“She did,” I whisper, dropping to my knees.
Kartok is gone. No type of sorcery, in this world or any other, is strong enough to give him wings. Though, I’m certain he tried to conjure them. I imagine him scrambling to craft a pillow of clouds to cradle his fall, only to slam straight through it. His life as fleeting and as hollow as his magic.
The image would be a comfort if Ghoa weren’t hurtling toward the same fate.
Sobs grip me and I retch and shudder, dizzily swaying closer to the edge. Imagining how it would feel to fall so far, knowing death waited at the bottom.
Serik wraps his arms around me and tugs me gently back. “Come away, En. There’s nothing to see.”
That’s part of the problem. If I can’t see Ghoa falling, if her broken body isn’t splayed across the rocks, there’s no evidence that any of this is real. So my brain refuses to accept that she’s gone. That she died saving the First Gods.
It doesn’t make sense, and I need, more than anything, for something to make sense.
I lash out, clawing and hissing at Serik like a mountain cat. Desperate to stay there, teetering over the void, as my mind flashes back and forth between the past and present. Ghoa had so many layers. She played so many roles.
Savior, assailant.
Caretaker, tormentor.
Teacher, rival.
Which version was real? Who was she truly? How am I supposed to mourn someone who both ruined and saved me? Part of me wants to rage against the injustice and irony of it all. In a way, this is exactly what Ghoa always wanted: for everyone to be indebted to her, in awe of her. She wanted to be legendary, and since she was never going to achieve that after Ashkar’s fall, she found another way to ensure she’d be remembered with reverence.
Except no one was here to witness her sacrifice, other than you and Serik….
And no one across the continent will revere her for saving gods they believe to be long dead….
So perhaps her sacrifice was more altruistic. Perhaps the Ghoa I knew and loved from the beginning was still in there, grappling for hold. Fighting for breath as pride and expectations pushed her deeper and deeper beneath the water’s surface.
She allowed herself to be captured by Zemyans so the Kalima could escape. She aligned with the Zemyan prince in order to return to the country that forsook her. She helped us free Chotgor, then stood with us against the Kalima. She refused to harm Serik, despite Kartok’s hold, and pitched herself off a cliff, defending gods she didn’t worship.
I’m certain she wasn’t happy about most of these decisions. I’m positive she fought and berated herself every step. But still she stepped, carving a path to her truest self. To the person she wanted to be.
We always have that choice, no matter how irredeemable we may think ourselves. No one is wholly good or bad, and nothing is ever as straightforward as it seems.
Ghoa may not have looked frightened as she fell to her death, but I’m certain she was. And she may not have proclaimed with her final breath that she did this for me, but I know it with just as much certainty. She didn’t care about my gods, but she always, always cared about me. Serik, too, despite herself. I think she was even beginning to care for the Zemyan prince and the shepherds. And this was her way of showing it: by throwing herself at the enemy. Defending her battalion as only a commander could.
This in no way excuses the terrible, unforgivable things she did. But if I only remember her crimes, then Kartok wins, because he will have stripped me of the ability to trust and love. To believe that we are, all of us, capable of change.
“Enebish.” Serik tugs my elbow. “I think we’re supposed to follow Him.” He juts his chin across the ruined balcony, where Father Guzan stands amid the scattered stones of the sacred cairn. Alive, because of Ghoa’s sacrifice. The Lady of the Sky, however, droops in the Father’s arms like a lifeless swan, drenched in shimmering blood. Her corpse has already begun withering beneath the rich blue velvet of Her gown, and She still wears Ghoa’s face.
When the Lady first turned to look at us, I saw my mother and grandmother and my mentor, Tuva, in the face of the Goddess as well as Ghoa. But now Her visage is frozen on Ghoa’s freckled cheeks and furrowed brow. Those brown eyes, which sparked with such ambition and vivacity in life, are glassy and still.
Proof they’re both gone.
