Night Spinner

by Addie Thorley

  “How?” I demand. “What happened?”

  She purposely draws out the tension until I’m practically salivating. “They used their sorcery to disguise themselves as members of our own army. Then they circled around to the back of our ranks and slaughtered a good many of our infantry before we realized what they were up to.”

  “How did you defeat them? How did you differentiate friend from foe?”

  “How do you think?” Ghoa flashes her teeth and the temperature in the room plummets. “The Zemyans are weak due to their corrupt magic, so myself and the other Ice Heralds flooded the air with bitter cold. The imposters fell to the ground, their twig-thin bodies shivering and their bone-white skin nearly blue. Dispatching of them was simple after that.”

  Jealousy coils around my chest until it’s difficult to breathe. I still remember how it feels to ride into battle—the rumble of the horse beneath me, the power of the Lady of the Sky coursing through my blood, knocking my bow and swinging my saber, my body whole and strong, a weapon in itself. I should have been battling the Zemyans with her. I’m every bit as brave and skilled as Ghoa. My power even stronger.

  I am a Night Spinner, able to paint the sky with blackness and call down starfire like rain. It’s a rare and dangerous ability—and the reason I rose through the ranks so quickly. Before me, the only other Night Spinner in the Imperial Army was a woman named Tuva, who perished in the Battle of a Hundred Nights. When the king tasked her with keeping the sun from shining until the Chotgors, who occupy the frozen steppes north of Ashkar, agreed to join the Protected Territories. He claimed it would be harder for them to fight in the dark. And it was. But the strain on Tuva was too great. As soon as the fighting ceased, she collapsed—her bones hollowed out and her skin burned to dust. I know it’s treasonous, but if the king were truly the “ruler of the sky,” wouldn’t he have known that would happen? Wouldn’t he have prevented it?

  Kalima warriors are not depthless wells of power, but candles, burning slowly down. We must use our abilities in careful measures and allow our strength to rebuild or we risk guttering the flame. As such, we must be fearsome soldiers in our own right and carefully consider when to call upon the Lady of the Sky. I thought I had achieved the perfect balance. I thought I was invincible.

  Everyone did.

  I self-consciously touch the moonstone, then I reach for Ghoa’s saber on the table. The carved bone handle feels so familiar and right beneath my fingers, but when I try to lift the weapon, pain crackles through my ruined arm.

  Reminding me.

  I was strong. I’m not anymore.

  The sword clatters to the table and I retreat to the chair beside Ghoa. My eyes fog with tears I don’t want her to see, so I ask question after question, hoping to distract her.

  And myself.

  “Tell me more of the battles. Who is your second? How many of the Kalima did you lose? How much ground did you gain?” Serik groans, but I ignore him. If Ghoa describes everything in enough detail, it will feel as if I’d been there. As if I’m still living.

  Ghoa gives me a sympathetic look and lets down her hair. It shimmers in the firelight—lacy strands of frost nestled in rippling russet waves. As she finger-combs the tangles, she says softly, “For the last two years I’ve spoken of nothing but battles and death. Can’t we speak of something cheerier? Tell me of life here at the monastery.”

  I look down at my hands. Of course she doesn’t wish to speak of war. She just returned from living it. And she probably thinks she’s doing me a kindness, avoiding any mention of my former life. But I want to remember. I want it so badly, my eyes refill with tears. I pretend to cough, then wipe them away on the back of my wrist.

  Ghoa’s thick brows lower as she looks from me to Serik, but I’m not about to tell her I’ve been sneaking out and toying with the darkness. Or how I dream, day and night, of returning to the Kalima. How I despise the whitewashed walls she fought so hard to secure as my refuge.

  Ghoa forces a cough and calls across the room to Serik. “How is the most irreverent monk at Ikh Zuree?” She chuckles, but he doesn’t crack a smile, despite having laughed when I made the same joke less than an hour ago.

  “Still irreverent.”

  “Have mercy, Serik. I was teasing.”

  “As was I.” He bares his teeth in the world’s most spiteful sneer.

