The Marsh King waits for the crowd to settle before continuing. “The very empire that vowed to protect and strengthen us has turned their backs on the Protected Territories. An imperial governor sits on the throne of Verdenet, the Chotgori people are imprisoned in the ore mines, and the scout we sent to Sagaan never returned. We must assume the worst of the Sky King.”
Serik and I exchange a worried glance. There’s no way of knowing whether the scout was silenced by the Sky King or the Zemyans. If Sagaan still stands or if it fell to Kartok and Temujin as easily as they’d predicted.
If it did fall, how much time do we have?
All around us, the Namagaans roar their outrage and disbelief. This time, King Ihsan stokes the flame until the canopy quivers and every bird takes flight. “Together, we will stand against the deceitful Sky King and free the Protected Territories!” he cries.
I’m gripped by the feeling I expected to have when I found Minoak. For the first time since leaving Sagaan, I allow myself to truly hope. To let go of my doubt and distrust and completely believe.
We begin preparations, and I assign Iree and Bultum to procure and organize provisions for our return journey to Verdenet however they see fit. When Azamat volunteers to scout ahead and sneak into Lutaar City to raise the portcullis for our arrival, not only do I give him my blessing, I refute Murtaugh’s arguments that Azamat is too old and frail until the Namagaan chancellor finally tosses his hands in the air and storms out of King Ihsan’s study. I check in regularly with Ziva through the darkness, to receive the latest reports on Minoak’s progress—which has been astounding, thanks to the Namagaans’ riverweed salve. I even give her a few pointers on how to coax the threads of darkness so they’re more cooperative when delivering her messages.
It’s a small trick. Harmless enough.
With every passing day, and every proud grin from Serik, I feel more certain and confident. So much so that when Yatindra approaches me at lunch the day before we’re scheduled to leave for Verdenet, I manage to nod politely and even smile. She’s been nothing but supportive since her brother announced his decision to retake his throne. She even intervened during some of Murtaugh’s more disagreeable moments and has worked tirelessly as a scribe for King Ihsan, sending hundreds of missives to the war front in an attempt to rally support from the warriors who were conscripted from the Protected Territories.
Yatindra slides onto the stool opposite me. “I want to apologize,” she says without preamble. It catches me so off guard, a forkful of chestnut cream misses my mouth and plops onto my tunic.
“What?” I shout. Serik stomps my foot beneath the table, so I quickly add, “I mean … thank you. Me too. I let past betrayals haunt me, which wasn’t fair to you and many others.”
She nods and fiddles with the orange tassels on her dress. “I was so distraught over my brother, and terrified of the unrest in Verdenet, I needed to lash out at something, and you and your shepherds were the most convenient target.”
“I would have done the same,” I say, realizing the truth of the words as they leave my lips. “We’re all just trying to survive and protect the people and places we love.”
“Thank you for being gracious, but I’d still like to make it up to you.” She procures one of her embossed yellow cards and slides it across the table. I cock a brow at her as I pick it up.
“Is now really the time for one of your banquets?”
“Enebish!” Serik barks, but Yatindra laughs.
“It’s a fair assumption, but I’m not hosting a banquet. Ziva and I plan to kneel in prayer tonight, to ask the Lady and Father to bless our journey, and we thought three Verdenese prayers would be stronger than two. I even have an extra prayer doll…. I couldn’t help but notice you don’t seem to have one, and I can’t imagine how much you miss it.”
I’m so overcome with emotion, my voice is too breathy for words. I blink at the table until I’m certain tears won’t escape. Part of me hates that Yatindra is the one to break me down to this rawest, barest version of myself. But it also feels right. Balanced, somehow.
“Well? Will you join us?” Yatindra asks.
I smile at the note card. “I’d be honored.”
After sunset, I pull on a clean tunic and weave my hair into a long braid—how the priestesses at Sawtooth Mesa wore their hair. Then I kneel and offer up my own silent prayer so I’m prepared to join my faith with Ziva’s and Yatindra’s.
“Do an extra oblation for me,” Serik says before I leave.
