She stands, makes a vain attempt to smooth her rumpled red dress, and finally addresses the rest of us. “I am Yatindra Yimeni, daughter of Verdenet and wife of Namaag. Thank you for aiding my family. You have my deepest thanks and are welcome to stay for a time to recover from your efforts. May I see my brother?”
The shepherds part. Yatindra passes through our ranks and kneels beside the litter. “It’s about time you came to visit me,” she chokes out, touching Minoak’s face. Her fingers continue down his bloody garments, and she gasps into the back of her hand. He stirs at the sound. Not fully waking, but a subtle change of breath. A tiny sign of life, which makes her cry even harder.
“We must tend these wounds at once.” She directs the shepherds responsible for the litter to follow her down one of the swaying bridges, and Ziva trails behind them. Before they disappear into the dense foliage, Yatindra calls back to us, “I’ll return for the rest of you once he’s settled with the healers.”
I want to object. She can’t just leave us here, surrounded by soldiers in an unfamiliar land. But she does.
The soldier who escorted us into the city steps forward, looking even more imposing with her orange-cloaked brigade behind her. They’re armed with reed-thin spears and small, sleek bows fitted to their wrists. Weapons that can zip easily through the trees.
“Follow us,” she barks.
Serik steps forward, his face tight with a forced smile. “Yatindra instructed—”
“I don’t serve Yatindra. I serve King Ihsan, who will want to meet you.” She jabs her spear at the nearest shepherds. As they wail and stumble down the swaying rope bridge, I want to reach for the night, craving that added protection. But I release the tendrils before they blacken the marsh. If we want to make an alliance with the Namagaans, we cannot present as a threat.
We also can’t present as a pitiful group of yowling refugees, but there’s nothing to be done about that right now.
The soldiers prod us deeper and deeper into the canopy. Chattering voices join the cacophony of birdsong and vibrant colors flash behind the leaves. Curious Namagaans trail us. Watching us. But no one emerges to greet us from the homes and shops crowding every branch. And the common areas they’ve constructed by connecting the platforms of close-standing trees are newly deserted. Meals left half finished. Riderless swings swaying.
King Ihsan’s palace is built around a particularly large tree, each level stacked atop the next, clear to the thinnest branches. I have no idea how they can bear the weight and I have no interest in journeying up there. Just looking at the far-off windows puts me back in the spire salon, crashing against the frozen glass. Leaping from the balcony.
All to save a traitor.
I expect the soldiers to herd us into an extravagant throne room that could rival the Sky King’s, but the commander raps on a humble door made of bark with a quaint apple knob. A scrawny man with thinning hair opens it and squints into the morning.
“Ruya? What is the meaning of this?” Sleep lines crisscross the man’s cheeks and his voice is still rough.
I wait for her to snap at the servant to run and fetch the king, but she brings her fist to her forehead and bows.
“Pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty?
Shocked whispers ripple through our company. What sort of king answers his own door? And in his dressing gown! I take in his scruffy robe and drooping socks. The dim light of the room behind him shows a modest fireplace and a simple desk littered with books.
“These refugees arrived unannounced and wish to seek asylum in our city,” Ruya resumes. “I knew you would want to address the issue yourself, since there are so many of them. It seems overtly suspicious.”
“Yes.” The Marsh King eyes us. “Especially when they look so … menacing.” He studies our dirty faces and threadbare clothes and the lambs wriggling in the shepherds’ arms.
“Precisely,” Ruya says.
King Ihsan bites back a smile and pats Ruya’s shoulder. “Excellent work. You may go. I’ll determine what’s to be done with these intruders.”
Ruya hesitates. “Don’t think me impertinent, Your Majesty, but—”
“I’d only think you impertinent if you suggest I cannot handle this matter on my own.”
“Of course not, my liege. Forgive me.” Ruya bows and leads the other soldiers back across the bridge.
King Ihsan leans against the door frame and raises a silver brow at us. “Well?” It’s the least formal, most unkingly action I’ve ever witnessed. “Have you come to lay siege to my kingdom? Or steal my jewels? Or perhaps you plan to attack me with your rabid sheep?” He chuckles at a little lamb, bleating as it totters across a bridge.