  Technically, they’re cousins, but they were raised as brother and sister—and they certainly fight like it. Ghoa’s family took Serik in when he was five and Ghoa was nine, shortly after his father was sentenced to Gazar, the notorious prison mine beneath Sagaan, for peddling outlawed Zemyan weaponry. His mother was so consumed by grief and humiliation, she stopped eating. And sleeping. And caring for her son.

  Ghoa and Serik got on well enough, even after he turned eleven and was allowed to enlist. But as the years passed and he didn’t develop a Kalima power, they became like oil and water. By thirteen, Ghoa’s parents recalled him from the war front. Everyone knows war is more dangerous for the magic-barren. To ensure his safety, Ghoa’s father, the Imperial Treasurer, secured Serik this esteemed position at Ikh Zuree—an honor reserved for noblemen’s sons. But if Serik is telling the story, the honor might as well have been a death sentence. And in his eyes, Ghoa is just as guilty, since she didn’t oppose her parents’ decision.

  “Please don’t be like this, Serik.” Ghoa’s voice sounds as frayed and ragged as my penance robes.

  Serik doesn’t notice. Or, more likely, he doesn’t care. “Don’t be like what? Unless you’ve decided to release me from my vows to the New Order so I can reenlist, we have nothing to discuss.”

  Ghoa pinches the bridge of her nose. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “You can! You’re captain of the Kalima. You can do anything under the skies, yet you refuse to do the one thing I truly want.”

  “Think of your mother, wasting away in her sickbed. Losing you would destroy her, and my father would never forgive me for killing his only sister.”

  “Why are you all so certain I would die?” Serik demands. “I’m a good warrior. And my Kalima power could still present. Sometimes it’s delayed.”

  Ghoa gives him a withering look. “No one develops a power at nineteen.”

  “What about Miigrath? He was twenty-one and became the strongest Sleet Slinger in Ashkar’s history.”

  “Miigrath was a king! He united the thirteen clans, formed the Kalima, and drove the Zemyans back to the coast. You will never accomplish feats so grand. Which means your power wouldn’t be worth having, even if it did present.”

  “You don’t know that.” Serik looks to me, and I want to encourage him, truly I do, but I avert my eyes and fiddle with my waist tie. The latest any member of the Kalima received their gift was fourteen. And Ghoa’s right—these powers are largely useless. Only able to summon delicate snow flurries or light rain showers.

  “I’m not afraid to fight,” Serik forges on. “You happily encourage every eleven-year-old in the empire to enlist. But not me. When I’m perfectly capable.”

  “We all have different paths. It’s an honor to be an acolyte of the New Order—”

  Serik tosses his hands into the air. “Yes, it’s such an honor to slowly decay like the ancient prayer scrolls in this skies-forsaken prison.”

  Ghoa lets out a loud breath and turns to me. “What of you, Enebish? How is the lauded eagle trainer? The Sky King raves about your birds. He claims they’re the finest in all of Ashkar.”

  That makes me straighten up a bit. “Does he truly?”

  Ghoa nods. “You are making quite a name for yourself. I’m so glad you’ve found your stride again, here at Ikh Zuree. It has proven the perfect sanctuary.”

  “Making a name for herself?” Serik shoves out of his chair with such force, it topples over and skids across the tiles. “Blazing skies, Ghoa, don’t you have any tact?”

  Even though he’s defending me, my heart still sinks into my gut. Because he’s right. I have
already made a name for myself. One that comes with no accolades. One the people of Ashkar will never forget.

  Enebish the Destroyer.

  “I can say that, cousin, because Enebish has embraced her new life. She has moved on and her future is bright. Unlike yours.”

  “Go back to the war front and torment the Zemyans. We were getting on fine without you.” He storms across the room, the tapestries tossing in his wake. Ghoa pretends not to notice, but veins of ice branch out from her fingertips, splintering the armrests of her chair.

  She scoots closer to me and continues in an overly bright voice, “How have you been feeling? Your injured arm and leg?”

  “Fine, I suppose.” I force a smile after her shoulders sag, so she knows I don’t blame her. If she hadn’t been brave enough to bury her saber in my arm and leg in order to stop my rampage at Nariin, there’s no telling how much worse it could have been.

  “The stone’s kept you from having any more … outbursts?” She says the word carefully, whispers it almost.

