Now I see the truth: I am surrounded by dozens of identical glass cells, most of which are occupied by Ashkarian warriors. Though, I do spy a few gray-clad Shoniin and even some Zemyans. They are always pale, sickly looking people, but these Zemyans’ veins glow blue beneath their translucent skin—like the jellyfish that glide through the water beyond—as if they haven’t seen the sun in half a lifetime.
Most shocking of all, however, is the sound of far-off singing. The melody is distorted by the water and the glass, but it’s a song I know by heart: the music of my childhood. Every night, Papá would croon the soothing lullaby at my bedside until I drifted off to sleep. The words are different, of course—strange Zemyan lyrics that are too smooth and menacing—but the tune wraps around me like a sheath around a sword. Snug and protective.
The singer is a Zemyan woman, kneeling with her hands pressed against the glass. On the other side, an imperial warrior, who looks as small as our youngest recruits, kneels in the same manner, palms held up to the woman’s. The child’s slim shoulders shake in their unmistakable blue and gold, and the louder they cry, the louder the woman sings. Her voice rings out, strong and clear, and pops of color burst from her fingers and spread through the glass between them like a watercolor painting.
The colors form the fuzzy image of a dove and a lion, the characters from the song, and they twist in a dizzying whirl that’s both haunting and mesmerizing.
Beautiful. It’s the only word to describe it. But it can’t be beautiful because Zemyan magic is vile. Wrong.
With a loud clap from Kartok, the cracks in the throne room knit back together, blotting out the other prisoners.
“You can’t leave me here to rot like them,” I say, my voice gaining conviction. “My power will rebuild—there’s nothing you can do to stop it—and when it does, I’ll obliterate this prison.”
“Impossible,” Kartok says, but his reply is a second too slow. A note too high. “Even if you managed to break the barriers, you’ll never survive the sea.”
I flash a vicious grin. “That’s fine, because neither will you.”
Kartok’s nostrils flare. He makes his way over to the wall, fiddling with the knobs I can’t for the life of me find. “This can be as simple or as difficult as you choose,” he says as he pulls a lever. Instead of opening the glass passageway, a panel in the floor slides and an unremarkable tub rises into the room. Water sloshes over the edges and the bitter stench of Zemyan magic is overwhelming. It reminds me of wet horses and moldy tents. “You can cooperate and avoid further pain. Or you can suffer.” He points to the tub. “Either way, I’ll extract the information I need.”
“Is this the only method of torture in Zemya? Or are you that unimaginative? The hot-spring water doesn’t even suppress my ice.”
“But it does affect your body. And a weakened body cannot wield volatile power.”
“To what end? Why not kill me and be done with it?” I don’t actually want to die, nor do I plan to, but if I can’t worm my way out of here, I’d rather a quick death than weeks of suffering as the hot-spring water slowly melts me from the inside out.
“I need your help. And if the hot spring is not effective, we must explore other options.”
“I won’t help you with anything,” I retort.
“You don’t have a choice,” Kartok says. “Where will the Kalima warriors go now that Sagaan has fallen?”
I shake my head and smirk at him. “Hunting them is a waste of time. Your hot spring won’t strip their powers either. They may not be as strong as I am, but they’re not as weak as you—or your goddess.”
I brace for a livid slap, but after a tense moment, Kartok settles back on his haunches and appraises me with unnerving amusement. “I never pegged you as the noble and forgiving type….”
“What are you talking about?”
“You have no reason to protect the Kalima. In fact, you should want to punish them for abandoning you. This could be your revenge. Show them what happens when they cross you.”
“They did what needed to be done for the well-being of Ashkar,” I grind out, even though abandoning me was not in the country’s best interest, and I’d love nothing more than to see every one of them thrown into this Zemyan prison pit. But unlike those double-crossing cowards, I am actually thinking about the empire. And, like it or not, Ashkar needs their powers. If the Kalima are captured and killed, we won’t have a prayer of ousting the Zemyans.
