“We should have known better than to follow Enebish the Destroyer!” The shepherds continue to hound me. “Add a thousand more lives to your death count!”
I should stay quiet—nothing I say will help—but I can’t take their derision and mistrust and ingratitude for another skies-forsaken second. “I didn’t want to come this way!” Angry words dart from my lips like a colony of agitated bees, stinging everything in sight. “I knew the Shoniin would be watching this road. And I warned you. But, once again, no one trusts my judgment.”
“For good reason!” Ziva flings her hand at the sky, where ghostly strands of smoke still stain the blue.
I laugh bitterly and turn away, furious that they could be so obtuse, exhausted from constantly defending myself, and overwhelmed by the horrible possibility that there’s a parcel of truth to their accusations. Despite my good intentions, my efforts always do seem to result in the loss of innocent lives. I am Enebish the Destroyer no matter what I do.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice small and breaking. But no one answers. I don’t know if it’s because they didn’t hear me or because they’re choosing not to hear me. Either way, I give up and direct silent pleas to the Lady and Father instead. They’re the only ones who might take pity on me now.
Forgive me. Strengthen me. Show me what to do.
A lightning bolt of clarity doesn’t strike, and answers don’t miraculously appear in my mind—as they do when I’m writing in my Book of Whisperings—but while I pray, I feel warm, steady arms wrapping around me. Giving me the tiniest nudge. Helping me up off the ground.
“We need to go,” Serik finally says with a tired sigh. “We don’t know where the Shoniin and Zemyans are camped, and we need to be within the walls of Uzul before they arrive.”
“I’m not going anywhere with her.” Emani, Bultum’s terrifying wife, levels a finger at me.
“Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is,” Serik pleads. “It’s easy to cry for blood when that blood won’t stain your hands. We’re all just doing our best. Including Enebish.”
The shepherds mutter and scowl and complain loudly, but they let me follow them back to where the rest of the caravan waits—to hundreds of additional people who will be just as furious with me.
I decide now is not the time to mention the even bigger problem they all seem to be overlooking: King Ihsan will never welcome us into Namaag. Not if he knows the Shoniin and Zemyans are coming for us.
No one speaks to me, or even looks at me, for the rest of the day. Which isn’t so different from before. I prefer it, in fact. It’s quieter, easier, better. Or it would be, if I didn’t have to watch the shepherds praise and coddle Ziva. As soon as we set off into the marshes, they sucked her up into the center of the caravan, petting her hair and offering her water, taking a sudden interest in her story, as if her wayward starfire saved them singlehandedly.
If they want to applaud someone for misplaced bolts of starfire and rash and dangerous decisions, it should be me. But she’s the hero and I’m the monster, no matter that they’d all be dead if Ziva had been leading them from the start.
My waterlogged boots catch on a protruding root, and as I crash to the unforgiving path for what feels like the millionth time, an unexpected thought seizes me: Is this how Ghoa felt when the Sky King began addressing his missives to me? When the Kalima flocked to me, instead of her, for advice? When the crowds in Sagaan cheered loudest for my power?
Of course, I would never maim Ziva or frame her for a massacre, but chills overtake me, despite the much warmer air of the swamp. Where is Ghoa now? What’s happening in Sagaan? I want to know, and at the same time, I don’t. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t part of me that hopes she suffered a horrific death. But if she’s dead, that means Kartok and Temujin succeeded in taking the capital. And the thought of their scheme proving victorious, and knowing I had a hand in it, makes me nearly as sick.
There is no good option. No positive outcome.
I try to distract myself with the scenery. I knew Namaag would be wet and thick with trees, but nothing could have prepared me for the otherworldly beauty of the marshes. Rivers tangle and twist through the forest, each a different color: from midnight blue and algae green to silty brown and sulfur yellow. The air sits heavy in my throat and tastes sickly sweet with rot.