  Serik’s halfway out the door, but he whirls back around and slams his palms against the table beside Ghoa. A vase of yellow globeflowers topples to the floor. “Enough!” The porcelain shatters and petals scatter beneath our chairs. “Now that you’ve accused and offended us both, we’ll be leaving.” He offers me his hand and I stare at it, looking helplessly between him and Ghoa. I need them equally—in different ways.

  Ghoa presses her fingers against her temples. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … Please stay. Both of you. I’ve brought gifts.”

  Her expression is so heartrending, it feels like a spear tip burrowing into my chest. I glance up at Serik, begging him to try to be civil, but he scrubs his hand across his head and glowers at Ghoa.

  “And what will these gifts cost us? Undoubtedly, they come with shackles.”

  Ghoa blinks as if he slapped her. Woodenly, she sifts through her pack and extracts the finest fiddle I’ve ever seen. The sound box is covered in sleek black goatskin and the long neck, fitted with white horsehair strings, gleams with polish. She produces a matching bowstring and holds them out to Serik. “I’ve only ever wanted your love, cousin. You know that.”

  Serik’s mouth falls open and he takes two hasty steps toward the instrument before remembering himself. “I know nothing of the sort.”

  “Please take it, Serik. I brought it all the way from Dayun. I watched Master Inalchi make it in his famed shop on Market Square. Never have you heard such a pure, beautiful sound.”

  “Master Inalchi made it?” His gaze snaps back to the fiddle.

  Ghoa traces a finger down the frets. “He said it is fit for an expert, which I hear you are swiftly becoming.”

  Serik sets his jaw. Resolute. But then he moans, snatches the fiddle, and retreats to the far corner of the room. He cradles the instrument the way I do the night, cooing and stroking it.

  Ghoa watches him with a sad smile before reaching back into her satchel. “And something for you, En.” She tucks a violet bag stitched with black leaves into my hands. I turn the sack over and gasp as a delicate chain coils into my palm. It’s the most beautiful bracelet I’ve ever seen: tiny silver-and-onyx feathers touching end to end.

  Ghoa beams as she leans over and clasps it around my wrist. “Do you like it? I thought it only right for the eagle trainer to have wings of her own.”

  “I love it,” I say breathlessly. And I do. But tears tumble down my cheeks, and this time I’m too overwhelmed to hold them back. The gift is perfect, and at the same time, an exquisite mockery; I will never be able to fly away with wings made of stone.

  “What’s wrong? What have I done now?” Ghoa looks up at the ceiling. Her voice is so soft, so tired. So unlike Ghoa.

  “Nothing,” I say. “The bracelet is beautiful. And I’m so glad you’ve returned. How long will you be staying?”

  “As long as it takes. The Sky King has given me a special assignment in Sagaan.”

  I wipe beneath my eyes and wait, but Ghoa looks down at her lap and shrugs.

  Of course she can’t tell me about her mission. I’m nothing but a keeper of birds. I trace the feathers around my wrist, and a brittle silence envelops the room. The water from the broken vase slowly freezes on the floor.

  Ghoa touches my elbow, but I can’t look at her. It hurts too much to see everything I’ve lost. I wrap my arms around my middle, wishing I could squeeze the envy and bitterness out of me. She’s my sister, my dearest friend. If I had risen so high, she would be happy for me. I know she would be.

  “I have another surprise,” Ghoa announces. Her voice is tentative, and her fingers worry a strip of leather at her waist. “I see how miserable you are and I wish to help. In a way, I feel like a mother to you both, and—” She lets out a slow breath. “The Sky King has requested his eagles be brought to Sagaan for the Qusbegi Festival tomorrow. He wishes to participate in the hunting contests. I was going to have my warriors transport the birds, but the job is yours if you’d like it.” She looks from me to Serik, then down at the floor. “And it won’t cost you anything.”

  Serik shoots to his feet and his knuckles blanch on the neck of his fiddle. I gape in equal shock, my fists pressed so hard against my legs, the silver-and-onyx feathers leave an imprint on my tunic.

  “You’ll allow us to leave Ikh Zuree?” I whisper.

  Ghoa smiles. The same benevolent smile she wore when she rode into my burning village on her armored warhorse, looking as fierce and as beautiful as the Lady of the Sky.

