“I assumed they were the Goddess-touched—the select few who have proven themselves worthy to enter the realm of the Eternal Blue—and I was furious at the Lady and Father for leading me to something so unhelpful. But now I know what I am and what those symbols of the sky mean. The Lady of the Sky didn’t deliver us from Sawtooth Mesa then because She knew you would find me. She knew you would help me save my father and bring me to this point.” Ziva links her arm through mine, and an overwhelming flood of peace courses through me. A feeling I’ve only ever experienced while writing in my Book of Whisperings. Quiet confidence. Complete stillness. “The Lady gave me the key and the answers that would deliver us all—Herself included.”
Silence fills the room. There isn’t a word, not in Verdenese or Ashkarian, that’s weighty enough to describe the tightness in my throat or the lightness in my chest. The tremendous surge of gratitude and love I feel toward the Lady and Father. For guiding our feet and placing us exactly where we needed to be to find each other. To help each other.
“I believe you,” I say, a sob more than words.
Ziva’s laughter is full of tears. She looks up and wraps her arms around me. We bump into the wall, my trembling body suddenly unable to support our weight. We laugh harder as we regain our balance.
I don’t know what the shepherds believe about the First Gods. They weren’t in the habit of discussing anything with me, and to claim any god other than the Sky King was heresy. So I never mentioned the Lady and Father, and our quest wasn’t about Them anyway. But the expressions on each of the shepherds’ faces makes their stance perfectly clear: Azamat’s mouth lolls open so wide, I can see the gray, rotting tooth at the back; Lalyne lowers slowly to the floor, her hands clutched to her chest; Iree and Bultum, on the other hand, cross their arms and shake their heads, becoming even more disgruntled when they look across the room and realize they’re in agreement with each other.
Serik is the only one whose expression is unreadable. He stops pacing, and his anger ebbs enough that sweat no longer pours down my cheeks, but his face is completely blank.
“Can you give us a moment?” I ask the others.
Ziva, Lalyne, and Azamat go without complaint. Bultum and Iree eventually leave, but only after insisting on further discussion. Finally it’s just me and Serik, staring at each other, and I can’t tell if we’re standing on the same side of a battlefield or the opposite.
Since he is apparently incapable of movement or speech, I cross the space and lean against the wall beside him. The room is tiny—it has to be, with the thick walls built to keep out the cold—and it smells faintly of salt and cedar. Trinkets sit neatly on the dresser—a silver spoon, a pot of powder, and a bone hair-comb—as if the owner had every intention of returning. “Say something,” I finally plead.
“What am I supposed to say to all of that?” Serik tosses his hands, then drags them through his hair. It reminds me so much of our days at Ikh Zuree, I can’t help but laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” he demands. “This isn’t funny. So many lives—”
“I’m not laughing at you, Serik. Not in the way you think, anyway. I just love you.”
“You love me? And this is the moment you decide to declare it? When my thoughts are scrambling around my head like whisked eggs, and I don’t know what in the skies is true?”
I grab his wrist before he can resume pacing, and tug him close. “This is true. Me and you. Let’s start with that.” I tap his nose gently.
“You really love me?” A wicked grin crinkles his freckled face.
“How many times are you going to make me say it before you say it back?”
“You know I love you! I’ve been telling you for years.”
“Not in those exact words.”
“Because words aren’t the only way. Nor are they necessarily the best way.”
“Agreed.” I twine our fingers together and fit my head beneath his chin. We sit in quiet for a long moment, feeling the drum of the other’s heart. “Why did Ziva’s story upset you so much?” I finally ask.
Serik plunks down on the bed and buries his hands in his hair. “It didn’t upset me. It’s just … a lot. A few months ago I was certain the First Gods despised me. Or had overlooked me,” he amends when I give him a stern look. “How am I supposed to accept that the Lady and Father orchestrated all of this? That They know where we’ll be and what we’ll need, when They couldn’t acknowledge me or what I needed for nineteen years?”