“Give me the rendezvous point,” Kartok insists.
“Clearly, the Kalima don’t want me to join them.” I hold out my arms for emphasis. “Do you honestly think they’d meet anywhere I’d know about?”
Kartok’s scruffy jaw tightens. He scowls down at me as if I’m a cockroach in the rice bin. “How pitiful—to be so thoroughly despised by your own soldiers.”
“Every commander is despised. You’re delusional if you think you’re any different. No one likes being told what to do. And no one will follow a lenient, indecisive leader. We must be brutal. Exacting. Your soldiers wouldn’t hesitate to leave you on the steps of the Sky Palace, wrapped in ribbons for King Tyberion, if that’s what suited them best.”
“You forget your Sky King is dead.”
The word zings through me like a bolt of Eshwar’s lightning.
“Wasn’t it your duty to protect him, Commander?” Kartok prods. “You should have seen his body … mutilated on the frosty cobblestones.”
Those final, terrible moments in the treasury flicker in and out: Varren helping the Sky King onto the buttress. The excruciating slowness of his steps. The chunk of marble careening through the charcoal sky. The haunting sound of his scream.
“Stop!” I shout.
“Cooperate!” Kartok shouts back. “How many Kalima warriors are there in total?”
I say the first number that pops into my head. “Ten thousand.”
“Lies!” Kartok stomps closer, forcing me to retreat until my back is literally against the wall. “There aren’t half so many! You would have ended the war long ago.”
“If you’re so certain of our numbers, why ask me?”
“Do not test me, girl.”
“Or what? What else could you possibly take from me?”
Kartok holds out his arms, palms up, and two forms rise into being, like the plumes of dust created by thousands of marching warriors. The particles shift and gather and slowly form the faces of a man and a woman. He has shiny waxed hair and a pipe clenched between his teeth. She wears soft curls and a proud smile. My parents say my name and reach for me. Unaware of a third form looming behind them. The hooded figure raises a blade—the blade strapped to Kartok’s hip.
“Look out!” I scream. But it’s too late. The steel has already bitten through their necks.
“Your parents live in Sagaan, do they not?” Kartok shouts over my wails. “A city now occupied by Zemya….”
“If you harm a single hair on their heads—”
“Where will the Kalima go?” Kartok roars.
My eyes are still glued to the severed heads of my parents, rolling around my feet. I nearly concede and relay every potential rendezvous point I can think of, but thankfully, my tongue knows better. It sits heavy and thick in my mouth. My teeth clench tighter; Kartok won’t spare them, not even if I cooperate.
Before I can comprehend what’s happening, Kartok’s bony fingers close around my neck and he drags me across the throne room. I don’t even have time to fill my lungs before he shoves my head into the overflowing tub.
He plunges me in and out. Harder and faster. Until I don’t know if the burning in my chest is from the scalding hot-spring water or lack of air.
At last, Kartok flings me to the floor. “I will find a way to defeat you. I will see Zemya exalted. Ashkar’s reign of terror over the continent ends now. With me.”
When I try to respond, I cough up mouthfuls of putrid water and howl at the horrendous pain. My body heaves and sweats. It was bad enough having the Zemyan
poison searing down my throat and gnawing through my organs. But now it assaults me from the outside as well. Drenching me. Overtaking me.
Enebish once told me how they burned their dead in Verdenet—a crass, disrespectful tradition we eradicated as soon as the Southerners joined the Protected Territories—and I imagine this is how that must have felt. Except even worse, since I’m still alive.
“Where can I find the Kalima?” Kartok demands again.
“Finding them will do no good. Our powers cannot be suppressed or taken. You’d have to stop us from receiving power in the first place.”
I expect my declaration to deflate him. Infuriate him. Because it’s impossible. Our Kalima powers are born within us, like a heart or lungs. It’s not something that can be removed. But a slow grin spreads across Kartok’s face, chilling me so completely, for an instant I feel cold. Even with the hot-spring water dripping off my nose.