It’s the only Protected Territory I’ve never visited—King Ihsan allied with the Ashkarians long before I was born, when the Sky King convinced them to build aqueducts to Sagaan to end the drought, and they’ve caused little trouble since. There’s never been a reason to send the Kalima. We were busy engaging Zemya and acquiring the other territories.
A strange iridescent insect buzzes around my head, louder than the spice grinders in Nashab Marketplace, and the air fills with the calling of birds. Never in my life have I seen so many birds! Herons and egrets and ducks and ibis. Under other circumstances, I would adore them, but every snapping beak and rustling feather reminds me of Orbai—attacking King Minoak, choosing the scout, abandoning me when I needed her most.
Fury and heartbreak war for control of my heart, so all consuming, I don’t realize the caravan has ground to a halt until I slam into the back of a wagon. I expect to receive a death glare from its owner, but they don’t glance back. No one does. The entire caravan is entranced, gazing up at the city of Uzul just ahead.
It’s built high up in the canopy, on platforms and bridges that connect one behemoth tree to the next. My jaw hits my shoes as I take it all in. If any king should be called the Sky King, it is undeniably Ihsan. His feet probably never touch the earth. The roofs of the houses are thatched with moss, and the walls are constructed to look like leaves, blending perfectly into the foliage. Copper pipes that look for all the world like branches run beneath everything, sucking water up from the marsh and feeding it into the treetop homes.
Everything is green—as green as Kartok’s false Eternal Blue. Except for the flashes of yellow and orange and turquoise darting through the dense greenery. At first they register as birds, but as I squint harder, I realize they are people hustling down the thoroughfares.
We don’t resume our march again for a long while. I presume Serik and the head of each shepherd family are discussing the tactics of our entrance—things that no longer involve me—so I nearly jump out of my skin and into the murky water when someone touches my elbow.
“Have you ever seen anything so incredible?” Serik’s hazel eyes glitter and there’s a new bounce to his step. Such a welcome change from the shadow-eyed wisp he’s become over the past weeks. “We made it, En.”
Barely, I want to say, but I refuse to take this moment from him. And he’s right. Namaag is unbelievable. I smile and hook my arm through his. “We made it,” I echo, “which raises the question, what are you, noble leader, doing back here with me?”
“Ziva thought it would be best if she approached the Namagaans first, alone, so I had a moment to spare.”
Of course Ziva wants to go alone. Then she can make it look like it’s only by her good grace and connections that we’re allowed into the city.
“Stop that.” Serik digs his elbow into my side. “I can hear every awful thought running through your head.”
“Stop listening to my thoughts if you don’t like them,” I say with a wry smile.
Serik tugs me closer so his warm side presses flush against mine. “I understand why you’re frustrated with her.”
“Frustrated?” I choke on a cynical laugh. “She tried to kill Orbai and made me look like an erratic, unhinged traitor.”
“She’s far from innocent, but your response had just as much to do with the shepherds’ reaction. You attacked Ziva’s starfire instead of the scout. For good reason, though,” he adds before I can get angry. “You had to. Sometimes we can’t stop believing in our friends, even when they seem hopeless and lost. You never know when circumstances will change. Or when new truth will come to light.”
He looks
over at me with those earnest crescent-moon eyes, and I melt. Completely and utterly incapacitated by the closeness of his lips and the fluttering in my stomach.
“You’re announcing your thoughts again,” Serik whispers.
“Are you fonder of the message this time?” I ask.
“Much.” His gaze drops to my mouth, but he reluctantly pulls away. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand—what was Orbai even doing with that scout?”
“Kartok healed her with Loridium, a type of Zemyan magic. It bound her to him,” I mumble, hoping the words will hurt less if I only half say them.
“Is that why she didn’t come with us when we left the xanav?”
I nod.
“And you didn’t think it was important to tell me this?” Serik manages not to yell. Barely. “Skies, En. Temujin and Kartok know what she means to you. They know they can use her to manipulate you and endanger us.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
Serik sighs. “I should get back, but I wanted to check on you and ask you to please help this to go smoothly. We need to convince the Namagaans this rebellion will work, which will never happen if they see us squabbling among ourselves. We need to present a united front, a capable—if not formidable—battalion.”