“Words I never expected to hear from you.” I flash him a teasing smile.
“I never thought you’d assimilate with the shepherds or mend things with Ziva and Yatindra. Miracles are all around us.”
I chuckle as I make my way across the bustling platforms and bridges, where the Namagaans are gathering supplies and loading baskets for our journey. I still can’t believe they’re coming to Verdenet. That they’re with us. Miracles truly are all around us.
When I reach Yatindra’s door and pull the cord, I’m greeted by a serving girl who informs me that Yatindra and Ziva are down at water level.
I frown and hold up the marigold card. “But they invited me to join them here.”
“Miss Yatindra sends her deepest apologies. She planned to host your prayer circle here, but as she and Miss Zivana were preparing, it didn’t feel right. She said you needed to be out there, in the open. Where you can touch the earth and see the skies.”
I huff out an exhausted breath. I understand her reasoning—I agree, even—but it would have been nice if they’d told me to meet at water level before I limped across Uzul and scaled the impossibly steep ladder to the mansion. “Why didn’t she send word?”
“They just made the decision, so the missive wouldn’t have reached you.”
“In that case, why didn’t they wait for me?”
The maid glances at my leg, then quickly averts her eyes. “There was much to carry, with the candles and vorkhi and prayer dolls. They instructed me to assist you to the swamp, if you’d like?”
“No, I can manage.” I force a smile to ease the maid’s anxious bumbling. It isn’t her fault they presumed to know my own abilities. I tell myself it came from a place of kindness, but the twinge in my leg and the tugging in my arm feel more prominent than ever as I descend to the swamp.
“Ziva? Yatindra?” I call once I reach the root pathways. I don’t know where they set up, but it must be farther down the path, since I can’t see a flicker of light. Only the sheep jostling in their pen bleat in answer.
I pick my way along the bumpy pathway, trying not to choke on the foul swamp air and the stench of soggy wool. The animals are huddled together in the center of their ramshackle pen, blowing and stamping as if I’m a predator.
Every night, one of the shepherds keeps watch, and tonight Iree is on duty. He leans against a tree on the other side of the pen, his head bobbing closer and closer to his chest before it snaps back up and the pattern starts again.
“Iree!” I shout, but he doesn’t stir. “Iree!” I try again. Nothing. If I were a reed panther, the entire flock would be dead. Bultum would have a heyday if he knew his nemesis was sleeping on duty. I consider walking around the pen to wake him, but I save myself the trouble. It’s a long way, and Iree wouldn’t have seen Ziva and Yatindra.
After muttering a curse, I continue edging along the fence line, collecting threads of night to sharpen my vision. Would it have been that difficult to wait for me once they got down here? Or at least make themselves easier to locate?
Unless they don’t want you to find them….
My feet hesitate and unease grips me. For half a second I consider turning back. I can pray by myself. I don’t need to traipse around the marsh for them, especially if they can’t be bothered with basic consideration. But then I spot a flash of movement up ahead, just beyond the sheep pen, and I banish my worries with a shake of my head. Yatindra’s apology was sincere. Even if it wasn’t, she wouldn’t use the Lady
and Father to bait me. No one is that blasphemous. I won’t be ruled by suspicion and fear any longer.
“Ziva? Yatindra?”
“Over here!” Yatindra answers, and I exhale with relief. “Ziva is cloaking us in darkness for privacy.”
I frown down at the filaments of night in my hand and give them a little yank. There’s no resistance on the other end. And no matter how I twist the tendrils, Ziva and Yatindra don’t shimmer into focus.
“Where are you?” I demand, stumbling in the direction of Yatindra’s voice.
Without warning, my feet drop out from under me and my shout becomes a scream. My good leg sinks into a hole that’s been hacked into the root pathway, and when I try to catch myself, my bad leg wrenches painfully. I scream even louder as I crash into the lowest rung of the fence.
The plank immediately snaps, and the adjoining posts wobble and groan—the wood too wet and bent, and the construction too quick and shoddy, to withstand the blow. One by one, the posts tumble, the cross-planks falling with them. In the space of a breath, the entire structure collapses.