“Finally, Commander, you’ve said something useful,” he says, his eyes practically sparkling. Then he turns without another word and vanishes into the tunnel.
I lie in the puddle of hot-spring water, groaning and tossing, unsure what hurts most—the agonizing heat or my pride. The Zemyan has bested me at every turn. Made a complete and utter fool of me.
“Pathetic.” The Sky King’s voice pelts me like shrapnel.
“Nobody asked you!” I snap at him, sitting smugly on his throne. If I have to endure another day with his vengeful ghost, I’ll lose my mind.
“Haven’t you lost it already?”
“Get. Out. Of. My. Head.” I say every word like a threat, but that only makes him laugh harder.
“I can’t ‘get out’ of your head. I’m a projection from your own mind. A personification of your guilt. You’re not angry with me; you despise yourself. You failed yourself, Ghoa.”
I try to push up—I have to get out of here; I’ll fight my way out or die trying—but my arms are so weak, I barely manage to roll over. It isn’t far enough, but at least I don’t have to look at the Sky King anymore. Unfortunately, his poison is already in my head, under my skin. Every bit as painful as the hot-spring water.
Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, and I finally let myself cry. Weep, even.
Which is exactly how that nosy little servant, Hadassah, finds me.
“Merciful seas!” She drops the tin of gruel she’s carrying and hurries to where I lie. She even has the audacity to kneel at my side. As if she cares whether I live or die. I expect her to smell of sweat and foul lye soap like the servants in the Sky Palace, but the rich scents of bergamot and jasmine envelope me as she dabs my face with her filthy skirt.
“What happened? What did he do now?” she asks. “Is that hot-spring water?”
“Get your scorching fingers off me!” I roar. Every brush of fabric stings like embers burrowing into my skin.
“Sorry! Sorry!” She retracts her hands and appraises them for a long moment. Then she flutters back across the room, fetches the tin bowl off the floor, and holds it between her hands. She whispers something in Zemyan and the metal liquifies, spreading into a hovering puddle of silver.
“Do you honestly think you need to forge a weapon right now?” I growl. “I can’t even stand up.”
“Hold still.” She returns to my side, brings the metal to my face, and drapes it gently across my forehead like a wet cloth.
“Get that off me!” I shout, but it’s too late. The metal is already dripping down my face, coursing down my neck and chest, expanding to cover every inch of me until I’m entombed in tin. I pull in a breath to scream, but it quickly becomes a sigh. Somehow the pain and heat are fading. Draining out of my body like blood from a corpse.
“How?” I ask, my voice soft and dreamy. I’ve never felt such overwhelming relief. My eyelids flutter shut and I feel as if I’m floating away. So light and cool and weightless.
“It’s a simple manipulation. Metal conducts heat better than flesh, so given the choice, heat will always choose metal.”
The sound of Hadassah’s voice breaks the spell, and I remember where I am. And what she is. “Why would you help me?” I bark with derision, frantically swiping at the strange metal coating. But it continues to course over me, spilling over the edges of my body and pooling on the ground like syrup.
“Because we can help each other. I need to know what Kartok is doing and—”
“Won’t he punish you?” I interrupt. I want to glower at her, but it’s difficult to do anything but sigh as the pain continues to slough away.
Hadassah gives a little shrug. “He can only punish me if he catches me.”
“Do you truly mistrust the generál enough to risk his wrath? And to strengthen your enemy? I thought he was the lauded hero of your country?”
“He’s been the bane of my existence since the day I was born,” she mutters darkly. “I told you—he’s hurt me, too. And worse, his scheming and power-mongering will hurt Zemya. So if he wants you injured or dead, I want you alive and kicking. If he demands answers, I’m going to ensure your lips remain sealed tight. Whatever it takes to undermine him.”
I appraise her, my eyebrows knitting. Why does it matter to you?
