupy. The threads welcome me with nips and nuzzles as they usher me down the long hall. Rope beds line the walls and incense sticks burn on little golden plates, filling the air with cinnamon and orange smoke, but it isn’t enough to overwhelm the fetid tang of sickness
.

  A few of the beds are occupied with Namagaans—some resting with their eyes closed, others moaning and tossing with pain—but I make my way to the end of the hall, where two orange-clad sentries stand watch over a bed that’s finer than the rest. The frame is made of wood, the mattress is stuffed with feathers, and a sumptuous scarlet blanket covers the gray-haired figure underneath.

  The guards jump to attention when they notice me and position themselves between me and King Minoak, spears crossed like bars. “Visitors aren’t permitted,” one of them says.

  “I know for a fact that he just had a visitor.” I point to the door Yatindra exited.

  “She’s the king’s sister.”

  “And I am his subject.” I gesture to my dark hair and golden skin and tattooed calves, which indisputably mark me as Verdenese. “I’m the one who rescued him and brought him here.”

  “Unfortunately, we cannot permit anyone other than the royal family near His Majesty.”

  “By whose decree?” My voice quickly rises. “I just want to talk to him. It’s important. I’m responsible for so many—”

  “It isn’t possible. He’s not even awake.”

  “I have to see him!” It feels like my head has been shoved into the swamp and my lungs are screaming for air. I hadn’t realized how desperately I needed to see my king until now. When it’s being denied. The hovering threads of darkness pull taut and shiver against my fingers. Prodding. Ready. “Please!” I beg.

  The other patients gape over at us, and the healer bustling between their beds looks ready to throw his instrument tray at my head.

  “Go!” The guards thrust their spears at my face. I have to make a choice: concede and retreat or blacken the entire infirmary and do as I please.

  I know what I want to do, but being belligerent won’t foster trust and convince King Ihsan to join us. And there’s no reason to force my agenda if King Minoak isn’t awake to hear what I have to say.

  The agitated tendrils of darkness nip at my cheek. Why must he be awake to receive your message?

  “Fine,” I say to the guards, making a show of tramping back the way I came. After they slam the door behind me, I noiselessly sneak back around the building and situate myself beneath the rear windows of the infirmary, where Minoak rests.

  I wrap myself in shadows, perch on a branch near the window—which is open to let in fresh air—and summon the threads of darkness from the room. I may not be able to speak to my king in a traditional sense, but that doesn’t mean I can’t express my worries and needs. Plant the seeds of our rebellion while he sleeps, so when he finally does wake, he’ll think the ideas were his own.

  It’s exactly what I did to the Sky King all those years ago, when I was lobbying to be named commander of the Kalima warriors. The choice that set so much of this madness into motion. Those same feelings of urgency and need twine through me now, tingeing my voice as I whisper into the darkness.

  I sing fragments of old desert songs, relay my plans to free the Protected Territories and unite against the Sky King. I spare no detail about the war front and Temujin and the Zemyans. Anything I can think of to combat the inevitable barrage of opinions he’ll be faced with when he does wake.

  “Please, let it be soon,” I pray as I send the ebony tendrils back through the window. I watch them wash over Minoak’s face and settle around him like smoke. Then I ease out of the tree and slowly make my way back to our barracks. Turning everything over in my mind. Begging the First Gods to show me the truth. And the path forward.

  “You were gone for an eternity,” Serik says when I finally hobble through the door. “I was beginning to think you fell into the swamp. We were just about to send a search party.” His tone is playful, but he eyes me expectantly. Waiting for me to tell him where I went. Why it took so long.

  For half a second I consider spewing everything. What would he think of Yatindra’s coldness—despite my efforts to be kind—and the guards’ refusal to let me see Minoak? But, as always, our cabin is crowded to the point of suffocation; anything I tell Serik, the entire caravan will hear. And if I tell him about Yatindra, he’ll think I followed her to pick a fight. He’ll be frustrated that I angered the guards in the infirmary, who could report the incident to Ihsan.

  Nothing good will come from Serik knowing the truth. Not until I figure out if the reasons behind Yatindra’s hostility are cause for suspicion, or if I’m just reading into everything because I’m broken. Ruined by the past. Unfit to be trusted because I can’t trust in return—not even my allies.

  A painful scowl twists my face as I ease onto the floor and painstakingly untie my boots. “I walked farther than I should have, so it was difficult to get back. I ended up going down to water level for a while to soak my leg,” I lie.

  “I’m sorry again … about what I said earlier,” Serik says quietly. “I shouldn’t have pushed you about Ziva.”

  “It had nothing to do with that,” I assure him, but he still insists on helping me with my boots and lifts me onto my bed. He rubs my feet and brings the food he set aside for me, since I missed our midday meal.