The ground has stopped shaking, thanks to Father Guzan’s control, but the sky continues to mourn the loss of its master. Rain batters us. Wind assaults us. Lightning strikes the ground directly to our right and left as we follow the Father down the treacherous mountain trail. Above us, darkness continues to drip like paint through the eternal blue sky—slowly changing it to night. I flutter my fingers to see if I can summon the threads, but the blackness is as solid as stone. Because it isn’t darkness at all, I realize. It is nothingness. The absence of a creator.
The Father says nothing as we walk—not a word of thanks or condemnation—but He does sing. All the songs I know by heart. I find myself humming along, taking comfort in the familiarity of His words and the richness of His voice—like the steady gurgle of a stream.
He holds the Lady of the Sky tight against His chest to shield Her from the worst of the storm. Tears drip from Father Guzan’s cheeks and speckle the Lady’s dress, causing swathes of green moss to sprout from the fabric. When His tears happen to find the ground, little clovers and flowers spring up from the mountainside. I don’t know if He’s letting them fall on purpose, but I whisper my thanks regardless because the foliage provides the smallest bit of traction, helping us down the rocky switchbacks.
A crowd waits at the base of the mountain, gathered around a lifeless form at the garden’s edge. I immediately take inventory to see who’s missing. Ziva and both kings are present, as well as the Kalima and most of the shepherds and Chotgori who stayed to fight. The Shoniin and Zemyans stand still, weapons forgotten on the ground. Their prince is glaringly absent, but the body sprawled across the rocks couldn’t be Ivandar’s. Ghoa killed him at the other end of the garden. Which leaves only two options.
The two who fell from the summit.
I reach for Serik’s hand, needing his warmth, which he readily offers, even though he has none left to give. His fingers are cold and trembling. He keeps shutting his eyes and shaking his head. I tighten my grip, lending him some of my strength to repay all the times he’s carried me.
Still singing, Father Guzan steps boldly through the crowd. The shepherds part and bow their heads. Most of the Shoniin fall to their knees. Even the Kalima warriors and the Zemyans stumble back, slack-jawed. Pale as they are, none are as ashen as the Lady of the Sky.
She was the only constant from the beginning of time. The creator of the heavens and earth and everything in between. I don’t know what happens now that She’s gone. Will the Father cast us from the Eternal Blue? Or force us to stay and be flattened as it crumbles? Does it matter? There’s a good chance the entire continent is collapsing in the absence of its maker.
Father Guzan halts in the center of the crowd and looks down. I force myself to look too, expecting to see a mangled heap of blood and limbs. That’s all that could remain of anyone after falling from such a height. But Ghoa rests peacefully on her back, completely whole, her hands folded across her chest and not a hair out of place. Her face is smoothed of every scowl line, making it look as if she’s sleeping—far more peacefully than she ever did in life.
“Did you cast her from your presence for her crimes?” Ziva pops up from her bow to address Father Guzan.
King Minoak reaches over and presses Ziva’s head to the ground, all without lifting his own. Groveling as only the lowliest servants do in Verdenet. “The commander streaked through the sky like a falling star,” he explains. “When she hit the ground, the land shook and the sky darkened and a fierce wind drove us to this spot. We assumed you were angry with her, punishing her.”
Father Guzan kneels beside Ghoa, still silent.
“Was there a
nother body?” Serik asks Minoak.
“Another body?” the Marsh King asks. The lines in his craggy face deepen even further. “Who else fell? Where did they fall from?”
Serik darts a meaningful gaze at the Zemyans and Shoniin, many of whom are trying to retreat as far and as fast as possible without drawing the attention of the Father. A wasted effort. His attention is solely on Ghoa.
Father Guzan lifts Ghoa into His arms alongside the Lady of the Sky before answering. “The assailant will never reach the earth. He’ll spend eternity falling.”
The Zemyans call out questions, but the Father resumes His solemn march, deeper into the garden. It could be my eyes playing tricks on me. Or I could very well be losing all sense of reality in my confusion and grief. Because, with every step, the Lady’s and Ghoa’s limp bodies slide closer together. Merging and melding. Until the Lady wears more than just Ghoa’s face.