Serik steps forward, and a swell of pride fills my chest as he wets his lips and pulls his shoulders back. “We mean you no harm,” he says in a practiced, official tone. “We are humble refugees from Ashkar, simple—”
“Wait, let me guess,” Ihsan cuts in. “Shepherds?”
“How could you tell?” Serik asks, so focused on impressing the king that he seems to have forgotten the frightened animals literally knocking around our feet.
King Ihsan laughs and slaps Serik on the shoulder. “I like you. You’re funny. Come, let’s chat in the dining hall. Minerva will fix you all something to eat. It looks as if you’ve been through a lot.”
More than a few of the shepherds break down with tears, and Serik blurts out, “You’re receiving us, just like that?”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” For the first time, the king’s eyes flash with a spark of warning. It’s visible only for an instant before a jolly grin takes its place. But it was there, like a leopard crouched in the treetops.
Ever hungry.
Ever ready.
Serik’s throat bobs and his eyes flit toward Ruya and the soldiers, standing in rigid lines a few trees over.
“Oh, don’t mind Ruya,” King Ihsan says. “She’s a bit overzealous, but I indulge her. No harm in letting our enemies believe we’re fiercer than we are.”
His quip is charming and self-deprecating, and it makes Serik and the others laugh. But it makes my hackles rise and my palms grow slick. Because the Namagaans are fierce. They must be, to have commanded such respect and independence from the Sky King. We need them to be fierce if they’re going to be of any help liberating the Protected Territories and defeating Zemya. Yet here we are, speaking to the king in his dressing gown. Receiving a warm welcome without a hint of hesitation or suspicion.
I don’t like it.
You’re doing it again, Serik’s voice cautions. Creating trouble where there isn’t any.
But being overly kind is its own form of warfare, and while the rest of our entourage cheers and rushes into the palace, I systematically catalog each bridge and platform and ladder. Locating every potential exit—just in case we need it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ENEBISH
KING IHSAN’S PALACE IS ENORMOUS, WITH VAULTED CEILINGS that seem to soar higher than the canopy, even though I know there are still dozens of floors above us. We pass sitting rooms hung with garlands of embroidered leaves, the colors changing to mimic the four seasons, and a ballroom made of wood so dark, I can see my awed reflection staring back. It all feels too large and grand to be suspended from branches.
Ihsan proudly points out the armory and the royal gallery, featuring the work of Namaag’s most renowned carvers, and he regales the awestruck group with the history of the royal palace and family. At last, we enter a spacious banquet hall with lengthy tables made of split tree trunks, with toadstool cushions for sitting. I sink into the squishy comfort and sigh much louder than I mean to. Thankfully, everyone else is sighing too. And the sighs grow even louder when the food arrives: roasted chestnuts and acorns, spicy blackened alligator and a wide variety of tree fowl and fish I’ve never tasted before. I eat and eat and eat, wiping my mouth on my sleeve and sloshing sap wine down my front. For weeks I’ve been telling mysel
f that sacrificing my rations doesn’t affect me, but that was a glaring lie.
I glance down the packed table and grin when I spot Serik. He’s elbow deep in grease and crumbs, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of huckleberry pudding into his mouth.
Ziva and Yatindra join us halfway through the feast, along with her dour-faced husband, Murtaugh. They look on with horror as we chomp and slurp like animals. “Are you going to devour the table as well?” Yatindra asks.
“Happily if it tastes this fine!” Bultum calls.
Everyone laughs and Ihsan smiles proudly. “Our delicious cuisine is just one of Namaag’s many strengths.”
A middle-aged woman with flour-dusted cheeks beams as she bustles around replacing the empty platters.
“So, where exactly are you from?” Yatindra asks no one in particular before daintily sipping a spoonful of soup.
“Everywhere and nowhere,” Iree says. “We’re herders, so we wander the tundra, chasing the best grazing lands and weather.”
