“You’re here! Thank the Goddess,” Temujin mewls from where he lies, tied up like a hog at the back of the cavern. Abandoned by the shepherds who fled. “Release me and I’ll help you take them down.”
Kartok doesn’t even look in the deserter’s direction. “I have all the help I need.” The sorcerer snaps his fingers and hundreds of replicas appear all around him, as if he’s being reflected by dozens of mirrors. We’re completely surrounded by the generál supreme.
Another horde of our reinforcements flee, leaving only Enebish, Serik, Ivandar, Ziva, the kings, and a handful of shepherds and Namagaan warriors.
“We are allies!” Temujin bellows. “Equal partners! Release me so I can help you!”
Kartok shoots the deserter a pitying look.
The Kalima clamber to their feet, back into a circle, and raise their hands. Prepared to fight the Zemyans to the death, which will be swift and pitiful in their current state.
“Stand aside!” I run at the original visage of Kartok. If I were going to lie down and die, I would have done it when I first arrived in Zemya—before I endured Kartok’s torture and traipsed across the continent with my enemies. Before my mind became contaminated with these seeds of sympathy that rooted in my heart and grew into suffocating weeds.
The Kalima dive out of my way, covering their heads as I slam my frost-covered fist into the wall. Ice chips spray my face, and my knuckles carve out a cannonball-sized gouge. But there’s no man inside the ice. With a roar of outrage, I lash out at the wall to my left. Then my right. Swinging with wild, reckless hatred at the illusions. One of them is real.
“Stop, Ghoa.” Ivandar catches my arm and holds me against his chest. “This is what Kartok wants. Stay calm.”
How can I stay calm when he’s surrounding us? When he’s making these horrendous claims about me?
“There’s no bond between us! I would never allow it!” I yell at the sorcerer. My hair is so stiff with frost, the chin-length strands slice my cheeks. Red blood spatters the immaculate ice as I thrash against Ivandar’s hold.
“I’m afraid you didn’t have much say in the matter,” the battalion of Kartoks reply, calm as ever as they prowl behind the frozen walls. Just out of reach. I have never despised Zemyan magic more. “You wouldn’t have survived without my healing ministrations….”
“What are you talking about?” I start to spit, but then my hands leap to my throat, feeling for the invisible scar. I think of what Enebish told me about Orbai. How Kartok healed her and, by so doing, turned her allegiance. Stole her agency. “You inflicted this wound. I’d hardly consider that healing.”
“What wound?” Ivandar interjects.
Kartok shrugs lazily. “The magic doesn’t know or care how the wound was made. It knows only that healing demands a price. And I’ve come to collect.”
“What is he talking about, Ghoa?” Ivandar’s voice rises.
“He slit my throat in his prison, then healed me with Loridium,” I grind out.
Behind me, Enebish and Serik gasp.
Ivandar slams his palm against the cavern wall. “What in the merciful seas is this magical elixir and where did it come from?”
“You didn’t think it was important to tell us that Kartok had infiltrated your mind?” Serik yells at me.
“I didn’t know!” I shout. “And it doesn’t matter because he isn’t in my mind!”
The hiss of Kartok’s voice tiptoes across my shoulders. “Tell me, Commander, have your thoughts been a bit fuzzy lately? Snowy around the edges? Consumed by flashes of white?”
“No,” I lie—too slow.
Kartok chuckles. “I never dreamed when I siphoned your power that the bond between us would be so strong. Imagine my surprise when I discovered, not only could I whisper instructions into your mind, I could freeze your thoughts if you seemed resistant. Such a useful little trick.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say, even as I think of the constant headaches, those strange flares of whiteness, and the sudden forcefulness of my thoughts. I clutch my head and frantically sift through every impression and prompting I’ve had since leaving Zemya—every example of “goodness” Ivandar insisted on pointing out. This strange inward transformation I’ve been undergoing. Was none of that me? “I would know if my thoughts weren’t my own,” I insist, but it sounds as if I’m trying to convince myself.
“That’s the ingenuity of it all.” Kartok claps. “They are your thoughts. Loridium bends your very will to mine. Until we are one and the same. Isn’t that right, Temujin?”