If anyone else was giving this speech, I would roll my eyes and shove them off, but I nod and say, “I know.”
“That means trusting me, and the group, to make the right decisions. And showing a willingness to trust our potential allies. And no more secrecy.”
“Isn’t that a little hypocritical?” I ask.
Serik’s brow crinkles. “What are you talking about?”
The shepherds are still keeping their distance, but I lower my voice and step closer anyway. “King Ihsan will never welcome us if he knows we’re being pursued by the Shoniin and the Zemyans. He’s notoriously stingy with aid. Namaag only supports neighboring nations if it doesn’t pose a threat to their own land and people. Which is one of the reasons I didn’t want to start our recruitment here. They’re the only Protected Territory that hasn’t been exploited by the Sky King because Ashkar is so dependent on their aqueducts, so they don’t share nearly as much hostility toward the Unified Empire.”
“We don’t technically know that Temujin and Kartok are coming, so we don’t need to tell them anything,” Serik says, and now I’m the one pinning him with a dubious look.
“I suppose we also don’t know that the sun will rise each morning, but it’s such a forgone conclusion, we don’t bother considering what would happen if it didn’t.”
“This definitely isn’t sun-level certainty,” Serik argues.
“What happens when Kartok and the Zemyans scale these gigantic trees to get to us? King Ihsan will feel used and blindsided. He won’t come to our aid and he definitely won’t join our rebellion.”
“I disagree. Fighting with us is preferable to being conquered by the Zemyans … and it doesn’t matter if it’s dishonest. It’s our only option. We just have to hope the scout is slow and the warriors Temujin and Kartok send are even slower. The grasslands are harsh this time of year, and they have no Sun Stoker.”
I gnaw on my lower lip and look up at the treetop city. “There’s so much that could go wrong….”
Serik takes my shoulders and forces me to look at him. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, En. Things could just as easily go right. Try to see the positive. We’ll never be able to convince the Namagaans to forge this alliance without your help, but we’re doomed before we even enter Uzul if you lead with suspicion and allow the past haunt you. Let it go—for yourself. For all of these people depending on us”—he motions to the shepherds—“and for your captive people in Verdenet.”
I stare into his eyes, so warm and soft and hopeful, despite everything. “Fine. Find me a shovel,” I say with a reluctant nod.
Serik’s face twists with confusion. “A shovel? Why do you need a shovel?”
“Because I’m finally ready to bury the past.”
CHAPTER NINE
GHOA
THE ZEMYANS LAUGH AND CONGRATULATE EACH OTHER AS they shove me into the back of a covered wagon. It reeks of sweat and vomit, and I cringe as my face smashes into the boards and slides through something wet and gritty.
Get up! Fight! Stop being pathetic.
But my mind can’t convince my body to move. Not even as the Zemyans spit into my hair and slam the door. I don’t see the point. I’m not the peerless commander I thought I was. My warriors left me. After I saved them. And if I move, I will have to accept that this is real. That all of this is truly happening.
The Sky King is dead.
The Zemyans have taken Sagaan.
I still don’t understand how it’s possible. They were advancing, yes, but they would have had to sprout wings and fly to reach the capital so quickly.
Unless someone in Ashkar helped them. Snuck them in.
I see Enebish’s starfire demolishing the buttress and crushing the Sky King for the millionth time, and her name explodes from my throat like a cannonball. “Hypocrite!” I bellow. “How dare you condemn me for what happened at Nariin, then go and do something even worse! You’ll be responsible for ten times as many deaths!”
No matter how deeply I breathe, I can’t seem to fill my lungs. No matter how tightly I clutch my forehead, I can’t slow the blood pounding my temples like fists. Enebish is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a sister. The one person I was certain I could never lose. She owes me everything. I have always been her everything.
And this is how she repays me.
You shouldn’t be surprised. You shouldn’t allow it to hurt you.
