Time slows to a crawl. Another burning star careens from above. It crashes through the center of the buttress, and I see every growing splinter, watch every falling fragment, as the structure crumbles.
No.
The Sky King screams. Vanesh flails, grasping for a ledge that isn’t there.
I throw myself forward, arms raking across the broken glass, as if I’ll be able to catch them. They fall in slow, eerie somersaults, like the fluttering seeds of a globeflower. The Sky King thrashes while Vanesh tries to reduce their speed with frantic bursts of wind.
From across the divide, Lizbet adds her wind to the current, and I almost think Vanesh and the king will survive. But then another bolt of starfire slams into the battlements of the treasury. An enormous chunk of blue marble breaks away, like a glacier collapsing into the sea. It slams into Vanesh first, wheeling him around, then breaks across the Sky King’s back. His spine twists unnaturally. His face goes slack. Screams flay my throat open as I watch the Sky King of Ashkar, my lord and master, plunge into the darkness below.
I bury my face in my hands, oddly thankful for Enebish’s blackness. So I don’t have to see my king and comrade painted across the cobbles.
Behind me, the Kalima are silent. I can’t even hear them breathing.
Our lungs have been crushed—like the Sky King’s.
He can’t be gone. There has never been a more powerful leader in the history of Ashkar. He is transcendent. A god on earth. And a god cannot be flattened like an insect on the cobblestones. They can’t.
Sobs rattle from my swollen throat, and I howl into the quiet. How could Enebish do this? How could she murder our king?
“Don’t disgrace them with your tears,” Bastian snaps behind me. “This is your fault.”
“My fault?” I whip around, my face so hard with frost that it crackles and pops.
“You shoved him out onto that narrow beam. You probably wanted him to fall. You probably told your monstrous sister to come.”
“If anyone is at fault, it’s you—all of you double-crossing traitors!” I fling my hand at the Kalima, frost shooting from my fingers and skimming over their heads. “If you’d been following my orders instead of conspiring behind my back, we would have caught Enebish and Temujin before they attacked. We wouldn’t have been sitting ducks—”
“Quiet,” Varren says.
“Don’t you dare silence me!” I roar. “How could you betray me like this? After everything? You’re supposed to be my second!”
Varren’s tattooed arm winds around my face and his meaty hand covers my mouth. When I try to scream, nothing comes out.
“Quiet,” he says again in a gruff whisper.
That’s when I hear it. The sound of voices in the courtyard—the rebels undoubtedly discovering their bloody prize. Only the voices sound too smooth and susurrating, the cadence too fluid and lilting, to be Ashkarian.
A new wave of panic dances down my spine.
“Zemyans,” Cirina whispers.
Except that’s impossible. They couldn’t have marched to Sagaan already. And Enebish would never fight with them. They murdered her family and burned her village.
But then I never thought she would align with Temujin, either. Or attempt to kill me. I know nothing about what she would and wouldn’t do. Her starfire is as undeniable as the foreign shouts filling the halls below.
My sweat freezes the moment it leaves my pores and rolls down my face like tiny gouging diamonds.
This changes everything.
Temujin and the rebels taking Sagaan is infuriating but rectifiable—once Enebish’s darkness peters out. The Shoniin hardly have the numbers to hold Sagaan, let alone the empire. And the people weren’t at risk of violence. The Unified Empire wasn’t in danger of collapsing. But if the Zemyans are here—if the Zemyans are taking our capital—there’s no end to the possible devastation. They’ll raze our cities, imprison our people, and if they manage to capture a Kalima warrior—as they’ve been trying to do for decades—they’ll kill us. Or worse: taint our power with their devil magic. Twist it into poison to use against us.
I stumble back, unable to catch my breath. This is all I’ll be remembered for: the death of the Sky King. The fall of the empire. Not my impressive victories at the war front or my legendary march to the beaches of Karekemish. Not my unmatched leadership or the strength of my ice.
My ice.
I look down at my hands, barely visible in the oppressive dark. If I can forge a blade of ice, why not a buttress?
