Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology)

by Addie Thorley

  It seems the shepherds had the same misguided hopes. Their eyes grow rounder than shields as we pass through the wreckage. Iree’s youngest daughter, who can’t be more than five, reaches for her father’s hand. “It’s worse than the grazing lands,” she whispers.

  He nods solemnly and pulls her closer.

  The riverside city is even bleaker than it was five years ago, directly following the Battle of a Hundred Nights, when Ashkar finally brought Chotgor into the Protected Territories. Unlike Namaag, I was present for this siege. I helped topple the quaint snow houses stippling the outskirts of the city. I aided Tuva, lending what I could of my novice Night Spinning, to help her drench the sky with a blackness so oppressive, all vestiges of everyday life ceased.

  It was always under the assumption—nay, promise—that it would all be restored to even greater glory than before. That was the entire purpose of forming the Protected Territories—to offer these struggling people a better way of life. Yet here we are, half a decade later, and the charming little pubs and fisheries are still boarded up. Not a single ice barge floats in the frozen river, and the once great Castle of the Clans, which burst from the earth like fountains of cascading ice, lies in shattered ruin across the square. Above it all, a thick layer of charcoal smoke presses down like rain clouds.

  It looks like chimney smoke, but every hearth in the city couldn’t produce billows so thick.

  “Bleeding skies. I don’t have the strength for this,” Serik mutters as we pick our way through debris. “This is hardly better than the grasslands!” He waves at the ice-crusted buildings surrounding us and the leagues and leagues of windswept snow behind us. He’s spent every waking hour either clearing a pathway through the snow or hunkered beside a sputtering fire, collecting the wavering bands of heat and redistributing them over the caravan. His face is so gaunt and his skin so sallow, it takes on a greenish pallor against the starkness of his freckles.

  “Where is everyone?” a shepherd boy asks, his voice echoing like a cannon down the empty street.

  Not a single soul has peeked their head into the cold to investigate our passing. They wouldn’t be able to see us, of course, not through the cloak of darkness Ziva and I have stretched over the group, but surely a few people should be bustling down the road on errands.

  “They’re mining the ice fields. Just as I told you,” Temujin says, shooting me a frigid look.

  “Do you expect me to congratulate you for telling the truth this once?”

  “It looks like a graveyard,” Lalyne says solemnly.

  “That’s because it is a graveyard,” Temujin interjects again before I can respond. “The imperial troops blew through these streets like a snow squall, destroying everything in their path.”

  He isn’t wrong, but at the time it felt justified. Provoked, even. The Sky King had attempted to treat with the leaders of each clan several times to draft an alliance agreement, but not only did the Chotgori spit on his offer, they organized against us, attacking our encampment on the steppes in the middle of the night, armed with fishing spears and clubs, looking for all the world like snarling bears in their grizzled furs. The Chotgori clanspeople were more ferocious warriors than the citizens of Namaag and Verdenet combined—that’s how we lost Tuva, and so many others. We had to respond.

  Or so I thought.

  We had no right to ride into their city and expect them to thank us for offering “protection” in the form of chains. We had no right to assume the Ashkarian way of life was superior or would suit them better than their own traditions and beliefs.

  We lumber past the obliterated palace, which is where we spot the first of the imperial guards. The majority of the shepherds remain hidden in the debris, while a group of us sneak closer, pressed along the walls beneath a blanket of darkness.

  There are several dozen soldiers milling between the outbuildings at the rear of the royal estate—an entire little city of barns and barracks and guesthouses that avoided destruction during the siege. Except now I’m not ignorant enough to believe their “survival” was coincidental.

  The Sky King had this planned all along.

  “Do you think they know about the Sky King? And Sagaan?” Serik asks.

  I watch them, smoking their lichen pipes and drinking their steaming ale. They certainly don’t look like warriors who’ve recently learned of the fall of their empire. But they could be keeping up pretenses to fool the Chotgori, until instructions and reinforcements arrive.

