Ghoa hands me my staff, and I take my first step down the overgrown trail. The high, frosty grass tickles my palms and crunches beneath my boots. “Send word once you arrive,” she calls. “And every night thereafter. As well as the moment you learn anything of Temujin.”
My stomach dips ever so slightly at his name. He’s the only person who showed me mercy at Qusbegi. But the Lady of the Sky confirmed this path. Ghoa needs me. And she’s saved me far more times than Temujin has.
I march forward with long, purposeful strides. Hardening my resolve. Reawakening the warrior within me. If I want to reclaim my life, I cannot second-guess. Cannot waver.
Orbai shrieks with agreement and takes to the sky, leading the way to Sagaan—and redemption.
After two hours, I limp up to the fateful shrine where Serik and I stopped to worship. Orbai perches on a stick at the top of the mound, next to our empty bottle of vorkhi, and I feel a sudden pang of longing—followed by a sharp stab of guilt. Serik is trapped in a dark, windowless temple receiving countless lashes and muttering thousands of penances while I’m out here, on a secret mission, with a chance to earn back my position.
“I’ll find a way to help you too,” I vow, kneeling before the shrine to whisper a prayer for us both. Serik would hate it, but we need blessings and guidance more than ever. “Help me,” I beseech the Lady of the Sky as I finger the porcelain cups and dried petals. “You are the window to the universe; you see everything from your lofty perch, and I know I’m smaller than a speck of dust, but I ask you to see me. To guide my feet. Help me accomplish this mission and restore my and Ghoa’s honor.”
After murmuring amen, I check both shoulders to ensure no one’s watching, and stretch my fingers toward a stone at the base of the mound. I hold my breath—even though I know a gateway to the realm of the Eternal Blue won’t appear. I may be blessed with a gift from the Lady of the Sky, but that isn’t the same as being Goddess-touched. Only three people in the history of Ashkar have held that honor, and they were all personally marked by the sky in some way: Jamukha the Invincible, who was struck by seven bolts of lightning and lived; Zen the Devoted, whose prayers were so fervent, the Lady of the Sky parted the clouds and lifted him up into Her presence; and Ciamar the Daring, who built a tower so tall, it scraped the heavens. When she pitched herself from the top of it, her faith was so firm, the Lady of the Sky caught her in a chariot of sunlight and bore her away.
I have done nothing so grand to prove my devotion, but I place my tingling fingers against the stone anyway. The rock remains cold and sharp beneath my fingers, as expected.
Shaking my head, I regain my feet and circle the mound three times, content to incur the blessings reserved for common men and women. Then I cup my hand over my eyes and gaze at the top of the cairn. It’s so tall, Orbai appears to be swaying between the clouds, dancing to the howl of the late autumn wind.
Dirt crunches behind me, and I freeze like a deer staring down a hunter’s arrow. I cannot be caught worshiping the Lady of the Sky.
I cannot be caught period.
In less time than it takes to draw a breath, my good hand shifts to the center of my staff and I spin to strike out at the stranger. Blinding pain flashes down my bad leg, but I grit my teeth and move faster, grip tighter. A war cry tears from my throat as my staff slices through the air. I make three frantic slashes before I realize the path is empty, save the brown rump of a marmot dodging into a bush.
The staff clatters to the dirt and I double over panting. At first from pain, but my gasps slowly turn to giggles, and soon I’m laughing so hard that tears stream down my cheeks. Orbai screeches and takes flight. I must look like I’ve lost all sense, lashing out at harmless rodents and laughing hysterically, but for the first time in two years, I feel the pulse of Enebish the Warrior beating faintly through my veins—like the first green buds of spring, breaking through the frosty soil.
My body knew what to do. I was ready to defend myself.
“Don’t you see? It was a sign!” I call to Orbai. “Sent from the Goddess Herself. Proof that I can do this.”
I retrieve my staff, grip it like a saber, and swing it through the air in patterns I practiced so many times, I could repeat them in my sleep. My motions are slower than before, and I make a mess of the footwork, but it feels so good and right, my elation overshadows the pain.
