Off to my right, King Ihsan cries softly. Beside him, King Minoak sings a Verdenese hymn of praise, his arm wrapped tight around Ziva. Ghoa, on my other side, methodically scans the space, eyes shifting from landmark to landmark, not admiring or appreciating, but plotting. Creating a battle plan and mapping her escape route.
Serik scrubs his hand over his hair and murmurs, “Burning skies, it’s real.”
At the exact same moment, the Zemyan prince mutters, “Merciful seas, it’s real.”
They look at each other askance. Their words may reflect their opposite heritage, but the reaction itself, and the emotions behind it, are the same. I’m sure there’s an allegory in there somewhere about how our people really aren’t so different. We never have been. But there’s no time to unpack it.
Kartok regains his feet and strides toward us, a new and enlivened verve to his step. “Does this make me Goddess-touched?” he asks in a mocking tone. “I accomplished what only three Ashkarians have managed since the beginning of time, and I’m not even one of you.”
His soldiers snicker as they fall into formation behind him. Now that they’ve shed their disguises, I spot several familiar faces: Chanar and Oyunna and Borte, the Bone Reader. She must have been devout to the Lady and Father once, in order to successfully imitate bone readings, but no longer. I’m sure she has a heart-wrenching story like Chanar’s or Oyunna’s or Temujin’s—how the empire wronged and ruined her. How she deserves to reap this vengeance.
Except this is no longer a vendetta against a mortal king! I want to scream. Look where we are! While you were focused on taking down the Sky King, Kartok changed the point of attack! Thrust you into an entirely different battle!
But I save my breath because it won’t make a difference. People see only what they want to. Believe the version of the truth that suits them best. Not so long ago, I was just as blinded by Kartok’s schemes.
“Where are the Lady and Father?” Kartok snaps at me. “Why haven’t they come?” He glances all around with agitation.
“They don’t owe you a reception or acknowledgment,” I snap back. “Breaking into a home is not the same as being invited inside.”
“Precisely! Shouldn’t They defend Their realm?”
I cross my arms and stare into his soulless eyes. “I would never presume to tell the First Gods what They should or shouldn’t do…. Perhaps you’re not a large enough threat to acknowledge,” I add, unable to stop myself.
Serik looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Why in the skies would you provoke him?”
“Because we don’t cower before weak, frightened men,” Ghoa answers, smiling at me proudly. As she did when I was young.
Kartok’s cheeks shudder with rage. He raises his hands and spreads his bony fingers. I want to believe it’s impossible for him to summon his illusions here—that the First Gods banished Zemyan magic along with Zemya herself—but the only reason They feared Zemya’s magic was because They couldn’t control it. Couldn’t control Her.
“You can’t harm me. Or my allies!” I blurt before he unleashes his magic.
“And why is that?” Kartok demands.
“Because I know how to find the Lady and Father. You need me or you’ll spend an eternity searching this realm.”
Kartok chuckles. “We both know you’ll never assist me, which is why I brought a devout ally of my own.” He nods at Chanar, who easily slips past the shell-shocked Kalima to where Temujin lies, hidden behind a cluster of flowers with amethyst petals. Temujin has been so quiet, I’d forgotten he was in the ice cave with us.
Chanar severs Temujin’s ropes, but he doesn’t stir. His eyes are wide but vacant, taking in everything and nothing. He’s so still, for a second I wonder if the shock of being betrayed— instead of perpetrating the betrayal—killed him. Or maybe it’s guilt, knowing he’s ultimately to blame for Kartok’s infiltration of the realm of the Eternal Blue.
It isn’t so fun to be on the receiving end of deceit, is it? I want to call over my shoulder.
But Kartok speaks first: “Pull yourself together and rise, boy.”
Temujin’s golden eyes flick to Kartok, filling with the fiery determination that initially drew me to the rebel leader. The same unflinching bravery and commitment that convinced me fighting with him was the right choice. The only choice. Except now that compelling defiance is directed at Kartok rather than the Sky King.
“Was this your plan all along … to attack the gods?” he explodes.