  Beyond the outbuildings, heaps of dark earth, taller than any building in Sagaan—including the Sky Palace—pepper the snowy expanse. At the base of every mound, a gorge is cut into the earth, wide and deep enough to hold an entire battalion of warriors. Never-ending lines of Chotgori workers file in and out of the pits, some pulling carts loaded with rubble. Others stoop beneath the weight of enormous boulders, which they unload into a massive circular furnace—the source of the oppressive black smoke. The Chotgori workers are so caked with dirt and soot, their vibrant red-and-gold hair is the color of clay and dried mud. Their skin is almost as dark as mine and Temujin’s, when they’re naturally almost as pale as the Zemyans.

  A host of imperial guards hang over the railings and patrol the rims of the mines. Their numbers may be fewer than ours, but they are trained and well-fed and haven’t been traipsing through the bitter cold for weeks.

  “How do we even begin to stop this?” Bultum asks when we rejoin the group and describe the conditions. “We’ll never be able to contend with that many imperial warriors.”

  “Which is why you need the help of the Shoniin and Zemyans,” Temujin declares, earning him a swat across the head from Serik.

  “If your ‘allies’ are so honorable and dependable, why haven’t they come for you?” Serik asks.

  “I’m certain they’ve sent search parties,” Temujin fires back, but the defensiveness in his voice hardly suggests certainty. “They’re coming.”

  Serik laughs. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, deserter. As for a way to take out the guards … that furnace is all the ammunition we need. We escort the workers from the mines under the cover of darkness, as Enebish did at the war front, then lure the guards close to the refinery and I’ll blow it to pieces. Boom! Laborers freed, adversaries vanquished, mines collapsed, all in one explosion.”

  I slap my palm to my forehead. “Why do your plans always involve blowing things up?”

  “Because it’s effective,” Serik proclaims. “And because I’m a Sun Stoker. It all makes so much sense now.”

  I roll my eyes and give him a tender, but firm, shove. “The guards will notice if there’s suddenly only a trickle of prisoners carting rocks back and forth. We’ll be much better off entering the mines beneath the cover of darkness and rallying the laborers to rise against the imperial warriors with us, as planned.”

  The group is quiet, fidgeting. Most of them won’t even look at me, and the few who do are shaking their heads.

  “I know it seems more daunting now that we’re here, but with the Chotgori workers, we’ll outnumber the imperial warriors at least three to one. And they’re already armed with shovels and picks.”

  “If it were only about numbers, the Chotgori would have risen against the imperial warriors long ago,” Iree exclaims.

  “Maybe not.” I force my voice to stay strong with conviction. “Maybe they haven’t attempted to rebel because they feared they would just be recaptured and punished if they tried. But once they learn the empire has fallen, once they see all of us—”

  “They’ll know there’s no hope!” Azamat calls, which earns several hysterical laughs and a death glare from me.

  “Once they see all of us,” I repeat, “they’ll have no reason not to rise. It’s the best opportunity they could hope for.”

  I twist my tunic through my fingers and hold my breath, waiting for at least one person to nod with reluctant agreement. To be the pebble that starts the ripple through the pond.

  But it’s E
mani who eventually speaks. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?” she wails.

  And the group devolves into chaos.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  GHOA

  FIVE EXHAUSTING DAYS LATER WE FINALLY CROSS FROM Zemya into Ashkar.

  There’s no jarring shift in the landscape to delineate one country from the other. In fact, the transition between the rocky, weed-littered fields to the lush, sprawling grasslands is almost seamless. As if the earth is somehow blissfully unaware of the chasm that exists between our people—the centuries of endless war. There aren’t even any sentries patrolling the border, since there’s no border to speak of. Not with the Zemyans occupying Sagaan and a good majority of our cities.

  But I sense the change immediately—the welcoming tug of my country. My boots sink deeper into the dark soil. My spine straightens, lengthening toward the infinite sky. And the icy core in my chest, which has been steadily hardening since my escape, crackles with recognition.

  I glance over at Ivandar, curious to see if he felt the shift. If his love for his country runs as deeply as mine.