The frightened herd stampedes past me, charging down the pathway and into the murky night.
Burning skies!
“What have you done?” Iree shouts. He’s wide awake now and on his feet, gaping at me as if I released the animals on purpose.
“It was a t-trap!” I stammer. “Yatindra cut a hole in the pathway, knowing I’d hit the fence!” I gesture to the thigh-deep hole still swallowing my leg.
Iree looks like he wants to murder me as he unties a bullhorn from his hip and fills the sleeping marshlands with three trumpeting blasts.
Lights flare in our barracks. Within seconds, a swarm of shepherds barrel across the platforms toward the call. Sleepy-eyed Namagaans pull back their drapes and squint at the waterfall of frenzied shepherds, but none of them leave their homes or offer help—despite the “goodwill” and “unity” we’ve supposedly been currying.
“Enebish destroyed the fence and the animals escaped!” Iree announces as the first of the reinforcements arrive.
“I didn’t destroy the fence!” I counter. Even though, technically, I did. But “destroy” makes it sound like I demolished the fence on purpose. “It was a setup!”
No one hears me over panicked shouts and thundering hooves.
Serik stumbles onto the walkway with the rest of the shepherds, and his eyes immediately widen when they land on me in the hole. “What happened? What are you doing down here? Aren’t you supposed to be with Ziva and Yatindra?”
“They lured me into a trap!”
Serik stares at me for an excruciating moment.
“You have to believe me. I swear to you—”
“Not now.” He summons an orb of light, which he holds overhead like a torch, and pulls me out of the hole. Then he jogs into the sticky darkness. “We should head toward the saw-grass clearing,” he calls to the shepherds. “It’s the first place the animals will go—their food source.”
With a nod of agreement, the shepherds fall in behind Serik, splashing frantically through the muck. I follow, my steps slow and stumbling, made worse by the hot tears pulsing in my eyes.
Why would Yatindra and Ziva do this now? When we were finally unified?
“Did you hear that?” Serik slams to a halt, causing the shepherds behind him to collide.
“The only thing I hear is my brain rattling around in my skull,” Lalyne grumbles.
Serik holds up his hand. “Shhhh!”
I have a hard time believing he can hear anything over the shepherds’ hysterical moans, but then he turns and plunges into the nearest thicket. We follow, stopping every few minutes while he listens and readjusts course. To my astonishment, the sound of far-off bleating grows steadily louder until we reach a small clearing. Unlike the saw-grass clearing, where the flocks graze, this field is made of mud, and long, twisting plants undulate on top of the water like snakes. Shadows move on the far side of the meadow. Most of the group freezes or scrambles backward, but Serik snatches a bucket of feed from the nearest shepherd and shakes it while clucking his tongue.
A tiny black lamb stumbles into view through the murk and trots happily toward the feed bucket. The shepherds weep and hug as they call for the rest of the herd. But as more sheep emerge from the trees, the threads of darkness resting in my fist pull taut, flailing and lashing like a banner in a windstorm.
A second later blackness engulfs the marshlands.
“Enebish!” Serik roars, trying, and failing, to summon an orb of light.
“It isn’t me!” I insist.
“What do you mean it isn’t you?”
“I didn’t blacken the sky!” My fingers tremble as I attempt to reel in the darkness, but the threads pull back, more stubborn than an ornery camel.
Ziva isn’t strong enough to hold the night with such a firm grip, which can only mean one thing: It isn’t Ziva’s darkness. It’s mine—the darkness Kartok stole in the xanav.
I wind the smoky shadows around my palm faster. Faster. Heart pulsing in my throat as my vision sharpens, revealing a hunter far deadlier than a reed panther or an alligator. A wolf, hidden among the sheep.
Temujin strides into the clearing, flanked by a pack of Shoniin, wearing a predatory smile on his lips.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GHOA
WHEN KARTOK RETURNS TO THE THRONE ROOM THE FOLLOWING day, I’m ready—crouched at the far end of the hall, barricaded behind the pile of smashed chairs like a frightened animal.