“I am still a warrior.” My voice is barely a whisper, and the statement sounds more like a question, but I repeat it again and again, hoping if I say it enough, it will somehow be true.
The sun warms my cheeks, making the hairs prickle down my arms, and my foolish, hopeful heart can’t help but take it as a sign: the Lady of the Sky agrees.
Latching onto that flicker of confidence, I continue down the trail toward the serrated skyline of Sagaan. The colorful rooftops flash silver and rose and cobalt in the sun, like a chest of jewels splayed open along the riverbank. A glittering oasis surrounded by an endless expanse of prairie. Ashkar has always been a nation of nomadic herders, making cities largely unnecessary. Sagaan was the first settlement, founded by Miigrath to defend against the Zemyans, and it has remained the beating heart of the empire for nearly two hundred years. Even at the farthest reaches of the Protected Territories, orders and customs and instructions pump first through Sagaan. Making it the ideal location for criminals like Temujin to wreak havoc.
“Where are you hiding?” I whisper to the distant smear of smoke.
By the time I reach the outskirts of the city, I’m even more exhausted than the time the Kalima marched twenty miles through thigh-deep snow to secure the fort at Golyn. My muscles howl as if I’m dragging a fully loaded oxcart, and because I had to stop to rest my leg so many times, the last traces of daylight are swiftly vanishing into twilight mist.
The tendrils of night swoop and dive at me like hunting bats. They pulse against my skin with the steady pressure of a beating heart.
You need us. You want us. Reach out.
I slit my eyes, clutch my bad arm to my chest, and trudge down the mud-ravaged streets. Most people are already indoors, taking their evening meal, and only a few stragglers bustle down the road, hoods drawn against the cold. The inns and taverns lining the main thoroughfare belch inviting chimney smoke and laughter, but Ghoa’s right: I cannot show my scarred face anywhere so public. And the braziers that light the entryways to mark vacancy are darkened anyway. After a quick glance around, I make my way over to Salkhi, a poor residential district comprised of single-story row houses.
The tiny brown buildings are smashed together like a mouthful of crooked teeth, and herds of sheep crowd the muddy roads. Goats and oxen are tied to nearly every fence post, ripping up what’s left of the dying grass. A large portion of Ashkarians still make their living herding sheep and cattle across the grasslands and must constantly chase the fertile fields. Which means they depend heavily on the hospitality of city-dwellers to survive the lean winter months. The arrangement benefits the city-dwellers, too, as they need the wool and meat the shepherds provide. As such, it’s an unspoken agreement that every household welcomes travelers with open arms, feeding them their finest cut of meat and sharing in a shot of vorkhi.
“I’m not so different from a merchant or a shepherd,” I say to Orbai. “A simple servant of the empire.” Orbai shifts nervously on my shoulder. She’s right. I’m far more threatening than the average traveler. If the night wriggled in through a crack in the window, I could endanger my hosts. Or they could easily notice my traitor’s mark. Unfortunately, it’s so cold, shelves of ice float down the Amereti and frostbite nibbles my nose. Not a night to sleep outdoors.
The hour is late and the majority of the houses are dark, but I take a breath for courage, arrange my hood and scarf over my scars, and call out a greeting to the first door I come upon.
A candle flickers to life behind the waxed-paper windows and hushed whispers argue back and forth behind the thin walls. At last, footsteps pad to the door and I stand up straigh
ter as it swings open. Candlelight spills across my boots and the sweet smell of curried goat meat wafts past my nose, making my mouth water. A young woman squints at me, her face pinched.
It’s bad luck and incredibly rude to speak across the threshold of a residence, so I wait to be invited in, but the girl’s dark eyes merely flick from me to Orbai. I squirm and attempt to smile from beneath my hood, but still she does not welcome me. Finally I can wait no longer. I must either offend her or freeze to death. “I’m sorry to trouble you at such a late hour, but—”
The girl tumbles outside, waving her hands. “Do you wish to curse us both?” She waits until the door latch clicks before continuing. “What do you want?” She crosses her sinewy arms and her eyes rake up and down my frame.
“I mean no harm,” I say with a bow. “I’m a weary traveler looking for shelter from the cold.”