  “I’ll do better,” he promises. Making me feel like the most despicable creature on the continent. Even worse than the bloodsucking mosquitos.

  But I paint a smile on my face and murmur, “So will I.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  GHOA

  I SPEND THE REST OF THE NIGHT INSPECTING THE WALL THAT opens into a passageway. If that mousy little servant has the power and intellect to access it, I should certainly be able to manage it. But no matter how I scrape and claw, no matter how much thick blue paint jams painfully beneath my fingernails, I find nothing. And now my hands are slick with blood, my wrists rubbed raw from the manacles, making the search even more impossible.

  “I’m not surprised,” the Sky King’s voice drawls from everywhere and nowhere. “You have always been lacking, incompetent.”

  I shred every window curtain in response. Not that it does any good—the king isn’t real and neither are the curtains—but it passes the time and helps to block out the specters hell-bent on driving me mad.

  Once I’ve destroyed everything within reach and yelled myself hoarse at the unrelenting illusions, I crouch beside the invisible door to wait. I don’t care who comes through the tunnel next. I’m going to incapacitate them with ice, or the sheer force of my desperation, and get myself out of here. Then I’ll assassinate the empress and generál supreme and send this hideous palace crashing into the sea. After which the people of Ashkar will gladly welcome me back—the savior of the empire—and the Kalima warriors will spend the rest of their lives wishing they hadn’t betrayed me.

  After what feels like years, but is probably no more than the length of a night, the door slides into existence. My mind snaps to attention and I lift my hands, practically crowing with relief when Hadassah, rather than Kartok, shuffles into the room.

  I launch myself at her like a snow panther at the end of the great freeze—wild and half mad with hunger. My fingers sink into her flesh and I shove every morsel of cold from my core into her body. But her skin only cools a fraction. Her lips part with a scream as she hits the floor. The bowl of sludge she’s carrying falls and a lumpy spatter coats the wall, not frozen in the least.

  It’s hardly the ambush I imagined, but it’s good enough. I scramble over her as if she’s a bloodied corpse on the battlefield, and lunge for the tunnel.

  “Stop!” she shouts.

  I run faster, flinging myself through the door as it begins to slide shut. I almost think I’ve made it, when Hadassah’s fingers close around my ankle. She yanks me back with surprising strength and I slam into the ground, unable to catch myself due to the blasted manacles. She tugs me swiftly back into the room, as if I’m the scrawny maid and she’s the seasoned warrior.

  “Let go!” I kick at her face.

  “I’m trying to help you!” she snaps as she dodges my strikes. “He’s coming. He’ll recapture you imme
diately. And kill me.”

  Her warning knocks me so off balance, she’s able to snatch the bowl of muck, vault over me, and disappear down the passageway before I can recover.

  The door clicks shut behind her, and Kartok appears less than a minute later. “Good morning, Commander. How are you feeling this fine day?” he asks, even though the answer is clear.

  I look like death. And worse, I feel like death. But I bare my teeth and say, “These accommodations are most restful. I feel stronger than ever.” I wag my fingers and a flurry of frost spirals between us. Just a trace, and it melts immediately, but enough to prove I’m not powerless. That his goddess wasn’t strong enough to rip the ice from me. Not even when it’s already depleted.

  Kartok’s expression darkens. Before I can blink, he’s on top of me, knees jabbing into my shoulders, hands forcing another waterskin between my lips, tipping more of the scalding hot-spring water down my throat. He pours until the vessel is empty and water dribbles down my chin. Then he looms over me, breathing hard. “How do you feel now?”

  The burning sensation invades my body faster and hotter and stronger than before. I feel like I’m spitting flames. But I can still feel the ice nestled deep within my chest. It’s shrunken—a tiny stone that used to be a boulder—but it’s there. Proof that Zemyans have never been and will never be as strong as Ashkarians. Not even their goddess.

  “Well?” Kartok digs his pointy knees into my shoulders.

  I reach out with shaking fingers and touch the toe of Kartok’s slipper. His stubbled cheeks redden as a beautiful lacy crusting of frost overtakes the beadwork. I want to gloat, but only a rasp of breath escapes my scalded throat. Finally I manage to wheeze, “Do you still have perfect faith in Zemya?”

  “Do not speak ill of the goddess!” Kartok flings his arms to the sides and the sky-blue walls of the throne room splinter like broken glass. I close my eyes and take a final, gasping breath, waiting for seawater to rush in and pummel me. But the deluge doesn’t come. Not a single drop of blue-black water seeps through the cracks. Instead I see moving shadows and refracted light. I hear low murmurs and dragging chains. I knew I couldn’t be the only prisoner, but the replica of the throne room is so convincing, I had almost started to believe the sorcerer’s lies.