“Better late than never,” I say in an attempt to lighten the mood. “They act according to Their timing, not ours. Maybe you wouldn’t be as strong as you are now if you hadn’t endured those years at Ikh Zuree. It made you resilient. It taught you to question authority and never back down. Maybe you couldn’t be the warrior They needed until this moment.”
“Maybe,” he mumbles, “but why would the Lady and Father have our most hated enemies deliver this information about Kartok? Why force us to work with people who don’t even believe in Them? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe They’re ready to forgive Zemya? And maybe They’re telling us we need to do the same. That it’s time to mend these old, bitter grudges and finally move on. Ghoa fell to her knees when you attacked, Serik. I never thought I’d live to see the day—”
“It was a trick, En.”
I sigh and sit beside him on the bed. It’s stiffer than I expected, and a plume of rancid dust rises from the quilt. I wait until it settles before speaking. “We’ve both grown so much over the last few months…. Why not Ghoa? She was held prisoner in Zemya. There’s no telling how that changes a person.”
“Why not Ghoa? Are you serious?” Serik tilts his head back and groans. “She’s doing what she always does to you. Reeling you in with promises of love and acceptance and greatness only to use you as a stepping stone and cast you aside. Because of her, you’ve spent months mistrusting the people who actually care for you. And now, when you’re finally rebuilding that confidence, she immediately shows up to snatch it away again. And you’re ready to let her. Ghoa is toxic, En. She always has been and she always will be. She arrived with the Zemyan prince, for skies’ sake!”
“But I felt the rightness of Ziva’s story—which aligns with Ghoa’s claims about Kartok.”
“Are you sure it isn’t just your heart wishing for something that will never be?”
“Or is it your heart refusing to accept something that is?” I ask, glancing over at Serik. “We could pray to the Lady and Father and ask for confirmation….”
“Here? Right now?” Serik looks all around, as if an empty, quiet room isn’t the perfect place to pray.
“I can teach you how,” I offer, already sliding to the floor. “It’s simple. We don’t have prayer dolls, but you just kneel facing east and—”
“No, thanks.” Serik stands abruptly and moves toward the door.
“How do you still have doubts?” I accuse, unable to keep my voice from quavering. “Even now that you have a Kalima power? I thought …”
“Just because I don’t view the gods the same way you do doesn’t mean I don’t worship in my own way.”
“Of c-course not,” I stammer. Why didn’t that ever occur to me? Just because I don’t see him communing with the gods doesn’t mean he isn’t. “How do you view Them?”
He blows his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out. I know there’s something up there, something more powerful than us all. But I have a hard time believing They’re physical beings I can have a conversation with. Not when They ignored me for so long. It feels disingenuous that They suddenly ‘care’ when They need me. And I feel insincere, suddenly pouring out my heart to Them now that I have what I want.”
“So how do you worship?”
Serik’s cheeks redden and he can’t stop fiddling with his hands. “It’s still new…. I’m not even sure—”
“Please, Serik. I want to understand.”
He bites his lip. “I bur
n things.”
“Of course that would be spiritual for you.” I laugh and shake my head.
“Not like you’re thinking. I don’t blow things up. When I was frustrated during the early days of our trek from the winter grazing lands, I started burning notches in the side of a cart, to mark the days. But every time I cut a notch, I felt something—something I couldn’t describe. Not a voice talking to me. More like a weight being lifted. Like I put my fears and grievances into the fire, and they were scorched away.”
“That’s … beautiful, Serik. Will you show me?”
He starts to nod, but then hesitates, his expression almost shy. “It’s weird to know you’re just sitting there, watching me.”
“Let’s worship together, each in our own way.” I kneel, clasp my hands, and imagine the soft felt body of my prayer doll nestled between them. I press my forehead to the ground, and after a silent minute or two the smell of smoke fills my nose.
I peek. I can’t help myself.