“We’re already housing a family of five. And next door, they took in two families with small children. It’s the same all down the street. I’m sure you understand.” She retreats toward the door.
“I don’t understand.” I scurry after her. “Why is Salkhi so crowded?”
“The shepherds have nowhere to go. The winter grazing lands are an ice floe.” She taps her toe impatiently.
“What?”
“Have you been living under a rock? The Sun Stokers couldn’t be spared from the war front to warm the fields. The Sky King has sent fewer each year, making for long, hard winters, but this year he withheld them entirely.”
My mind spins like the tail of a kite. Each year thousands of shepherds migrate to the winter grazing lands outside of Sagaan. It’s the only way their flocks are able to survive the great freeze. “The Sky King would never allow that. He cultivated the fields for the express purpose of—”
“Never allow it?” She laughs. “He ordered it. The caravans that arrived first found shelter and boarding for their animals, but the rest are camping on the ice field, brawling for the scanty shelter beneath trees. Go see for yourself if you don’t believe me. There’s an entire city of freezing homeless.”
I try to speak, but my lungs sputter as if choking on a violent gust of wind. Ghoa’s ragged voice echoes in my thoughts: We’re losing.
The girl’s expression softens. She reaches into her apron and presses a small bundle into my hands. I peel back the cloth to reveal three strips of dried goat’s meat.
“It’s all we can spare.” She shrugs apologetically and slips back inside.
Orbai scoots down my arm and snatches a strip of meat while I stare at the smattering of torchlight downriver, where the winter grazing lands begin. The girl was lying. Or exaggerating. Conditions can’t be as dire as she claimed. Ghoa would never allow it. She would send the Sun Stokers immediately if she knew thousands of shepherds were suffering.
An image of her desperate eyes flashes through my thoughts. Her voice cracks over the admission: I’m failing.
A finger of disquiet trails down my spine, and instead of continuing on to the next row house, I stuff the remaining goat’s meat into my pocket and limp down the riverbank toward the grazing lands. As I draw closer to the fields, the usually hard-packed streets become muddy and wheel-riddled, peppered with mounds of animal dung. Shanties made of driftwood and sheepskin are stretched beneath every tree.
The king would never have held his lavish Qusbegi Festival if people were without food and shelter. But then I think of the mounted warriors blockading the entrance to the square. The beggars in rough homespun. The overturned food cart and the wild-eyed boy who barreled into me. I quicken my pace, my fists tightening into rocks.
When I reach the fields that are usually verdant despite the season, I find brown grass crusted with old, filthy snow. Instead of fragrant globeflowers, there are boulders of ice. Sheep and horses bray and whinny, bemoaning the unbearable cold. Even the wisps of night are at the mercy of the frigid temperature, gliding slowly through the sky as if swimming through sap.
The shepherds bustle around their tents, lashing blankets and furs over the felt walls for extra insulation. Their dwellings are made for easy transport, composed of lightweight poles and cloth that provide adequate shelter for the majority of the year, but they will never protect the nomads through the great freeze. Many of them will be lucky to survive the night, let alone the entire winter. And their animals have no prayer at all.
A sick feeling climbs up my throat as I turn a slow circle. Families huddle around pathetic dung fires, blue-faced and shivering. Some men go from camp to camp, begging for extra blankets, extra food, anything that can be spared. Others are not so meek. Two women tumble through a clearing, brawling over a dried flank of lamb. While I look on, horrified, an old man hobbles up beside me on a crutch made of rotting river wood. He points into the crowd, and when I look, he kicks my ankles and nabs my staff, laughing as he scuttles away.
I land in a freezing puddle of mud and curse as it soaks my tunic. Before I can peel myself from the dreck, the clouds open up and release a torrent of stinging sleet.
Cold takes on a whole new meaning.
I blink through the icy rivulets and hunker deeper into my cloak. The stench of wet fur and bodies is so foul, I nearly gag.