  “For a day,” she confirms.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MY GOLDEN EAGLES—OR THE KING’S EAGLES, RATHER—are tucked into cages and strapped atop a wagon pulled by an ancient monastery mule. I would have let the birds fly overhead, swirling and looping through the icy-blue sky, but the king would be furious if they exhausted themselves and performed poorly in the hunting contests, so into the cages they went.

  Orbai nibbles the bars and sidesteps impatiently.

  “I’m sorry, girl. I can’t let you out today.” I scratch her feathers and offer her the mouse carcass I slipped into my pocket earlier, knowing she’d need consolation. She snatches the treat and happily crunches the tiny bones.

  “I’m not even going to comment on the fact that you keep dead vermin in your robes.” Serik wrinkles his nose as he takes up the mule’s lead rope. “And I’m not going to let you stay back there with the birds. You see them every day. Come see this.” He gestures to the leagues and leagues of rolling hills beckoning beyond the whitewashed walls.

  Excitement whips through me, as fierce and enlivening as the gusts of wind tugging my braid. “He’s right, you know,” I whisper to Orbai. “I’ll check on you and the others in a bit.” I give her one more scratch, then hobble to join Serik and the mule.

  We rumble toward the gates, our steps growing faster and faster until we’re practically running. Flinging ourselves toward freedom.

  “You’ll never make it to Sagaan if you keep up that pace.” Ghoa’s voice halts us in our tracks. She’s leaning against the open gate, and she flashes a cheery smile as she straightens. “I brought some parting gifts for the road.” She holds out paper-wrapped barley cakes, as well as a thick fur cloak, which she drapes around my shoulders. “I don’t want you getting hungry or cold.”

  “What, no special cloak for me?” Serik says.

  Ghoa rolls her eyes. “We all know you only wear that ratty old cloak from your mother.” She turns back to me. “Do you have your staff, En? Are you sure you can walk so far? I can call my warriors if—”

  “I’m fine.” I grip my staff and stand taller. I’ll make it the two leagues to Sagaan if it kills me. I’ll fly there if I have to, I think as the little silver-and-onyx wings rattle around my wrist.

  “Excellent.” Ghoa ties the cloak around my neck, but her fingers linger a moment too long on the moonstone.

  I swallow hard and place my hands over hers. “I promise I won’t let you down.”


  It was her idea to embed the stone in my skin. The abba was going to chain me up in a cellar beneath his dormitory—the only place he could think to keep me where I couldn’t access the night—but Ghoa came to my rescue again.

  She remembered hearing of the rare Namagaan moonstones the marsh dwellers had used against Ashkar in battle two decades prior—when they first became a Protected Territory. They had flung the rocks at Kalima warriors with slings, and it had momentarily disrupted their connection with the sky. Ghoa believed implanting the stone in my skin would sever the connection entirely and keep the monster quiet.

  So far, her theory has proven true. The stone is so effective, I don’t even remember the massacre. The battered wagons and smoldering corpses are something I’ve only heard about secondhand. It’s a story about someone else. I couldn’t have done that.

  But I did. I let the darkness consume me. I brought a deluge of starfire crashing to the earth on an innocent merchant caravan. And I haven’t a clue why. I had never lost control before.

  Not really. Not like that.

  “Are you going to let us pass?” Serik snaps at Ghoa. “Or would you like me to run you over?”

  She laughs as if it’s a joke, but I have no doubt he’d flatten her if she changed her mind about our day of freedom. “Relax, Serik. I’ll get out of your way. I just wish I could accompany you, that’s all.” She pulls the hood of the cloak over my head.

  “You could accompany us if we were allowed to take the main road,” Serik says sharply, “but then someone might see, and it would be shameful for the commander of the Kalima to keep company with a disgraced monk and Enebish the Destroyer.”

  Ghoa levels a withering glare at him. “You know it isn’t that. I have important meetings with the Sky King and must take the faster road into Sagaan, which is too steep for the eagle cart.”

  “Whatever you say. Hurry off to your important meetings. We’ll be fine on our own.”

  Serik brushes past Ghoa, tugs the straps of my pack, and guides both me and the mule through the gates.