In what feels like an instant, the leaves are no longer green but burning red and gold. Fire drips down the ancient tree trunks like wax from a candlestick, racing from leaf to leaf, branch to branch. Spreading toward the city of Uzul, less than half a league behind us.
Fear grips my stomach tighter than the vines encircling the trees. The shepherds scream and scatter, dodging the burning debris as they sprint back toward the city. Serik shouts curses. And I stand still, gazing up. The fire will devour the entire marsh if we don’t find a way to put it out. But the canopy is too high. And our powers are of little use: Serik’s heat will only feed it, and my power birthed it in the first place.
So I do the only thing I can. “I thought you didn’t want trouble with Namaag!” I whirl on Temujin and his Shoniin, who don’t appear the least bit rattled. Chanar even has the nerve to smile. “Don’t you care that Uzul will burn? The capital of one of the Protected Territories, which you’re supposedly fighting for?”
“Of course we care,” Temujin answers, “and we’ll do everything in our power to help them rebuild after this devastating fire caused by Enebish the Destroyer. It will be the foundation of our union, in fact. The thing that solidifies their ties with the Shoniin and Zemya.”
My heart leaps faster with every awful word. Temujin manipulated me. Again. Even when I know that’s his aim, he still manages to be three steps ahead. I run my trembling fingers through my hair. “You’re just as responsible as I am,” I babble. “You threw the second ball of starfire.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m not a Night Spinner. I can’t wield starfire.”
“I’ll explain the syphoning to King Ihsan! The shepherds witnessed the entire confrontation!”
“By all means, explain to King Ihsan until you’re blue in the face. I doubt he’ll be willing to listen to a word you say after his capital is reduced to ashes. You leave fire and destruction everywhere you go, Enebish: Nariin, Sagaan, and now Uzul. This is just another deadly outburst, and I will be the savior who arrives to clean up your mess.”
I want to reach for another ball of starfire. I want to incinerate Temujin and every last one of his traitorous Shoniin. But Serik grips my hand and tugs me back toward Uzul. “Arguing is pointless. We have to stop the blaze. Warn the people.”
I look over at Serik as we trip through the undergrowth—at his determined, stalwart expression and his hand, locked tight with mine—and sobs fill my smoke-filled throat. He could have turned on me like the shepherds. He could have blamed me for the broken fence and the stampede. He could have scolded me for falling prey to Yatindra’s betrayal or refused to believe me at all. But here he is. At my side. Charging with me into battle.
“We’ll never get there fast enough,” Serik pants.
“There’s another way to warn them.” I don’t know if Ziva helped Yatindra sabotage me, but right now it hardly matters. I shove my smarting ego aside and yank on the perpetual undercurrent of darkness connecting us, snapping the night like a whip until she responds with a groggy tug. I immediately send her an image of the fire raging toward Uzul and the Shoniin.
The tendrils pull taut. Ziva sends back so many frantic messages, they bleed into an indecipherable jumble of black. A distant scream rises over the roar of the inferno. Lights flash, winking like stars through the leaves and thickening smoke.
“Everything will be fine,” I chant as we run. The Namagaans must have a way to combat fire. They live in trees, for skies’ sake.
The flames snap behind us, consuming the leaves like an oiled wick. My mouth feels dry and blistered and tastes of burning sap. We stumble past the demolished sheep pen and Uzul sprawls above us, overrun with absolute mayhem. Bridges swing precariously as far too many Namagaans shove across, burdened by clothing and jewelry, paintings and tapestries and fine china. Everything they can possibly carry.
Meanwhile, Ruya and her orange-clad soldiers wheel carts bearing massive brass fittings across the platforms. Men and women crowd around them, helping to lift the fixtures and fasten them to the brass pipes running beneath the limbs.
With a shout from Ruya, and a creak like the turn of an ancient knob, silty-brown swamp water explodes from each nozzle. The torrent that blasts through the canopy is even more violent than the geysers in the Ondor Mountains. Just the runoff pelting my head feels stronger than a Rain Maker in battle. Limbs tear from the ancient trunks, and the holes that riddle the canopy look like they were made by actual cannons.