Orbai abandons me for the shelter of the old Gesper Temple—a black marble sanctuary that was once the center of Miigrath’s court. Back then, it was a wonder of construction, with its vaulted prayer hall and fine black columns, marbled with golden veins. But it fell to ruin long ago, when the Sky Palace was constructed. Now the pillars are cracked and entire walls have collapsed. Yet trembling refugees still occupy every inch of it. There isn’t room for even one more, and I would never be able to climb to the bell tower where Orbai rests, warm and dry. I finger Ghoa’s carved bracelet, cursing each feather. Worthless stone wings. “And worthless friend who abandons me!” I shout at my bird.
After throwing myself at the mercy of a dozen different tents and being shooed away from each, I stumble upon a few warped boards leaning against a tree, far upstream, where the river twists into the forest. Most people have given the woods a large berth—they are known hunting grounds for snow bears and wolves—but I’m out of options. And perhaps it’s safer if I’m apart from the others.
The ground is too wet to start a fire, but I duck beneath the boards and make a nest of leaves to cover my legs and feet. “This isn’t so bad,” I say as the glacial wind skims across the river and wisps of night buzz around my face like gnats.
I want to cry. I would cry if my eyes weren’t too frozen to form tears.
Why couldn’t I have been a Sun Stoker? Their gift is so much more practical than night spinning. A sweep of my arm, and I could warm the shivering masses. Or, if not a Sun Stoker, I would even prefer to be an Ice Herald, like Ghoa. The subzero temperature would give her no trouble. She could stretch out on the frozen ground and use the snow as a blanket.
Ghoa.
The thought of her makes my stomach flip. She commands the Kalima, which means she and the king must have sanctioned withholding the Sun Stokers. They had to know this would happen as a result. But perhaps they don’t know the extent of the shepherds’ suffering? Or maybe the situation isn’t as dire as it appears? I am undoubtedly in shock—unused to life beyond the monastery walls. And the dark and cold could make conditions appear worse than they truly are. Or the refugees could have grown in number since last Ghoa checked?
Or you could be making excuses for her, says a voice in my head that sounds eerily similar to Serik’s.
I swat it away like a fly.
There’s a logical explanation. I must have a little faith. Give Ghoa the benefit of the doubt, as she’s always done for me.
I watch the chunks of ice floating down the iron river until my eyes burn. Then I squeeze them shut and conjure images of a bonfire. Of drilling in full armor in the dead of summer. Of the sun-scorched sand in Verdenet burning through the soles of my sandals. And of Serik’s arms around me. How warm and solid he felt when he p
icked me up and spun me around at Qusbegi.
My cheeks flare with heat, and I shake my head. The cold is clearly warping my brain. But since he isn’t here to mock me, I indulge a little longer. I imagine twining my fingers through his cloak and trailing my palm across his stubbled head.
A twig snaps outside my lean-to, jolting me back to reality. I clamber to my knees, listening for the crunch of footsteps.
Most likely it was river rats, scuttling through the bramble, or another refugee seeking shelter, but something inside me—perhaps my rekindling warrior instinct—compels me to check. Carefully, I collect the largest branch I can find, which is no wider than my finger but better than nothing, and I hold it like a saber as I inch out into the open.
I’m so busy scanning the trees, I trip over a small gray parcel sitting directly outside my shelter. My arm thumps to my side. I edge closer to the lump and poke it with my stick. To my relief, it doesn’t move. It appears to be a blanket—a neatly folded square of gray wool with a finely embroidered ram in the corner, head lowered as if to charge.
Who would leave this out in the snow?
They wouldn’t. It’s a trap.
I stare at the blanket for five full minutes. When no one materializes, I cautiously pick it up, waiting for someone to leap from the trees and ambush me. When they don’t, I wrap the wool around my shoulders and trip back inside my lean-to, choking on tears of gratitude. Maybe the Lady of the Sky heard my prayer at the shrine and sent this token. Or, more likely, one of the shepherds took pity on me. These forsaken refugees, who are freezing themselves, are still willing to help a stranger in need.
Their generosity feels like a boot crushing my windpipe.
I need to do something. Need to help. And I’m supposed to send Ghoa a missive anyway.
I rifle through my satchel until I find a quill and parchment, then I compose a letter: short, succinct, and, most important, holding Ghoa and the king blameless.
Night Spinner Page 9