The deserter’s head jerks awkwardly, as if he’s being forced to nod. I feel Kartok’s fingers pinch my cheeks too, just like the times he held my tongue. Attempting to move my head in the same manner.
I dig my nails into my scalp and drag them down my face, carving fiery lines through my skin. Desperate to extract Kartok like a parasite.
I think of the moment right before I drove his blade into the prison wall. How he hesitated. He could have stopped me from smashing the glass, but he didn’t. The enchanted steel didn’t turn against me as it should have. I’d told myself he’d been too stunned by my attack to react, that I’d been lucky with the blade.
But there’s no such thing as luck.
Kartok knew exactly what I was doing.
A shiver overtakes me. Cold like I’ve never felt. “You wanted me to escape.”
Kartok’s snake lips curl into a grin. “You clearly weren’t going to cooperate—though Goddess only knows why you’d protect these traitors.” He waves dismissively at the Kalima. “Thankfully, you’re just like me. So I stopped wasting my time with questions. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist punishing your warriors and reclaiming your position once you were free. And look, here we are. I should also thank you for getting the prince out of my way. It’s been so blessedly quiet without his meddling. Though, all of this inner turmoil and angst over what you believe is getting rather tiresome.”
He rubs his temples and my entire body shivers with rage.
Ivandar explodes before I can. “This is how you healed my mother from the sweating sickness!” he cries. “How you always seem to have her ear. Why she continually chooses you over me.”
“Or maybe I’m simply more competent,” Kartok jeers. “You’re a pathetic child, searching for reasons to justify your parent’s neglect, while I am a generál—a true patriot—putting an end to this war and glorifying Zemya.”
Every incarnation of the sorcerer raises his hands, presses his spider-leg fingers against the ice, and steps into being as the walls shatter and crumble.
In an instant the cave fills with thousands of Kartoks. All of them rushing toward us.
My mind screams orders, but I can’t move because I don’t know what’s real—if Kartok truly shattered the walls and the ice cave is collapsing on top of us. Or if he was never waiting in the ice at all and this is an elaborate illusion. Are his replicas actually Zemyan soldiers? Or is he working alone but wants to create the appearance of support?
“Blazing skies!” Heat explodes from Serik’s hands in a long spiraling tube. If the ice wasn’t already collapsing, it is now. He slashes his fiery lance from side to side, slicing a barrage of advancing Kartoks straight through the middle.
None of them scream. None of them fall.
One by one, the other Kalima warriors follow Serik’s lead. Weroneka adds her heat to Serik’s. Cirina’s wind tears at the multitude of blue robes. The Snow Conjurers attempt to bury the Kartoks beneath an avalanche. Tanaz, our Hail Forger, summons sheets of stinging rain, and Enebish and Ziva toss a netting of darkness over us.
But I stand there, frozen.
The cold is ready—screaming and thrashing inside me. I can hardly see through the frost encasing my eyelashes. I can hardly move beneath the ice glazing my skin and hardening my muscles. My hands shake in front of me, poised to unleash the ice. Yet nothing comes. And I don’t know if it’s because I can’t use my power or because I won’t. If Kart
ok is bending my will and suppressing my ice or if I am the one holding back.
The ring of steel and painful cries of battle sound real, but no one from either side has fallen. The imitation Kartoks swing their sabers at our arms and legs, never aiming to kill. The powers of the sky rage and swirl around us—the most violent storm I’ve ever seen—but none of the Kalima’s strikes hit their target. Which is too improbable to be a coincidence. Kartok’s soldiers are either an illusion, or the Kalima’s powers are vanishing before they make contact—just like my ice did in Kartok’s prison. When he was siphoning my power. Not to use against me, but for some other purpose.
Tell me, Commander, how many disparate powers do the Kalima warriors possess?
How are they distributed?
Where will they be hidden?
His questions fire at me in quick succession, and I suddenly can’t breathe—my chest is too riddled with wounds from spear tips and daggers I failed to see coming, despite Kartok hurling them at me, plain as day.
He doesn’t need to kill my warriors or eradicate our powers to reach the First Gods.