At the entrance of the hedge maze, Father Guzan glances back and beckons us to follow with an almost imperceptible nod.
There’s no hesitation. No discussion—not even among the Zemyans. We obey as if compelled by Kartok’s Loridium—except this is an invitation, rather than a command.
We wind deeper and deeper into the garden, and the perfectly manicured hedges grow taller and taller until they form a tunnel over our heads.
“We’ll never find our way out,” Serik whispers.
I feel the same uncertainty emanating from so many of the others behind us. But I also feel the heartbeat of this realm, pulsing through the ground, whispering through the trees. An unwavering rhythm that keeps me walking ahead with faith. If the Father were going to cast us out or punish us, He would have done so already … right?
A breath later, the labyrinth ends in a sprawling lawn lined with even more of the jewel-leafed trees. Another gold-dust pathway leads up a rise to a palace unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s made of opal or abalone shell that glistens blue and green and pink. The walls ripple, almost like waves, and tall turrets and towers rise into the clouds, connected by bridges that look to be made of nothing but light. Rendered all the more impressive in the ever-darkening sky. The most striking feature of the palace, however, is how it hovers several lengths above the ground—tethered by glittering ropes, as if to keep it from floating away.
“Maybe we won’t want to leave,” I finally whisper back to Serik. “Have you ever seen anything so spectacular?”
“I’ve seen too many spectacular things. I’m more than ready for the ordinary. And I’d wager so are they.” He motions back to the Zemyans, who have fallen onto their faces, crying for pity. Even though Father Guzan hasn’t so much as glanced at them.
Or at any of us.
The gold-dust trail is as soft as carpet underfoot, reminding me of the fine grains of sand in Verdenet. It’s even warm against my feet, as if heated by the sun. The trees lining the pathway are reminiscent of those in Namaag, with their towering trunks and branches, thick enough to support platforms. King Ihsan touches the face of each tree, his expression full of wonder. And as we approach the palace, there’s no denying how the walls glimmer like ice, taking me back to the decimated Castle of the Clans, which we destroyed during the Ashkarian siege of Chotgor.
This place is entirely new yet achingly familiar. Exactly as I thought the Eternal Blue would be. Teeming with a force far stronger than the overwhelming power and frantic energy that was present in Kartok’s xanav. His world was fueled by hate and ambition. But the true realm of the Eternal Blue is fueled by love.
Father Guzan steps effortlessly through a towering entry hall that hovers just a step off the ground. When the rest of us move to follow, the entire palace rises with a sudden jerk. It’s only then that I notice the stalwart figures positioned at intervals along the wall, half hidden by the deepening shadows. There are three of them, and each holds a rope that tethers the palace to the ground.
I know who they are at once. I would recognize them anywhere. The only three people who have qualified to ascend to this realm.
Jamukha the Invincible, with his shock of scorched black hair—the only evidence that he was struck by seven bolts of lightning.
Zen the Devoted, with his hunched shoulders and gnarled hands clasped around his rope as if in prayer.
And Ciamar the Daring, with her confident smile and long gray braid, which waves behind her like a banner—so all the world could see when she leapt from her tower and into the arms of the Goddess.
I’ve dreamed of meeting these Goddess-touched warriors ever since I can remember. Eager to learn from them. To be strengthened by simply being in their presence. It’s the closest I ever hoped to come to the First Gods, and finally I’m here, standing before them. And they’re scowling at me.
Unlike them, I was unable to prove my devotion.
We failed the Lady of the Sky.
“We tried,” I cry. “So very, very hard. All I’ve ever wanted is to—”
“Don’t bother pleading your case to me, girl,” Ciamar interjects. “Judgment is reserved for the First Gods.”
“How do you expect us to follow Them?” I gesture to the palace they purposely raised off the ground.
“We don’t,” Jamukha says matter-of-factly.
I’m too upset to respond, so Serik asks, “Then what are we supposed to do?”
Zen points to the line of trees, which are quickly vanishing in the fading light. “Wait.”