Kartok rolls his eyes. “My plan has never changed. I intend to end the war, restore balance and equality, and glorify Zemya by any means necessary. I knew eradicating the Kalima was key, but it wasn’t until recently—with the help of the commander”—he gestures at Ghoa—“that I realized it would be more efficient to cut off the source of their power than to eliminate each warrior individually.”
“You knew I would never agree to this!” Temujin vaults to his feet.
“Which is precisely why I didn’t tell you. Now, come. We’ve wasted enough time.” Kartok claps at Temujin as if he’s a dog. “Take me to the Lady and Father.”
Temujin’s nostrils flare. He crosses his arms over his chest and widens his stance.
“The time for defiance has long since passed,” Kartok says with a weary sigh. “We both know you’re going to cooperate, whether you wish to or not.”
“You can’t just kill gods!” It’s strange to hear Temujin voice the same fears he so readily dismissed when we revealed Kartok’s plans in Chotgor. “There will be consequences. Consequences that will affect you. Are you willing to risk that?”
“I’m willing to do anything.” Kartok claps again, and this time Temujin’s right leg judders forward. Then his left. He walks with herky-jerky movements that remind me of my own limping gate. With every step, Temujin’s teeth clench tighter. His arms thrash harder, as if trying to pry himself free from invisible vines looping around his torso. Sweat trails down his face and neck.
It’s horrifying to watch—even if he deserves it.
From out of nowhere, the Zemyan prince moves in front of Temujin and physically shoves him back. “Enough, Generál!” Ivandar snaps at Kartok. “There’s no need to hunt the First Gods or strip anyone of power.”
It could be my imagination, but I swear the breeze in the Eternal Blue stirs in response—warm and fragrant.
“That mentality is precisely why you’ll never be emperor,” Kartok says.
“My humanity is why I’ll be a far better emperor than you could ever be,” Ivandar growls as he continues to struggle against Temujin. “This is unnecessary. We can end this war without bloodshed or stripping anyone of power.”
Kartok sneers. “If you believe that, you’re even more delusional than I thought.”
“I’m not! We’re capable of working together peaceably with the Ashkarians. I saved the life of the Kalima’s commander. Then we traveled together for weeks, working in tandem to survive. She took additional ice into herself to ease the cold on my behalf.”
I spin to look at Ghoa. I knew it. I knew she’d been manipulating the cold for our benefit. She’s done several things for our benefit now. Things I never would have imagined her capable of. Yet still she refuses to acknowledge her part, standing with her arms akimbo and shaking her head as if Ivandar revealed a mortifying secret.
“There’s more than one way to end this war,” the prince continues. “Look at all of the people who came—”
“But there’s only one way to ensure equality!” Kartok thunders over him. “If the Ashkarians have access to power, they will use it against us. They’ve proven that time and time again. And if I have the means to stop them, I owe that to my people. Something you would understand if you were worthy of being their emperor. Now move, or I’ll force you to.”
“How? You’ve never revived me with your poison!” Ivandar shoves even more of his weight against Temujin, the two of them clashing like rams.
Kartok looks to Chanar and the o
ther Zemyan warriors. “Kill them all except the prince. I want the commander to dispatch of him.”
Ghoa gasps as her sword arm twitches, moving in fits and starts like Temujin’s legs. Despite how she struggles, she takes a saber from one of Kartok’s soldiers and stomps toward Ivandar. He looks at her with beseeching eyes, but she continues to advance with ruthless vigor. Slashing and striking. Swinging for his head. The rest of the Zemyan soldiers fall into formation behind her, closing in on us.
Temujin calls my name as Kartok forces him down the nearest golden pathway. The bitter, smarting part of me wants to laugh. Or send Temujin off with a mocking salute. After so many betrayals, he can’t honestly believe I care what becomes of him. But he’s the only person, other than myself, who might know where to search for the First Gods. Which means I can’t just let them go.
“Enebish!” Temujin calls again. He writhes and bucks against Kartok’s magic. “Write!”