It doesn’t hurt me.
But as the wagon lurches forward, I see her dark eyes peering up at me through the smoke of her burning village in Verdenet. I feel her tremble in front of me on the saddle as we ride back to Sagaan. I hear her breathing even out with sleep, her thin body sinking into mine as if I’m the most comfortable bedroll she’s ever slept in.
“Enebish!” I scream her name again. I know she’s nearby. “At least have the courage to look me in the eye as you drive your knife into my back! How can you fight alongside the people who murdered your parents? How can you help them destroy the empire that gave you refuge? Do you realize what this means for Verdenet?”
She doesn’t answer, because she’s a coward. But that doesn’t mean she can’t hear me. I take a deep breath and continue shouting. I have enough accusations to fill the entire journey to Zemya. But after less than five minutes, the wagon creaks and a pale face fills the small, barred window on the door.
“Hold your tongue, or I’ll hold it for you,” a gruff voice threatens. I can only see the upper half of the man’s face. His eyes are the color of a glacier, framed by thick blond eyebrows, and pale patchy stubble covers his sallow cheeks. It’s hideous and unnatural, as if all the color was leached from his body as punishment for his wicked magic—just as the legends claim.
“If you want to silence me, come in here and do it!” I spit.
He chuckles and the sound sends gooseflesh racing up my arms. “They told me you were fiery. I’m delighted to see you’re living up to expectations. It will make our time together so much more interesting. As for your tongue … why would I come in there when I can quiet you from here?”
His bone-white hands slip through the bars, grasping for me. I scramble back, well beyond his reach, but his arms grow, stretching across the compartment like the taffy Mamá used to make each year on the Sky King’s birthday. I press myself against the farthest wall, but the Zemyan easily catches me. His knobby fingers squirm between my lips and grab my tongue.
I scream and claw at my mouth. The pain is staggering, blinding. It feels like the farriers’ tongs are wrenching my tongue. I have to make it stop. But my fingers find nothing to grab. There’s no hand inside my mouth, even though I can feel it there.
It’s all an illusion. His vile Zemyan magic.
I curse for a full minute, wishing it was in fact his hand. At least then I could bite him. When I finally run out of breath and fall silent, the pain abates. But the instant I open my mouth to resume yelling, the wrenching fingers return with a vengeance.
“You’ll quickly learn it’ll be much more pleasant if you cooperate,” the Zemyan says.
“Filthy, depraved sorcerer!” I yell, even though I know it will cost me. I need him to know I won’t cooperate. I will never cooperate.
I grip the iron bars and summon my ice, commanding them to bend, to shatter. Willing the entire wagon to explode. But of course it doesn’t. My palms don’t even feel cool against the metal. I emptied every reserve I had to save my traitorous warriors. It could take days, weeks, for my power to regenerate. If it ever does.
I sink back to the floor and seethe as the wagon lurches onward, league after league. Day after day. My captors don’t bother feeding me. Each night when we make camp, firelight flickers through the bars and the smell of roasting meat fills the air, but the Zemyans don’t fling even a splinter of bone my way. Instead they feed the excess to their dogs—small, mangy mongrels that gulp and snap loudly.
I make a vow, then and there. When I escape, I will roast those mutts on a spit and eat them for spite, savoring every sinewy morsel. Then I’ll whittle their bones into arrows and put them into the hearts of their masters.
The longer we travel, the warmer it grows. Wetness floods the air, blowing down my neck like a hot breath. The smells of salt and sand somehow overpower the putrid stench of the wagon.
The last time I breathed these foreign scents, I was the one leading the charge. Riding down from the Usinsk Pass on Tabana, the Kalima streaming behind me like a never-ending cloak as we stormed Karekemish. Not only did we breach the Zemyan capital, we advanced all the way to Empress Danashti’s seaside palace before we were finally driven back by their magic. The empress’s best sorcerers made it look as if the entire city were sinking into the sea, and we thought we would drown if we didn’t retreat.
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 9