  But of course it doesn’t.

  He’s plodding along, more concerned with rubbing his shivering arms and moaning through his chattering teeth than noticing the terrain—and it isn’t even cold enough to snow yet! I smirk and shake my head. It would be impossible for him to possess the same level of devotion when the foundations of Zemya are so inherently flawed. Yet a small, bewildering droplet of unease trickles down my neck because I can’t deny the quiet moments of humanity I saw in Torinth. Or how Ivandar’s healing ministrations eased the effects of the hot-spring water. Or the Zemyan prisoner who comforted the young Ashkarian warrior with her illusions.

  Their magic is vile. I know this. But what I know and what I’ve seen aren’t adding up. I can’t reconcile the Zemyans I’ve battled for the past twelve years with the Zemyans I’ve seen these past twelve days.

  I stop abruptly, refusing to carry even an inkling of doubt into my country. “If Ashkar attacked first and your people were only acting in self-defense, as you claim, why did they continue to attack Ashkar after the initial battle?”

  Ivandar trips and blinks at me with his pale demon eyes. The only facet of his appearance he didn’t change with his messenger-boy disguise. “What are you talking about?”

  “For centuries, the Zemyans have been crossing our border and sacking our villages. How could you possibly condone those actions?”

  The prince continues gaping as if I’ve sprouted a second head. Finally he says, “We had to defend ourselves. Ashkar was always hammering at our border, and when that didn’t work, you swept into Namaag then Verdenet and Chotgor, forcing them to align with you.”

  “We didn’t force anyone into an alliance! The induction of every Protected Territory into the Unified Empire was voluntary. We needed soldiers and resources, and they needed aid and protection—from you. It’s an equal partnership.”

  “Is an alliance voluntary if one party is so desperate for relief they can’t refuse ‘aid,’ no matter the terms? Zemya had to make a stand or we knew we’d be next. We had to choose to be the hunter or the hunted. And, yes, there was spite and animosity, too,” he adds. “How could there not be when the Lady and Father cast Zemya from Their presence, refused to acknowledge Her innovative magic, then tried to squash Her and Her power altogether?”

  “None of that is true!” I insist.

  “It doesn’t matter which version of history is true!” Ivandar shouts over me. “That’s the entire point. All of this fighting is needless. And while we’re locked in this endless conflict, Kartok’s waging a completely different kind of war.”

  I have nothing to say to that. Whatever Kartok’s up to—whether he’s laying siege to the heavens, stripping the Kalima of our powers, or something else entirely—none of it results in my glory and reinstatement.

  I stare at the prince and force a small nod.

  He dramatically brings a hand to his chest. “Have we finally found something we agree on?”

  “I don’t agree with you,” I retort. “But I don’t entirely disagree, either.”

  “You realize that makes no sense?”

  “It doesn’t have to. And since we’re back in my country, we play by my rules. Please remove this horrid Zemyan skin suit at once.”

  “Only because you said please,” Ivandar taunts as he passes his hand over me from top to bottom. The warmth of his skin raises goose bumps down my arms and legs. Or perhaps the involuntary shudders are from the chunks of ghost-white flesh dripping down my limbs. “Though, I still say the Zemyan form suits you …” he says with a peevish grin.

  “Do you know what suits you? My fist. In your face.” With a flutter of my fingers, I chisel a small clenched fist out of ice and send it flying at his nose. It’s the largest weapon I’ve been able to conjure since I drained my power in the sea, and I smile proudly as it flies toward the slack-jawed prince, who, unfortunately, ducks at the last moment.

  “Merciful seas, Ghoa! It was a joke!” he sputters. “You could have taken off my head.”

  Now I’m the one sputtering. Not because I’m worried for his fool head but because he called me by name. The sound of it crashes against my temple like the hilt of a sword. Swift and jarring.

  “This is no time for jokes,” I finally manage to bark. “And don’t address me so lightly.”