Write? About what? His honor and prowess? So he can be fondly remembered by generations to come? Ha! If I’m writing his story, it will be filled with the truth. And our children’s children will despise him for it.
Only when Temujin’s gaze darts toward the center of the garden, where the original Book of Whisperings should rest, do I understand.
I have less than a second to react. The Zemyans are nearly upon us.
“Ziva!” I shout. Our eyes meet and we grasp for threads of darkness. I need to blind our enemies, or render myself invisible, in order to follow Kartok and Temujin. But there isn’t a single tendril of night slithering through the sky in this realm. Another detail Kartok unfortunately guessed correctly in his xanav. Only bright, cheery blue—Eternal Blue. Which means there are also no clouds to summon, no rain or snow or hail or sleet. No wind to whip into a frenzy or to carry in a covering of fog. No ice to throw like daggers, or lighting to sever like swords. Those elements are created by the Lady and Father—for our use and protection down below. The only element that exists of itself is warmth, light, heat.
“Serik!” I cry, praying he understands.
He raises his hands and fire blazes from his palms, forcing the Zemyans to leap back and shield their faces. Weroneka and the other two Sun Stokers add their heat to Serik’s, buying everyone a second—except for Ivandar. Ghoa anticipates the strike and rolls beneath the fire, knocking the prince’s feet out from under him. She climbs atop him and stares down, sword arm raised.
Ivandar says something and falls still, eyes closed.
She won’t do it. She’ll fight Kartok’s magic. She can’t kill Ivandar after everything they’ve endured together.
But Ghoa’s arm moves with forceful certainty.
I drop to the ground and roll beneath the nearest hedgerow as the prince’s wails fill the sky.
I don’t want to watch. And if I don’t move, I’ll be next.
My bad arm objects as I drag myself through the leaves and onto one of the winding golden pathways. As I run, I listen for Temujin’s babbling voice and Kartok’s clipped steps, keeping my eyes focused on the pedestal rising from the center of the garden like a fountain. I refuse to look away from it, not even when more agonized screams ring out behind me. If I see my friends fighting for their lives, I’ll be tempted to go back. But the only way to help them, the only way to save them, is to ensure Kartok never reaches the First Gods. And the best way to warn Them is through the Book of Whisperings—writing side by side with Temujin to forge the strongest connection possible, as we did so long ago in his family’s book.
The closer we draw to the pedestal, the louder my anxiety screams. Doubt clings to me like burs, begging me not to trust Temujin. Not after everything. But if the shepherds can trust me after I blazed my starfire through Sagaan, and if the Zemyan prince can align with Ghoa, who savagely attacked his country for over a decade, perhaps I should give Temujin one more chance.
I swear I hear the Goddess in the tinkle of the gemstone leaves: Don’t we all deserve another chance?
“Where are They?” Kartok’s voice is just up ahead, on the other side of the flowering hedge. “Shouldn’t we be able to see Them by now? If you’re leading me astray—”
“I can’t lead you astray,” Temujin says meekly.
The rebel is wickedly clever, as always. Bending the truth so you think you’re getting precisely what you want, only to discover it twisted into what he wants. Technically, Temujin is leading Kartok toward the Lady and Father—the pieces of Them that live within the Book of Whisperings—which isn’t what Kartok wants, but it’s close enough to fool the binding magic.
With every step, my racing heartbeat pulses through my injured leg. My lungs seize as the golden pathways merge from every corner of the garden, twisting into an opulent floor runner that ends at the pedestal. It’s as grand as I imagined—made of polished onyx etched with silver moons and golden stars. The base is impossibly narrow and it widens as it rises, unfolding into a perch that resembles the wings of an eagle. Atop the wings rests the original Book of Whisperings. It’s twice as large as any book I’ve seen, with an azure cover and gold-leaf pages.
Kartok and Temujin emerge from the pathway adjacent to mine and I skid to a stop just in time. Heaving for breath, I plaster myself against the leaves and wait for the perfect moment to move. Temujin and I will have just seconds to scrawl our warning—to tell the Lady and Father to stay away, to cast Kartok from their presence before he unleashes his Zemyan magic.