The thought makes my muscles quake. The ice will have to be ten times longer and ten times thicker than a saber to support the weight of a person, and I’ll have to maintain it for several minutes, which could burn through my power.
But it’s the only option.
Our only hope of escape.
If I can lead the Kalima to safety, we can regroup. Retake Sagaan. I’ll be heralded as Ashkar’s greatest warrior, despite all of the obstacles, and people, who stood in my way. I’ll be their savior—the commander who refused to back down after unspeakable tragedy.
“Stand aside!” I cry, fighting my way back to the window. I grip the sill and hiss as the protrusions of glass sink into my palms. My fingers slip as my blood wets the stones, but I close my eyes and envision how the blue marble buttress fit against the wall. A perfect seal. Then I re-create the arch, but instead of an impossibly thin and intricate adornment, I fabricate a rudimentary slab that’s twice as wide as the original. It’s practically a highway. If my warriors can’t make it across, they don’t belong in the Kalima.
Behind me, the angry shouts fall away.
“King of the Skies,” Varren whispers as they watch my creation take shape. The bright bursts of ice slashing through the black are strangely beautiful—like ghosts, dancing across the sky.
“Go,” I croak out. My nose is bleeding. My hands are shaking. The effort of speaking is too much. A small fracture forms in the center of the arch. I have to grit my teeth to smooth it. “Now,” I pant, sweating with effort. But still they hesitate.
Only when the hall door slams open and boots vault up the stairs do the Kalima move.
Bastian looks at the buttress, then at me, his gaze heavy with respect and perhaps a twinge of remorse. Good. He ambles onto the ice and the others follow. With every stomping boot, my energy flags. My vision swirls like blood in water.
Hold on. Just a little longer.
But what if I don’t have longer? The cautionary tales we use to frighten new recruits aren’t entirely false. I watched Enebish’s mentor, Tuva, turn to dust during the Battle of a Hundred Nights, when we conquered Chotgor.
Varren and Weroneka mount the bridge last, just as the Zemyans crash into Papá’s office. Ululating whoops and battle cries fill the room—sounds that have haunted my nightmares for the better part of ten years. I shake my head because I still don’t understand how they marched to Sagaan so quickly. Or why Enebish is aiding them. I watched her rescue Temujin. I know she joined forces with the Shoniin. But the Zemyans are here, attacking us with her night power. Which can only mean one thing:
She’s even more treasonous and deceitful than I realized.
When Varren and Weroneka are halfway across the bridge, I release the windowsill and try to pull myself onto the buttress. But my legs are shaky and my eyes are bleary. When I look down, there are two windows and two buttresses and I can’t tell which is real. The Zemyans surge across the room, smashing Papá’s desk and rending every ribbon and medal.
“Varren!” I shriek. “Help me!”
He turns, his eyes even wider than they were at the sight of the Zemyans—I never ask for help.
“Please!” I cry as I drag myself forward.
From the safety of the adjacent building, the other Kalima warriors yell something I can’t make out.
Weroneka looks back at them, but Varren keeps staring at me.
Crushing hands close around my shoulders and yank me back inside the treasur
y. I scream and kick and reach for my cold, but there’s nothing left. I gave every drop of ice to the buttress. I grapple for my sword, but my arms are jelly and the Zemyans easily trap them against my sides. I stare at my battalion across the shadowy distance. Faces I have known for years. People I’ve risked my life for. They owe me this. Ashkarian warriors never leave a comrade behind. Especially not their commander.
The Kalima bark at Weroneka and Varren again, and each word jabs my stomach harder than the Zemyans’ fists: “Melt. The. Bridge!”
Varren and Weroneka exchange a faltering glance. It’s light enough now; they could wield the power of the sky without misfiring and hitting homes or bystanders. The entire Kalima could batter the Zemyans with wind and rain and lightning until I’m free.
But they don’t.