Serik stands before the dresser, eyes closed, as he draws his finger along the top of the polished willow. The marks instantly blacken like a brand, and as the smoke hisses up, his body sways forward. Bending as he unburdens himself. When he straightens again, he stands a little taller than before.
I get so caught up in the rhythm, I lose track of the words whispering from my own lips. But there’s no denying we are two instruments playing in harmony, even more beautiful and complementary because of our differences.
When we finally finish and he helps me up, I don’t have to ask what his higher power told him. It’s burned across the surface of the dresser—the ten sigils of the Kalima that Ziva described. Symbols Serik couldn’t have known.
“Incredible.” I trail my fingers through the still-warm grooves.
Serik’s hand covers mine, tracing the image of the Sun Stoker with me. “We should let Ghoa and the prince warn the Kalima, but it’d be unwise to send them alone.”
I nod. “We could escort them to the rendezvous point, but we can’t just leave the Chotgori….” The words Ghoa screamed at the prince replay in my head: Who cares about the Chotgori when the gods themselves are in danger?
But she should care. We all should. The Kalima will be far more likely to heed our warning and consider an alliance if at least part of the Protected Territories are present and committed. Otherwise, we’ll look like exactly what we are—a band of homeless, wandering shepherds led by Enebish the Destroyer and two fledgling Kalima warriors.
Even if the Chotgori decide they want nothing to do with us, I can’t bring myself to leave them. Not after seeing them suffering in the mines. Not when we’re right here. And not when Ghoa could make freeing them so much easier. With her help, it won’t be nearly as dangerous.
Serik catches my eye, and the grin that lifts the corners of his lips confirms he’s thinking the same thing. “Ghoa can’t expect our help without offering something in return,” he says. “As Commander of the Kalima warriors, she should know all good treaties require compromise.”
CHARTER TWENTY-FIVE
GHOA
“YOU EXPECT ME TO DO WHAT?”
I laugh so hard, I inhale the spices strewn across the shelves of the otherwise empty pantry where they’ve “imprisoned” us. Pepper and cinnamon invade my nostrils, which is exactly as unpleasant as it sounds. Three violent sneezes grip me, and Enebish and Serik wait for me to stop heaving before they speak.
“Help us free the Chotgori laborers and we’ll allow you to continue on to the Kalima,” Serik says again, as if the problem is with my hearing.
“Oh, you’ll allow me to go, will you?” I say with a cutting laugh.
Ivandar repositions abruptly, slamming my side into the shelving. “It sounds like a reasonable request.”
“It’s not,” I snap. “We don’t have time, and those workers won’t help us protect the gods.”
“But they will!” Enebish delves into an impassioned speech, but I stop listening. The Chotgori won’t help me reclaim my position. They’ll be nothing but a nuisance. And I’m done doing favors. Ivandar’s list of my “noble” actions has been looping in my head for the better part of the day, cynical and taunting.
I stab my filthy nails into my thigh, my mind sharpening with the pain. “You realize I could leave this sorry prison anytime I want to?”
Enebish and Serik fold their arms and press their sides together in the doorway. As if that will stop me from barreling through them.
“If you could escape so easily, why haven’t you?” Enebish demands.
Because I want the glory of capturing all of you. Except that isn’t entirely true. When I first saw Enebish, I wasn’t thinking about capturing or annihilating anyone. There was only that voice deep inside me—that feeling—forcing me to my knees. Commanding me to stay my hand.
But I’m obviously not about to admit any of that.
“I exercised restraint for the greater good of Ashkar,” I say instead. “Our journey will be safer and faster under the cover of darkness.”
“You expect me to assist you freely after everything you’ve done?” Enebish slams her palm against the door frame.
Ivandar jumps. I don’t.
“Your gods are in danger, and you could save them,” I say, my voice as sweet as the honey crusted on the floor. “You’re the one who’ll have to live with the consequences if you choose not to help.”
“We’re not foolish enough to release you,” Serik cuts in. “So the only way you’re getting to the Kalima is if you cooperate. Help us free the Chotgori workers, and we’ll take you to the rendezvous point.”