The lowborn servants in Ashkar couldn’t care less about the state of our government or leadership. They’re just trying to survive the great freeze. But I say none of this because Hadassah’s jewel-blue eyes are glittering with animosity. Contempt emanates from her pores the way ice seeps from mine, and it fills me with a frigid rush of hope. It doesn’t matter why she’s angry and desperate. Only that she is.
Hatred is something I can use; desperation makes her someone I can use.
“If you really want to anger him, release me,” I dare her.
“So you can kill me and every living soul in this palace, then bring your bloodthirsty warriors back to vanquish the country? I think not.”
“Ah, there it is—your true opinion of me. I knew all of this congeniality was a sham.”
“You act as if my animosity isn’t merited,” she snaps. “You’ve been attacking us for centuries!”
“Your ancestors are the ones who started this endless war—attacking Ashkar even after they were banished for practicing wicked magic.”
The laughter that bursts from Hadassah is surprisingly low and cynical. “Is that the lie your king told you?”
“It’s what hundreds of years of records have told me. Zemya has always been the aggressor.”
“Wrong!” Hadassah’s vehemence makes me jump. “Ashkar attacked us. We had already been cast out, but that wasn’t enough. You wanted to utterly destroy us. To ensure we never cultivated our magic or thrived in this arid land. Our ancestors had to defend themselves. We are still defending ourselves.”
I glower at Hadassah and shake my head. The ancient Ashkarians had no reason to attack after the Zemyans were banished. All we’ve ever wanted was to be left alone, but the Zemyans couldn’t abandon their bitter grudges. “How must it feel,” I ask, “to be so thoroughly brainwashed? The entire foundation of your country is built on lies.”
“How can you be certain the lies weren’t shoved down your throat?” she volleys back.
“Because I know my people. I know my king.”
“And I know my empress.”
“What could a serving girl know of an empress?” I sneer.
Hadassah stands with a huff. “More than you’d think.” She stomps away, murmuring indignantly about how she’s never met anyone so thankless and arrogant and infuriating. I smile as her insults settle around my shoulders and warm me like the finest compliments.
“I’m trying to help you!” she shouts. “All I want in return is information on a man we both despise. You’d think that you would—”
“What?” I cut her off. “What did you honestly think? That I’d fall on your feet in gratitude? That we’d suddenly become bosom friends and trade secrets while brushing each other’s hair?” Pink floods her cheeks, encouraging me. “I didn’t ask for your help.
That was your own poor decision. I owe you nothing. And I don’t give a damn about anyone or anything in this wretched country. Especially not the gallant ambitions of a prison servant.”
She halts in the center of the hall, rumpling the extravagant floor runner as she wheels back around. Her expression is desperate, her eyes pleading, but that stopped working on me years ago. I’ve run my saber through thousands of soldiers with pleading eyes.
“Don’t you have a scrap of honor?” she spits.
“No,” I say. And I mean it. Honor and integrity are what drive people to make selfless choices and irrational sacrifices. I have drive. Ambition. Pride.
“Well, doesn’t it bother you to be indebted to me?”
“No,” I say again, even though that’s the one thing that does, in fact, bother me.
“Don’t you care that you were healed by Zemyan magic? And that you liked it? I saw your face. I heard your moans. Is that something you can live with? You’re a hypocrite. Shackled to me. Haunted by this debt.”
Discomfort lifts the hairs down my neck, and I shiver now that the unnatural heat is no longer blazing through me. I’m not interested in being haunted by anyone or anything else after enduring Kartok’s specters, but I can’t let the girl know she hit a nerve. I harden my features and hold out my hands. “Unlock the shackles and I’ll tell you everything he’s said and done.”
“I already healed you!”
“Voluntarily. This is my price for the information.” I shake my hands and the iron rattles.
Hadassah mutters furiously but inserts the key into the lock. I groan as the shackles fall away, and gently massage my wrists.
“Well?” She puts her hands on her hips.
“Kartok attempted to nullify my Kalima power by forcing me to drink your hot-spring water, but it isn’t strong enough. Your unnatural magic never has been and never will be.”
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 15