In order to douse the fire, the Namagaans have to decimate their forest.
I stand in shivering, dripping silence with Serik and the shepherds, who gradually emerge from the trees with their animals and gather around a different tree—noticeably apart from me and Serik.
We watch the water cannons beat back the blaze. After what feels like a hundred days of battle, the last of the embers die and the water cannons peter to a trickle. The Namagaans drop the hoses and wilt into soaking heaps, crying and coughing and hugging. The shepherds scratch at the doors hidden in the tree trunks like hungry strays, but the Namagaans don’t hear. Or they’ve chosen not to respond.
King Ihsan appears on a platform overhead and moves among his people. Once again, he’s wearing his dressing gown, and he looks as exhausted and worn down as everyone else, but he still manages to clasp hands and pat shoulders, offering quiet words of comfort to his people.
Murtaugh and Yatindra trail the Marsh King, and the sight of her teary eyes and quivering hands makes me see red.
“Breathe, En,” Serik whispers in my ear. “Lashing out now will only make things worse.”
Things can’t get any worse! I want to scream. I pull several deep breaths through my nose, waiting for King Minoak and Ziva to appear at the end of the royal procession, but they’re nowhere to be seen.
It immediately strikes me as odd.
“Where are Ziva and Minoak?” I mutter.
Serik shrugs one shoulder. “Who knows? They’re not Namagaan. There’s probably little they could do to help.”
“King Minoak isn’t the type to sit back if his allies are in danger.”
“Maybe he felt he needed to prioritize his safety for the sake of Verdenet?”
“What about Ziva?” She would never hide away and avoid trouble. Especially not after the frantic images I sent through the darkness. I reach for the night to compose another message, but the sound of sloshing boots makes me whirl around.
Temujin and his Shoniin trudge into the clearing, looking eerily clean and composed compared to the rest of us.
The shepherds wail and throw themselves at the hidden doors, pounding even harder.
The Namagaans peer down at us through the rope railings, as if suddenly remembering we exist. But still the doors don’t slide open.
The night buzzes around me in agitated circles. “Let us up!” I beg. “They are dangerous traitors!”
Temujin’s voice fills the swamp like another cannon blast. “If anyone is going to be labeled a traitor, shouldn’t it be the Night Spinner who set fire to your forest?” He points an accusatory finger at me.
“He’s equally to blame!” I shout back as every Namagaan eye fixes on me with horror. “He’s using my siphoned power!”
“Do you think these people are fools?” Temujin waves an arm at the crowded platforms. “Lies will get you nowhere, Enebish. Stop trying to manipulate them. We are advocates for the Protected Territories. We have no quarrel with Namaag. We wouldn’t have ventured into the marshlands at all if you and Serik hadn’t betrayed us and fled. We even attempted to treat with them in the desert,” he calls up to the crowd, “but Enebish attacked—like always.”
“He is the one trying to manipulate you!” I insist. “They are allied with the Zemyans! They helped them take Sagaan! They’re going to seize the entire continent!”
King Ihsan approaches the rail and glares down at me, a ruthless frown on his face. “You knew they were following you, yet you came to Uzul anyway? You took adva
ntage of our kindness, knowing full well you were putting my people in danger?”
“W-we had no choice,” I stammer. “King Minoak—”
“Silence!” Ihsan cuts me off. “You failed to mention the Zemyans had taken Sagaan. You led me to believe the Sky King was our common enemy. Why?”
“Because we didn’t know for certain …” Serik tries to explain.
The shepherds shout over him: “We had no part in this! The Shoniin only want Enebish and Serik and vowed to leave Namaag in peace if we hand them over!”
Ihsan appraises us all with distaste. He shouts something in Namagaan and the people manning the water cannons retake their posts, hefting the bulky nozzles back over the railing.
We freeze. Even the sheep fall silent as we stare down potential death.
“This is a misunderstanding!” I cry. “We are friends. Allies.”