With a grim nod at Weroneka and a fleeting look at me, Varren turns and sprints to safety. Weroneka follows, her smoldering hand melting the escape route I provided.
As the buttress falls, my heart falls with it.
No one looks back as the Zemyans wrestle me to the floor.
And no one lingers to hear my screams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ENEBISH
I FORCE A SMILE AS THE LAST FEW SHEPHERDS DUCK OUT of the cave and into the net of darkness I hurriedly knit. My stitches are loose and clumsy, the blanket lopsided and unwieldy, allowing hooves and wagon wheels to occasionally flash into view. But it’s the best I can do after our grueling journey from Sagaan and the weeks I’ve spent starving, bickering, and spying on the ungrateful and unreliable shepherds.
I’d thought my time concealing the caravan across the continent was behind me. We should be storming Lutaar City, reinstating King Minoak, then freeing the other Protected Territories to make a stand against the Zemyans and the Sky King. But here we are. Trekking to Namaag with a half-dead king and a group of “rebels” who are ready to abandon our cause after a few weeks of hardship.
I peer up into the undulating darkness, desperate to find the Lady’s face in the ever-shifting shadows.
Can’t you lighten my load, even a little?
“You should sit down,” Ziva says. “You look like you’re going to collapse.” She pushes away from the opposite cave wall and offers me a hand.
I ignore it and brace myself against the slippery rocks. “I’m fine. Just tired from chasing you across the desert last night.” I spear her with an accusatory glare. “Unfortunately, I won’t be sleeping tonight, either—or any night—since you convinced the shepherds we have to leave immediately, and it’s safer to travel when my power is strongest.” I flip my hand at the ambling group, my right eye already twitching at the straying sheep and uneven pace, and we’re mere steps outside the cave.
It’s going to be a long week.
“You could let me help.” Ziva’s voice is tentative but her eyes are hopeful.
“Don’t you need to look after your father or something?” I nod to the litter in the middle of the group, balanced on the shoulders of our six strongest men.
“There’s nothing I can do for him until we reach Namaag, and I’ll follow your orders with exactness. I know I’m new to all of this.” She waves a hand, sending the tendrils of darkness swirling, which makes it even more difficult to keep the net taut and steady over the group. “But I did manage to conceal myself and my father for almost two months.”
I give my head a terse shake. “Concealing an entire caravan is far more difficult than concealing two people. You can’t just toss the darkness at random. There must be order and discipline so that the tendrils lie flat and move seamlessly with a group this large.”
“So teach me.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “It isn’t something I can teach in a minute or two. It takes years. A lifetime of training.”
And I don’t want to be a mentor.
My own mentor, Tuva, was so patient and encouraging. I remember her cooing-dove voice and graceful artist’s hands, swirling through the darkness with the ease of a paintbrush. For the longest time, I thought she was too timid and fragile to be a good warrior—or a respectable mentor. Especially after my childhood with Ghoa. But now I see how strong and humble she had to be, entrusting me with her knowledge and assuming I would do right by it.
Tuva would have agreed to train Ziva without hesitation. But I’m not half the Night Spinner, or person, that Tuva was. The wreckage I made of the Grand Courtyard is proof of that. She never would have been so thoroughly deceived by Temujin and Kartok.
“No,” I say in case Ziva mistook my silence for consideration.
“But you clearly need me. And Serik said—”
“Serik doesn’t know the first thing about wielding the darkness, so he doesn’t get to dictate who can and can’t be trusted with it.”
“Is this about trust or ability? Because before you said—”
“It’s about both!” I snap.
“I trusted you enough to follow you back to these caves.” Ziva’s voice grows shriller by the second. “Don’t I deserve the same courtesy?”
“You only came because you had no choice. And you can help by keeping up and keeping quiet.” I point to the back of the caravan.
Ziva grumbles something I can’t decipher and stomps ahead. I’m positive she’s cursing me, but that’s fine. Better than fine. My life will be much easier if she despises me enough to stop pestering me.