“You brought me to a book?” Kartok rages as he scans the clearing, looking for gods who clearly aren’t present.
“We have to announce ourselves by writing in the Book of Whisperings,” Temujin explains. “Otherwise, we could spend years scaling each mountain in search of the Lady and Father. This is the fastest way to learn Their location. They’ll tell me where to go.”
“Fine. Do it quickly.” Kartok herds Temujin toward the open book.
I can smell the pages from here—the comforting aroma of old, brittle parchment. I want to lay my cheek on the careworn cover and lovingly trail my fingers down the broken spine. I want to cherish the feel of Their quills in my fingers, knowing they’re the same instruments the Lady and Father use to answer my prayers.
But there isn’t time to be sentimental.
Temujin lifts one of the solid gold quills with a flourish.
My fingers twitch, grappling again for the darkness. This would be so much easier if I could conceal myself in shadows. Or blindfold Kartok with the night while I raced to the pedestal.
You don’t need the darkness, a firm reminder elbows into my mind. You slunk around Ikh Zuree for two years without power, relying on nothing but your wits, determination, and a constant unwavering faith in the Lady and Father. That’s all you’ve ever needed. Your gods and yourself.
Picking a handful of weighty pewter berries from a nearby bush, I crouch at the edge of the hedgerow and whisper a prayer as I lob them at a tree on the opposite side of the clearing. This particular tree has orange leaves the size of my head that look to be made of blown glass. Much to my relief, they shatter like blown glass too.
Kartok whips around as they crackle and crash.
I burst from the cover of the hedgerow, channeling Orbai’s speed and strength as I fly toward Temujin and the Book of Whisperings. I only make it halfway before Kartok turns back to the pedestal and spots me. He waves his hands and shouts in Zemyan, attempting to manipulate the appearance of the terrain to trip me. When that fails, he makes it look as if he slid the pedestal to opposite ends of the garden, but I don’t need to see the Book of Whisperings to know where it is. Its energy calls to me like outstretched arms.
Temujin hands me the other quill as I crash into his side.
The tips scratch across the page, and Kartok keens as if our words are blades in his flesh.
Temujin and I didn’t discuss what to write. I haven’t a clue if we’re even scrawling the same message. Or if we’re only making everything more confusing for the Lady and Father.
I barely have time to scribble a single word—stay—before an image rises in my mind. A mountaintop ensconced in pink mist with a crescent moon hanging in the sky on the right side.
“Do you see that?” I breathe.
Instead of answering, Temujin shoves me to the ground.
My skull cracks against a granite boulder, and the quill skitters out of my fingers and under a bush. My vision doubles. My head throbs with pain, worsened by the undeniable fact that I’m a fool.
This was another trick. Another trap.
“How could you?” I scream up at Temujin. Which is when I notice how wide his amber eyes are. How he seems to be choking on the air itself. And how a bloodstained edge of steel protrudes through the center of his chest.
A sword that would have impaled my chest if he hadn’t pushed me aside.
Kartok removes his blade with a vicious jerk, sending Temujin sprawling forward. He collapses on top of me, his shuddering body pinning me to the ground. Blood gushes across my lap and wets the grass. A spreading pool of scarlet black.
“I do … believe … in the First Gods,” Temujin rasps. “I was only trying … to help….”
I don’t tell him it’s okay. Or that his intentions justify his poor decisions. That this final sacrifice erases his prior betrayals. Because it doesn’t. Nor am I in any position to make such decrees. I’ll leave his final judgment to the Lady and Father. But I do clutch him tight against my chest as he gasps and sobs and twitches. This confused, passionate boy from my country who was so desperate to make a difference and implement positive changes in Ashkar, he ended up changing himself, betraying himself little by little.
After another round of rattling coughs, Temujin falls still in my arms. His tiger eyes stare straight ahead, but they’ve lost their signature luster, dimming until the golden rings climbing his ear are the only part of him that glimmers.
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 32