“Fascinating,” Yatindra says, but her pinched lips say otherwise.
“Sounds burdensome to me,” Murtaugh adds through a mouthful of stew.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” King Ihsan booms. “Imagine all the places you’d see. All the people you’d meet. The excitement of never knowing where you’re going to lay your head next.”
Yatindra dabs her lips with a napkin. “So then where will you go when you leave us?”
Serik and I exchange a glance across the table. The timing feels wrong, asking them to join our cause immediately, when they’ve already taken us in and provided this feast. Plus, we don’t exactly look like desirable allies at the moment. I also don’t want to get into the specifics with the entire caravan present. There are too many loud voices and strident opinions.
“We’re not entirely sure,” I start. “It depends on several variables—”
“What do you mean you’re not sure?” Ziva interjects, her spoon clattering to the table. “As soon as Papa’s well, we’re returning to Verdenet to depose the imperial governor and retake the country. That’s been the plan all along.”
Yatindra chokes on her soup and gawps down at her niece. “You intend to confront the imperial governor with these people?”
“Why would you confront the empire at all? They’re our allies.” Murtaugh glares across the table at us, his tree-bark face suddenly crinkled with twice as many lines.
Serik gives a little cough. “There have been some complicated developments recently….”
But Ziva jumps to her feet, slashing her butter knife like a saber. “The empire is not our ally. Allies don’t attempt to murder your king and seize your capital.”
“What are you talking about?” King Ihsan’s cheery expression flattens.
The tangle of side conversations ceases, and every eye in the banquet hall darts between the Namagaan king and the Verdenese princess.
I want to bang my head against the table—after wringing Ziva’s neck. I try to shoot her a threatening glare, but of course she won’t look at me. Yatindra’s eyes, however, flay me open like the fish now languishing on my plate. “You intend to drag my brother and niece back to Lutaar City after they barely escaped with their lives? You’re not even soldiers!”
“We’re not dragging them anywhere,” I explain, but King Ihsan shouts over me.
“Who has been assassinated, and why is this the first I’ve heard of it?”
“You haven’t heard anything because the double-crossing empire doesn’t want you to know,” Ziva cries, as if rousing troops to battle. “Then they can come for you next.”
King Ihsan stands, suddenly looking a head taller and far fiercer than he did just minutes before. The entire room goes still, save for old Azamat, who continues gnawing on a pigeon bone. “These are bold accusations,” the king mutters.
“Forgive us, Your Majesty.” I march down the table, grab a fistful of Ziva’s fresh Namagaan tunic—how nice, she got to change while the rest of us remain filthy—and tug her out of her chair.
“What are you doing?” She claws at my arm.
I drag her toward the door. “Our travels have been long and difficult,” I plead with King Ihsan. “We’re clearly exhausted and raving. Perhaps we can retire and discuss these matters after we’ve rested?”
He stares at us for a good ten seconds without blinking. Finally he nods and tersely rings a bell. Less than a minute later Ruya arrives with her battalion of grim-faced soldiers.
“Zivana will be staying with me.” Yatindra rises and wrenches Ziva from my grip, but I dig my fingers into Ziva’s dress. I’m not about to let her leave, not when she’s the reason we’re being dismissed.
“Let her go,” Serik murmurs. “It’s better this way. Everyone just needs to calm down.”
“But she can’t keep her mouth shut,” I hiss. It’s bad enough that Ziva broke the news about the situation in Verdenet. If she breathes a word about the Shoniin scout, we’ll be cast out immediately. Or executed.
Ruya bangs the blunt end of her spear against the floor. “Out. All of you.”
“All of us?” Iree cries. “But it isn’t our fault Enebish—”
Ruya bangs her spear again and points us out of the dining hall.
The shepherds moan loudly and shoot me murderous glares as the soldiers escort us through the treetops with even more contempt and suspicion than before. Only now, no one intervenes on our behalf: not the Marsh King and definitely not Yatindra or Murtaugh, who are whispering furiously with Ziva in the corner.