“That’s exactly what I don’t need—a parade of rebels and shepherds and slaves announcing my arrival to the Kalima.” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Serik steps into the pantry, flooding the tiny space with his insufferable heat. “Why don’t you want the Kalima to know you’re coming?”
Bleeding skies.
“It has nothing to do with not wanting them to know I’m coming,” I lie, “and everything to do with counterattacking swiftly to have a prayer of reclaiming our land from the Zemyans. Which will be impossible with such a big unwieldy group. But you wouldn’t know that, since you’ve never had a mind for battle. You’re not a true Kalima warrior. Just a monk with powers you can’t control.”
Fire bursts to life in Serik’s palm and he slashes it past my face. “I’ll happily display my control anytime you wish.”
I will never, ever get used to that.
Ivandar elbows me as we lurch away from the flare of heat. “It’s our best option. And the Chotgori are your people too,” he tacks on. As if I need another reminder.
They’re as much my people as a stray cat that curls up under your porch is a pet. But I groan and nod. There’s no other way that doesn’t involve fighting my way out of this pantry killing hundreds of people. Which, to my embarrassment, I don’t have the stomach for. And maybe arriving with a large group will be of some benefit. It will at least look impressive—from afar.
“Fine. I’ll help you free the workers. Though, it will be an interesting battle if they are my ‘warriors.’ ” I fling a dismissive hand at the roomful of shepherds. “I’ll basically be fighting singlehandedly.”
“Which is why we have a different plan in mind,” Enebish says.
The next morning, I march down the streets of Arisilon City exactly as I did five years ago, clad in gleaming lamellar armor with a pair of twin blades strapped across my back. My objective is even the same: overthrow the current ruler and seize control of the people.
The only difference is the warriors behind me.
Instead of the Kalima, I’m flanked by a battalion of shepherds—though the imperial guards won’t know that thanks to Ivandar’s magic. Their rags have been transformed into perfectly pressed blue-and-gold uniforms. Their staffs and crooks look like sabers and spears. We march loudly down the street, as if we have nothing to fear and no one to answer to, and I send blas
ts of arctic air at the outbuildings and tents as we near the imperial encampment. So they know precisely who they’re dealing with.
I spot a cluster of imperial warriors leaning against a barn, puffing on long, curled pipes that emit purple smoke. They pass them back and forth, chatting and laughing, until I roll out a slab of chiseled ice that looks like the intricate floor runners in the Sky King’s throne room. When it bumps against their boots, they immediately fall silent.
Temujin isn’t the only one who knows how to make an entrance.
“So, this is what happens in my absence?” I frown at each of the five warriors. Then with a flick of my wrist, I shatter their pipes with cold. Soot covers their faces and two of them scream as plaster shreds their cheeks.
“Commander Ghoa!” several of them cry.
“We heard you were captured by the Zemyans,” another says, gaping as if I’m an apparition.
They scramble forward, then immediately shrink back.
Intimidated. Terrified.
I’ve always reveled in these moments, believed my fierceness was fueled by their panic and fear. But something changed in Kartok’s prison. Maybe it was seeing so much of myself in the sorcerer. Realizing his mocking and threatening didn’t make me respect him at all. I am fierce in my own right—I shattered the walls of that prison. No one else’s perception of me gave me that strength.
“Well, you obviously heard wrong,” I say, holding out my arms and gesturing to myself.
“What happened in Sagaan? Where are the rest of the Kalima? What’s happening at the war front?” Their questions pelt me like hail. Their lack of information almost makes me feel sorry for them—so secluded up here on the steppes, cut off from the rest of the continent—but I lacquer my voice with ice and peer at them with unbridled disgust.
“Why would I share any information with lazy magic-barren warriors?” The jibe comes easily, naturally, only now I feel it leave my tongue—or rather, the grittiness it leaves behind in my mouth.
They all look down and curl into themselves. “You’re right. You owe us nothing.”
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 27