And so we do.
We hunker beneath the trees with their gemstone leaves, and the longer we wait, the more they jangle and crash like shattering dishes. The darkness closes in too—an ominous, impenetrable shroud. It crushes me like a chest press, making it difficult to breathe.
“Now you finally know how the rest of us have always felt in your presence,” Serik teases as he slips an arm around my waist. He uses his other hand to light the tip of his finger like a candle, but the flame immediately sputters. With a grunt, he tries again. Weroneka and the other Sun Stokers attempt to summon light as well, but none succeed because they’re all missing the base element.
The Lady was the light; nothing remains without Her.
We huddle in the gloom for what must be hours. So long I begin to think that this must be our punishment for failing the Goddess, for entering forcibly into this realm.
Ziva whimpers, unused to feeling so out of control in the dark. I reach out to comfort her, even though I feel just as wild. I’m aware of every rigid hair on my body. My mind feels like it’s tumbling end over end—as Ghoa must have when she fell.
Just when I’m certain I’m going to explode, light flares from the palace and slashes through the garden. A beam of brightness more luminous than the sun itself. Or maybe it just feels that way compared to the dark.
I shield my eyes and stumble to my feet as the palace lowers gently to the ground. A silhouetted figure appears in the entryway. At once, I recognize the gauzy splendor of the Lady’s velvet gown, the dewy softness of Her skin. But I also recognize the hardness of Her expression and the swagger of her gait.
On the mountaintop balcony, the Lady wore Ghoa’s face like a mask while the rest of Her remained flowing and fluid. Omnipotent.
But now She is both hard and soft.
Both Goddess and Commander.
My two lost mothers, forged into one.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ENEBISH
“ENEBISH.” SHE EXTENDS AN ARM IN MY DIRECTION. HER voice is a bewildering blend of a soft, cascading lilt and Ghoa’s authoritative clip, and it leaves me so perplexed, I forget to respond.
“It’s generally a good idea to answer when your Goddess calls,” She says, and it’s so unmistakably Ghoa, I accidentally let out a baffled guffaw as I take a small step toward Her.
Serik moves to follow, but the Lady holds up a stern hand. “Is your name Enebish?”
Serik sputters and drags his hands through his hair but, mercifully, bites back whatever he planned to say, which makes the Goddess smile w
armly and nod with prim approval.
The back-and-forth between Ghoa and the Lady is so sudden and swift, it’s giving me whiplash.
“Ghoa?” I whisper as I approach. “Is that you?”
“Come,” is all She says, leading me through the arched palace entrance.
As we move down the colonnade, the structure groans beneath us and rises once again. When I reach out to steady my balance, the wall is closer than I expected. Instead of stone, it’s papered with an ornate cream-colored damask. A white-and-burgundy rug covers the entire length of the hall, and I can’t stop staring at it. I tell myself it’s because I expected a more traditional castle with several curtain walls and outdoor courtyards. I shouldn’t give this rug a second’s thought. It’s undoubtedly the least interesting aspect of the palace of the First Gods. But for some mystifying reason, I’m certain I’ve seen it before. A small but fierce longing compels me to run my fingers through the shag, to press my face into the creamy softness.
When the hallway opens into a room, I understand why.
Directly across from us, an impressive stone fireplace roars with heat, the mantelpiece heavily laden with trophies and medals and certificates. More than any one person should be capable of earning. To the right of the fireplace, in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, is the little round table where we were supposed to take tea and practice laying place settings, but instead played nik and gambled away the small weekly allowances we earned for completing our chores around the estate.
Serik’s filthy boots are abandoned in the middle of the room, as they always were. Purposely trying to provoke the matron. And Ghoa’s first saber—the dented hunk of metal she was given when she first enlisted, which she insisted on carrying everywhere, even when she was home on leave—rests in one of the armchairs as if it were the king’s personal saber. The air smells of leather books and lemon polish and the buttery aroma of winterberry pies baking in the kitchen below.
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 35