He needs to collect our powers.
Your warriors are the link!
“Stop!” I scream. “Stop using your powers!”
The glares the Kalima throw at me are more blistering than Serik and Weroneka’s combined heat.
“Why in the skies would we do that?” Serik snaps as he forges yet another flaming saber, just to spite me.
“He’s using us! We’re giving him exactly what he wants!”
“Why would he want us to attack him?” Karwani demands.
“Because he needs our powers!” I’m speaking so fast, the words tumble and trip from my lips. “It’s the reason he tracked me here! He needs the full strength of the sky to access the realm of the gods.”
Cirina laughs. “What gods?”
“Why would we believe you?”
“You’re bound to him!”
“He’s probably whispering these lies into your ear!”
I can’t tell who’s yelling anymore. There are too many voices pelting me, silencing me. The only person who isn’t screaming is Enebish.
She’s fallen perfectly still and watches, horror stricken, as wind and lightning and snow and fog crash and swirl around the brigade of sorcerers, never inflicting a scratch. She looks down at her hands, then at me, and flings off the cover of darkness. The little Night Spinner, Ziva, tries to protest, but Enebish easily wrestles the invisible threads from the girl’s hands—as strong and determined as I’ve ever seen her.
“It’s true!” Enebish’s gaze darts from one Kalima warrior to the next, taking inventory.
“What?” Serik cries.
“He siphoned my darkness in his xanav!” Enebish yells, as if that should explain everything.
But the Zemyan term means nothing to the Kalima.
And Enebish’s word means even less than mine.
We are the last two people on the continent they would listen to.
“We’ll finish this the way we were born to!” Cirina yells, and the wind picks up, slashing my face and stinging my eyes. Bitter cold and burning heat fill the cave in equal measure as the other Ice Heralds and Sun Stokers redouble their efforts. One by one, my former warriors unleash the full fury of the sky on Kartok.
Varren, the sole surviving Rain Maker, is the only one not fighting. And not out of loyalty to me, but because he’s sprawled out on the ground, overcome with pain. His eyes are closed, his teeth are clenched, yet still he tries to raise his hand.
“Please don’t summon the rain, Varren,” I beg as I slip across the ice. “I’m telling the truth. Look! Our powers have no effect on the sorcerer!”
Varren’s eyes slit a fraction. “Ghoa?” He coughs.
“Listen to me—” I start, but he shakes his head, the bulging cords in his neck distorting his tattoos.
“No. You listen to me for once.”
“I know I should have shown you more gratitude and appreciation—”
“I chose you again and again and again,” he rasps over me. “I set aside my own ambitions because I thought eventually you’d repay the favor. Raise me up the way I raised you. But you never let me be anything but second.”
“I should have! I will! I’m just begging you to listen to me this final time.”
Varren stares at me, and I stare back. Pleading. Hoping.
“Do you remember when Lazare and Feymir said we’d never last a year in the Kalima?” I blurt. “How we coordinated our revenge without even meaning to? You summoned that mist of rain and I froze it across the pavement, and those pompous idiots slipped and tripped all the way across the Grand Courtyard.”
A hint of a wistful smile tugs Varren’s cheek.
“I almost wish they were still alive so they could see us now. So they could see everything we’ve accomplished together. Everyone knows I’d be nothing without you. But I’ll proclaim it. I’ll scream it from the top of the Sky Palace, if you’d like. I need you, Varren, and more important, Ashkar needs you—needs us.”
He hesitates so long, I think he’s going to relent. Then a flash of silver-white hair and cobalt robes breaks rank from the throng of identical sorcerers and charges at the Kalima.
Cirina screams as Kartok wrestles her to the ground.
The true Kartok.
Purposely revealing his location to force the Kalima’s hand.
“Fall back!” I cry.
But every member of the Kalima has already redirected their fury onto him. Including Varren, who raises a shaky hand and adds his rain to Kartok’s collection.
The result is instantaneous.