He methodically scans the room, and when his eyes alight on me, my teeth automatically clench. I cower lower and gag on the putrid taste of hot-spring water rising up my throat like vomit—my body reminding me to stay as far from him as possible. I’d be disgusted with myself if the response weren’t useful. And calculated.
When a dog sees a frightened cat, they can’t help but chase it. They’re too gripped by the scent of fear, and the thrill of the hunt, to consider where the cat might lead them.
And whether it has claws.
“Retreating so soon, Commander?” Kartok laughs. It’s exactly what I would do if our roles were reversed and I had him trapped in an Ashkarian prison cell, cowering and pissing himself in the corner. We’re alike, the generál and I. A fact that would rattle me—if I let it. But I choose to lean into it. To sink into his mind like a thief and steal the upper hand.
He weaves through the mess of broken wood, gliding toward me like the specters he conjures. The little copper discs sewn into the hem of his cobalt robe tinkle as he stalks nearer. My nerves jangle with them.
“Surely you can put up a better fight than this?” he jeers.
I say nothing and hunker lower. Vibrating with readiness. Gathering up the cold and channeling it into my fists.
Thanks to Hadassah’s ministrations, I feel better than I have since leaving Sagaan. Which is a boon—it would have taken months for my body to recover on its own. But when I let myself think too much about her magic swirling around inside me, defiling me, my skin pinches like ill-fitting armor.
I don’t like it, but my body must be strong to wield my power.
That’s why the ice dagger I threw at Kartok that first day vanished. And why the bursts of frost I’ve managed to summon melt so quickly. My power has been slowly rebuilding, but my body has been too weak to wield it properly. It’s the only logical explanation. The Zemyan would never be able to manipulate my ice at its full strength. Or even half strength—which I’m inching toward now. Last night I jolted from the depths of sleep to a glorious crackling in my joints—like the song of a slow-moving glacier.
And Kartok is completely unaware.
He stops directly in front of me and peers through the barricade of broken chairs like a fox staring into a rabbit warren. I want to pounce immediately and unleash my fury. Punish him for every gasp of pain he’s caused. But I must wait for the perfect moment. When I’m in a position to inflict the most damage.
I’ll only h
ave one shot.
He reaches into his robe. I force myself to make a tiny whimper, even though it kills me to give him that satisfaction. “Please, no more hot-spring water,” I beg.
“Oh, water’s at the ready, if we need it, but thanks to your brilliant suggestion, I’ve decided to tackle this quandary from a different angle.” He flicks his wrist and shards of wood rise from the floor and reform into a chair. His attention to detail is so meticulous, there isn’t a single fracture to show it was ever broken. Once he’s settled, he produces a thick leather volume from his vestment. The book is old and ragged, and the stale smell of dust tickles my nose as he thumbs through the pages.
“Can you tell me what this is, Commander?” Kartok angles the book toward me and taps on a picture of a tall, helter-skelter pile of stones. It looks like it could topple over at any second, with all of the ribbons and bottles and trash stuffed into the cracks. It’s ugly and blasphemous—one of the shrines to the First Gods where travelers used to pray and worship. They’re unmistakable and, thankfully, gone. The Sky King tore them down, making the grasslands far more beautiful.
I’m not about to cooperate, though, so I hum and cock my head. “Rocks?” I say after a long moment.
“Don’t toy with me, girl.” Kartok scoots closer and wags the book in my face. Like I knew he would.
I squint at the picture for another long moment. “Some sort of religious relic?”
“Legends claim it’s a gateway to the land of the First Gods. Have you ever seen one?”
“I don’t know…. Maybe a long time ago? But you can’t honestly believe—”
“Where?” He leans even closer, perched on the edge of his seat. Almost close enough.
“I don’t remember. I was a child. And they’ve long since been destroyed.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, all of them. We haven’t worshipped the First Gods in generations.”
Kartok blinks as if I just pronounced myself empress of Zemya. “If you don’t believe in the gods, how do you explain your powers? It’s like denying the hand attached to your arm.”
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 17