I seal the blanket of darkness behind us and take up the rear of the wagon train. Far ahead, at the front of the group, there’s a flash of gold in the blackness. My breath automatically catches, even though I know it isn’t Orbai—it’s only Serik’s goldwork cloak. But my heart can’t stop hoping, and breaking, all over again. I’d give anything under the skies to have her here with me.
Gold sparkles again as Serik mounts a wagon and squints for me at the end of the procession. During the arduous trek to the caves, he was forced to trail the group and melt the snow to remove our tracks. He never once complained, even though I know he felt alone and unappreciated back here. Now it’s my turn, since we don’t have to worry about tracks in the sand, and it’s easier to manage the net of darkness, where I can adjust for the shepherds’ obnoxious wandering.
Secretly, I’d hoped Serik would decline to lead the march to Namaag so he could walk with me, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. The shepherds trust him and, more important, they listen to him. As they should—he works so hard to be a good leader. I just wish I could be up there with him instead of stuck back here eating dust with the seething princess.
Serik waves when he spots me, but when he sees Ziva walking ahead, his smile falters. Shame drags at my shoulders. I know what he’s thinking: This isn’t you. Don’t let Ghoa and Temujin turn you into a cynic. We need Minoak. Which means we need Ziva. Which means you need to play nice.
You know you’ve hit rock bottom when Serik has become the voice of moral reason in your head.
I look away and turn my focus to the shadowy dunes. Where Temujin and his Shoniin are undoubtedly lying in wait.
For the first few leagues, I jump at every sound. My fingers grasp for the darkness with every flicker of movement on the horizon. But two days pass and the Shoniin never come. No one does; the roads are all but abandoned. I don’t know if it’s due to the terrible weather—the wind is still cold and punishing, pelting our cheeks with sand and whipping the animals into a frenzy—or because we only travel at night, but we encounter one solitary man leading a sorry-looking llama.
Where are they?
Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe Sagaan didn’t fall as easily as planned, and the Shoniin and Zemyans can’t spare warriors to patrol this road. Or maybe the siege ended so quickly, they’ve already conquered Namaag and we’ll be greeted by Kartok and Temujin when we reach Uzul.
I try to picture the continent under Zemyan rule. Will they spare the young? The old? The ancient cities, with their stunning architecture and rich history? Or will they burn everything to the ground, like my village in Verden
et? Will they execute the Sky King? Ghoa?
The image of her head on a block fills my mind, her expression grim and defiant as a Zemyan blade hurtles toward her neck. I tell myself I don’t care. She deserves even worse. But I can’t stop from flinching as the steel slices through her flesh.
Another night of travel passes—which means another night of sweating and straining to conceal the meandering group. It also means another night of staring at Ziva’s pathetic slumped shoulders. She walks several paces ahead of me but well behind the shepherds. She isn’t tall enough or strong enough to help carry her father’s litter, and the shepherds aren’t the most trusting of people who aren’t like them. More specifically, of people who are like me.
Every day, she tries to worm her way into the throng; and every day, the shepherds ram their shoulders together, creating a wall to keep Ziva out.
To keep both of us out.
Add to that Serik’s increasingly frequent backward glances, and the irritating notes he’s been passing to me through the masses, asking if Ziva and I are making progress, and I feel like I’m going to explode. Or collapse. Probably both.
Fine.
I grit my teeth and force my bad leg to move faster until I catch up with Ziva, who’s kicking dust at the shepherds’ backs. I won’t be her mentor, but I suppose I can try a little harder to be her friend.
“They’re kind of unbearable, aren’t they?” I say.
Ziva jumps and scowls at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Walking. And talking to you, if that’s okay?”
Her frown deepens. “Why would you do that?”
“I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting. I’m just frazzled and exhausted … and hurt,” I add in a small voice.
I haven’t wanted to admit it, as if acknowledging how Temujin and Kartok and Ghoa destroyed me will somehow give them even more power. But it actually makes me feel slightly better. Stronger. Because that feeling—that vulnerability—is what separates me from them.
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 7