  “Really?” He stomps closer as his own Zemyan disguise melts away. “We’ve been traveling together for nearly two weeks. Don’t you think we’ve reached a certain level of familiarity?” He slashes his hands downward with quick, broad strokes, painting his skin the color of linen and his hair and eyes a deep, syrupy brown. Seeing him like that—looking like me and my people—is even more unnerving than his natural form.

  “No,” I say without further explanation. “And under no circumstances are you permitted to do more of that”—I wave an agitated hand at his unfamiliar features—“without my express consent.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything without your consent.” He stalks past me, even though he doesn’t have the slightest idea where he’s going. “I’m guessing you don’t know where the Kalima will be, since Kartok wasn’t able to torture it out of you? And because they clearly want nothing to do with you,” he adds.

  “You guessed wrong.” I surge forward, matching him stride for stride.

  “Why would they go anywhere you could find them?”

  “Because they’d never expect me to escape from my Zemyan captors—which is their second biggest mistake.”

  He rolls his eyes. “So where will they be?”

  “Sequestered at our rendezvous point, trying to regroup and form a plan of attack.”

  “Where is the rendezvous point?”

  I laugh in the prince’s face. No one beyond the Sky King and his most trusted warriors know about the ice caves hidden beneath the plains just north of Chotgor. I’m not about to tell the Zemyan heir, traveling companion or not.

  “You’re really not going to tell me?” He sounds as if I owe him this. As if we’re truly partners on this quest. “You do realize you’re taking me there?”

  “Precisely. You’ll find out soon enough. All you need to know is that you’d freeze to death if you tried to get there without my assistance. So don’t get any ideas.”

  “Of course it’s somewhere colder,” Ivandar grumbles, hugging himself.

  “The coldest,” I affirm with a devilish grin, eager to finally seize the upper hand.

  It takes us three days to reach the old pelt smugglers’ tunnels that run between Sagaan and Chotgor. The underground highway shaves weeks off the journey. Which means even if Kartok somehow learned of the Kalima’s hideout, it would take him twice as long to reach the caves. Giving me time to prepare the Kalima to meet him.

  Just before we reach the outskirts of Sagaan, I lead Ivandar down a hidden pathway that branches off the main trail, and use my power to heave an enormous boulder of ice
aside.

  “We’re going underground?” Ivandar balks at the top of the wet stone staircase, squinting down into the frigid dark.

  “Is that a problem?” I ask sweetly. “It’s sheltered from the wind and snow. You should be thanking me.”

  “Do you feel that draft? It’s colder and damper than a grave!” His teeth chatter harder and he hunches his shoulders.

  “Zemyans are truly the least resilient people on the planet. We should have defeated you centuries ago,” I say as I trot down the stairs.

  Ivandar curses and follows me into the tunnel, which I’ll admit, feels almost chilly and looks like a rodent’s burrow—a long, squat shaft completely devoid of light, save a torch at the base of the stairs. I light it and venture into the murk. Ivandar follows, already complaining about the wet and dark, disparaging Ashkar for its differences from Zemya, even though he doesn’t have the context to appreciate those differences.

  It’s precisely what you did when you arrived in Zemya….

  I smash the irritating thought beneath my boot like I do the worms slithering through the mud. Zemya is a barren wasteland. Ashkar, however, is a beautiful, discerning mistress—kind only to those who are strong enough to endure her perils. A trial of worthiness, of sorts.

  And the Zemyan prince is far from worthy.

  Whenever we stop to rest, he shivers and whimpers pathetically—even in his sleep. Making it impossible for me to sleep. But no matter how many times I tell him he’s welcome to return to the warmth of Zemya—which is a bald-faced lie—he bravely soldiers on. Forcing me to acknowledge the risks he’s taking and the sacrifices he’s making. All in the name of his country and goddess.

  After four long nights I can’t stand the sound of his sniveling for another second. I glance over at him, curled up like a dead roach. I could leave him. Leave all of this behind. Forget the Kalima and start anew.

  Listen to yourself! The internal reprimand feels like a slap to the face—one I probably deserve. But still, my cheek burns so acutely, my fingers peruse it for damage.