The Marsh King draws out the moment until it’s agonizing, maddening. “We are not allies,” he counters. Then he slashes his right arm downward. The Namagaans manning the water cannons angle the nozzles higher. Temujin and his Shoniin don’t even have time to turn before the deluge knocks them off their feet and sweeps them into the forest, dashing them against trees and fallen logs like debris in an avalanche.
I fall to my knees and begin to offer up my heartfelt thanks, when King Ihsan slashes his other arm. And the water cannons turn on us.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GHOA
I LIE ON THE FLOOR FOR HOURS, FINGERING MY NECK. Growing more furious every second.
Having the sorcerer’s illusions in my head and hot-spring water in my gut was bad enough. Knowing that his magic is the only reason I still draw breath is maddening. Unbearable. I want to open my veins and drain every tainted drop of blood. But that’s what Kartok wants: frenzy, desperation. He expects me to yield and crumble. But I haven’t descended that low. Not yet.
I still have one potential iron in the fire, one possible way to break free: Hadassah. She is the fault line—the fracture. If I can wedge my chisel into her, I can shatter the walls of this prison. She already despises and distrusts Kartok, and she doesn’t even know the extent of his ambition.
To attack and depose the First Gods.
I laugh because the notion is so absurd. How does one even go about killing a god? It doesn’t seem possible. And what would the repercussions be? Not that it matters, since they don’t exist. But Hadassah believes, and I have a feeling she’ll be willing to pay dearly for this information. It’s the precise sort of nefarious scheme she’s been desperate to uncover—the kind of revelation that’s worthy of drastic action.
If killing the Lady and Father were an acceptable way to end this war, Kartok would use his legions of magic-wielding soldiers to accomplish the task. But he’s skittering around this prison like a weaselly flea-bitten rat, which means he doesn’t have the empress’s blessing. If I wield this information correctly, I might be able to convince Hadassah to strike a bargain in exchange for my freedom.
I consider remaining sprawled on the floor in a hysterical, writhing heap so Hadassah is compelled to “help” me again when she comes. It clearly makes her feel useful and important. But I need the debt to fall in my favor this time, so I arrange myself in Kartok’s newly reconstructed chair—in the center of the throne room, atop spatters of gore and the splintered wreckage of the other chairs. It paints a striking scene—poetic, even. The chair and I were both obliterated and brought back together. Given new life through the generál’s unnatural magic.
“Merciful seas!” Hadassah cries as soon as she enters the room. “What happened now? Where did that chair come from?” She rushes to where I sit. I’d thought she might be squeamish, but she stares at the smears of blood and even drags a finger across a dried splotch on my arm.
“The generál and I had a most enlightening discussion,” I say.
Hadassah’s eyes widen. “About what?”
“I know what he intends to do.”
“What?” She waits expectantly, and I laugh.
“Knowledge is power. Knowledge is currency. And this information came at a high price. I won’t breathe a word of what I know unless you prove it will be worth my while.”
A dark cloud passes over her glacial blue eyes. “You know I can’t free you.”
“So don’t free me. Accidentally leave a door or two unlocked. Ensure the halls are clear for a moment. It could be an honest mistake.”
“An honest mistake that would ruin me! It would invalidate the trust and approval I’m trying to gain by exposing Kartok in the first place.”
“Why are you so concerned with trust and approval? You’re a servant!”
“Wrong!” The sliding door slams open, and Kartok blazes into the chamber, faster than the starfire Enebish threw at my chest. He seizes Hadassah’s upper arm and shakes her violently while he shouts in Zemyan.
I have a sudden, inexplicable urge to throw myself between them. Except that would be ridiculous. I owe Hadassah nothing.
“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t catch you? Or see through this pitiful disguise?” Kartok shakes Hadassah harder and skin sags from her arms like melting cream. Her cheeks slough off in a long, thin coil that resembles the skin of a snake. I watch in horror as piece after piece of her pools into a clump on the floor until a young man stands in Hadassah’s place. And not just any young man.
The Zemyan prince, Ivandar.