The soldiers herd us across several swaying bridges to a series of barracks that will house us for the night. The wooden floors are hard and the woven palm frond blankets are scratchy, but it’s so much more comfortable than everything we’ve endured the past month, the shepherds eventually settle and stop squawking about the disrupted feast.
Serik huffs down beside me with an exhausted groan. “Well, we were off to a good start. King Ihsan is much more hospitable than I expected.”
“He was hospitable,” I growl, viciously tugging the strings of my boots. “Ziva ruined everything. Like I knew she would.”
Serik reaches over and places a steadying hand atop mine. Then he helps me unknot my laces—my bad arm refuses to cooperate when I’m agitated. “I actually don’t think she ruined anything,” he says.
“Were you in the same banquet hall as the rest of us? It was a disaster! We were dismissed.”
“For now. But surely Ihsan realizes we’re tired and scared and emotions are running high. Once we sit down in a more intimate setting and explain the larger picture, I think Ziva’s fierceness could be seen as a good thing. As long as her father shares her sentiment when he wakes. Who wouldn’t want such passionate allies?”
I let out a disgruntled sigh and lie back on the floor, tugging the itchy blanket over my head. “Passion is only helpful when it’s accompanied by levelheadedness.”
“Would you classify either of us as levelheaded?” Serik asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice. I grumble incoherently, and he laughs. “Don’t give up on Ziva just yet. I think she might surprise us.”
“I’m trying,” I whisper after a beat.
“I know you are.” Serik lies down beside me, close enough for me to see the slightest hint of pink returning beneath his freckles. Close enough I could reach over and gently smooth away the worry lines between his brows. And close enough to feel the balminess of his heat, which he doesn’t have to share with anyone.
For the first time in weeks, he can truly rest.
My heart flutters with tenderness as I watch him settle into sleep.
All around us, the shepherds are drifting off or talking quietly, happily, about the food and accommodations. Praying we get to stay at least a little longer. Overhead, lightning bugs buzz in jars strung from the ceiling, knocking against the glass like drunkards. Every time they do, the night judders away from the flare of light, and my eyes begin to droop as I watch the
playful back-and-forth. The sky deepens, darkens, and the tendrils of night dance down from the ceiling, gliding lower and lower until they settle around me like fog.
I’ve nearly drifted off to sleep, wrapped in their inky embrace, when the threads are suddenly, and clumsily, sucked away. Shock seizes my lungs—even more abrupt than having your blanket ripped off on a chilly night—and my eyes snap open. I force my body to hold perfectly still as I scan the room for Ziva, who chose not to return with us—until now.
When the entire group is sleeping.
Tingles ignite my throat, but I resist the urge to yank the darkness out of her hands. Through slitted eyes, I watch her tiptoe between the sleeping shepherds, ducking down every so often. At last, she lifts a parcel, slings it over her shoulder, and makes her way back across the barrack.
The tension knotting my shoulders abates and I finally take a breath. She’s just retrieving her belongings. But if that’s the case, why creep around? She could have easily come while we were awake.
Suspicion hammers my breastbone as she slinks around the shepherds sleeping near the door. The buzzing in my limbs is intense. Overwhelming. Get up, it says. This isn’t right. But my gaze darts over to Serik, resting peacefully beside me, and guilt weighs me down like a soaked wool blanket. I turn away from the door. Close my eyes. Command myself to go back to sleep and ignore Ziva. I don’t care what she’s doing. Following her will only stir up more trouble.
But as the door whispers shut, the churning in the pit of my stomach becomes unbearable—like a starving sand cat gnawing at my bones. It reminds me of the monster I was so certain lived inside me. A monster I spent two years hiding from. A monster that turned out to be nothing more than a natural instinct to fight and protect myself. A warning of sorts.
Yes, I need to trust my allies, but I also need to trust my gut. And my gut says Ziva’s up to something.
I wiggle out of my itchy blanket and tiptoe to the door, not bothering to conceal myself with the night. First, because Ziva would notice. And second, because I don’t need to. She’s so focused on being silent and holding the darkness steady, I can trail her like an ordinary shadow.
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