Cerulean light explodes from where Kartok lies—brighter than the reflection of sunlight on snow. More excruciating than the frost Kartok seared through my mind. It leaves me momentarily sightless, suspended, screaming as the walls of ice shatter and the cave collapses around us. Or maybe it’s the sky itself that’s breaking—slashing down like vicious shards of glass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ENEBISH
THERE IS NO SHIMMERING GATEWAY. NO FLASHY RIVER OF fire that carries us up into the realm of the Eternal Blue, as there was during Temujin’s absurd ritual to enter Kartok’s xanav.
I should have known the true pathway would be quieter than that.
Everything about the Lady and Father is softness, calmness, stillness. Even now, when Kartok has deceitfully forged a key using our siphoned Kalima powers, They welcome us into Their realm with grace.
A halo of brilliant blue replaces the ceiling of the ice cave, and the face of a man appears as if looking through a window. He’s both old and young, both handsome and plain. I have never seen Him before, yet I know Him intimately. From the lines on His face to the rings adorning His fingers, each one stamped with a sigil of the Kalima warriors.
It is Ashkar, the father of our nations and guardian of the realm of the Eternal Blue, according to the mural Ziva saw at Sawtooth Mesa.
One by one, the sigils on His rings glow and, with a nod, a chasm opens behind Him. It’s blacker than a moonless night—not even I can see through the murk—but I swear I feel hands on my shoulders and fingers interlocking with mine, guiding me, pulling me, urging me forward until we erupt into sunlight and collapse into grass that’s softer than Orbai’s down feathers.
That’s one element Temujin and Kartok got right in their fraudulent world of Zemyan magic: the grass—luscious and long and green. And the sky, too. It’s a rich, saturated blue of every shade and gradient. From darkest midnight to the palest smudge of ice. But that’s where the similarities between the two worlds end. The terrain in the true Eternal Blue doesn’t resemble Ashkar or Sagaan in the slightest. Instead of leagues and leagues of endless grass and a river that looks like the Amereti, we’re situated in an expansive walled garden with bushes bearing gemstones rather than fruit—emerald leaves and ruby berries with creamy pearl seedpods. Pathways of gold dust meander through the garden, and trees m
ade of bright orange coral drip garlands of diamonds. The air is damp and dewy and smells like the cardamom incense my mother used to burn in our hut.
I squint toward the center of the garden, where the pathways intersect. The greenery is too dense to see it, but according to every Verdenese prayer and song, the original Book of Whisperings, where the Lady and Father inscribe Their answers, should rest atop a grand pedestal.
Surrounding the garden are seven towering mountains, as desolate and craggy as the garden is lush and beautiful—almost as if representing Zemya and Ashkar, respectively. The summit of each mountain gleams with a brightness beyond the glory of the sun. When the legends spoke of journeying through the seven levels of heaven to reach the Lady and Father’s presence, it never occurred to me it would be an actual journey. A climb to salvation.
I could marvel over every tiny detail of this realm, cataloging all the ways it’s superior to the xanav. I don’t know how I ever believed Kartok’s cheap illusions could be the home of the First Gods. And these physical disparities aren’t even what truly matters. The true difference is the feeling this place invokes. While the xanav teemed with frantic, ravenous energy, extracting every speck of vitality, the Eternal Blue gives. It pours strength into your soul like sweet honey wine and warms your belly like winterberry pies fresh from the oven. Filling you to bursting.
The sensation is so overpowering, everyone is momentarily awestruck, including Kartok, who lies on his back, taking in this realm with the giddy, wide-eyed excitement of a child. Scattered around him, a handful of Shoniin and Zemyan warriors—who are, in fact, real—mutter curses and shake their heads. Not half as pleased as their generál. Maybe even perturbed. As if they were just as clueless about his true ambitions.
The Kalima warriors stumble into formation to confront the Zemyans, but their faces are drawn, their eyes frightened, and they don’t unleash the power of the sky on Kartok and his warriors. It could be because Kartok used their powers to open the gateway—what’s stopping him from using them again? Or their fear could run even deeper than that. If the realm of the Eternal Blue exists, it means the First Gods are alive and well. And if They have always been present, it means Kalima warriors are not gods and never have been. Our Kalima powers may not even work here—why would they? The Lady and Father can wield the sky Themselves in this realm.
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 31