Nausea grips my throat. I gasp, then immediately hate myself for betraying how well the prince’s deception worked. How stupid and gullible I am.
Fury rages through me, hotter than an entire cask of hot-spring water.
It’s all so glaringly obvious now: why Hadassah smelled of expensive perfume and had the courage to speak so boldly. How she had the physical strength to drag me back from the tunnel, and why she was so obsessed with uncovering Kartok’s plans. A servant could never have a prayer of intervening, but a prince does.
And I helped him. I knew better than to let my guard down—I didn’t tell Hadassah much. But I wouldn’t have shared anything with the Zemyan heir—not even to save my own life.
I appraise Ivandar again—his gauzy shirt the color of the sea and his fine linen pants, his harshly chiseled features and his towering height. He is the opposite of Hadassah in every way, except for those clear, icy blue eyes, which are currently fixed on Kartok with loathing.
The only thing he and I have in common.
Ivandar wriggles free from Kartok’s grip and whirls on him. “I know you’ve been experimenting on the commander with hot-spring water. I know you’re trying to stop the First Gods from bestowing power on the Kalima warriors. Why?”
Kartok’s eyes cut to me for an instant. A flash of annoyance. But his voice remains even. He folds his arms and leans against the wall. “Why do you think? It will be much easier to win the war if we don’t have to contend with a snow squall or ice storm every time we face the Ashkarians in battle.”
“If that’s the case, why experiment down here in secret? Why not flaunt your ingenious plans before my mother and the people? The only logical answer is ambition. My throne will be easier to seize if you’re the hero who vanquished the Kalima. But it can’t look intentional.”
Kartok quietly clucks his tongue. “Oh, Your Highness, you’re so ignorant and oblivious. I couldn’t care less about sitting on any throne. My only goal is to serve and honor Zemya. It’s sad, really, that your insecurity has driven you to consort with prisoners. What would your mother say?”
“What would my mother say about all of this?” The prince gestures wildly around the replicated throne room.
They’re so caught up in their argument, they’ve completely forgotten me, huddled in my chair. I rise with excruciating slowness and creep toward the wall.
“The empress would say I’m doing my duty,” Kartok replies. “You are the only one with unfounded—”
“Why do you have that?” Ivandar points at the tattered book tucked under K
artok’s arm. While both of them scowl at it, I slink closer. Closer. Focused on the long, curved blade hanging from Kartok’s hip. “The Psalms of Zemya are never to leave the sanctuary!” Ivandar exclaims. “Never to be touched by anyone other than the current ruler. This is an act of treason!”
Ivandar lunges for the book, but Kartok easily whisks it out of reach. “The empress gave me permission. We’re so close to achieving—”
“My mother would never do such a thing,” Ivandar argues. But his voice has lost its hard edge of certainty. It’s thick and warbling with hurt. “If you’re following my mother’s orders with exactness, why not tell me your plans? Let me help. Prove that I can trust you.”
I hold my breath and shuffle the final few steps—stopping just behind Kartok. My hands tremble with anticipation. If escape is out of the question, I’m going to bring this vile palace crashing into the sea and take both of these idiots with me. I even have the means: Kartok’s dagger is forged of Zemyan steel. Imbued with his magic. If anything is strong enough to break the enchantment on these prison walls, it’s this weapon, born of the same creator.
I know I won’t survive the aftermath—if the enchanted steel doesn’t impale me, I’ll be swept into the raging sea and drowned. But the Zemyan heir and the empress’s foremost advisor won’t survive either, not even if they can swim, because I intend to freeze the water and entomb them beneath the surface. Thanks to Kartok’s strange healing magic, ice is once again crackling through my fingertips. Not much, but hopefully enough to perform this one, final act.
To claim this one, final victory.
Even if the Zemyan army continues to advance and take the continent, the destruction of these prominent men will be irrefutable evidence that I was the strongest Kalima warrior. Proof that my comrades were wrong to turn their backs on me. Even if Ashkar falls, everyone will tell stories of the last commander of the Kalima warriors, who killed two-thirds of Zemya’s rulers from within the dungeon.
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 19
