She scampers across two swinging bridges and up an impossibly tall ladder to one of the largest treetop estates. I lag farther and farther behind, heaving for breath. This skies-forsaken city wasn’t made for people with injuries like mine. Thankfully, I manage to keep the princess in my sights, despite my slow, methodical pace. If I push myself too hard, I’ll stumble and fall and it will bring Ruya and every Namagaan soldier running. They’ll think I’m spying—which I am. But not on them.
My ascent up the ladder is slow and agonizing. The rungs are steep and I have to rest every few steps. By the time I finally reach the top, I’m so out of breath and out of sorts, I don’t notice Ziva’s round face hovering directly in front of mine.
“Why are you following me?” she demands.
I yelp and nearly tumble down the ladder, dangling for a terrifying moment before my fingernails sink into the wood. “Why are you creeping around like a bandit?” I accuse once I’m nose to nose with Ziva again.
“I just needed to retrieve my bag.” She slings the satchel off her shoulder and shakes it. “Is that all right with you?”
“That depends on why you felt the need to retrieve it while everyone was sleeping.”
“Because Yatindra said it would be better not to upset the group. She said it would look like I’m abandoning you if I’m seen leaving with all of my things.”
“Why would Yatindra care about upsetting us? She wasn’t concerned about our feelings in the banquet hall.”
Ziva glowers at me. “She is the reason we were admitted into Namaag. Show some gratitude. And I’m not the one who announced that we’re uncertain where to go and what to do next. If anyone is deceiving the group, it’s you.” She hefts her pack back onto her shoulder. “Are we done here?”
“I only said that because I didn’t want to trouble King Ihsan and seem too demanding when we’d only just arrived. And I don’t want to negotiate an alliance in front of the entire caravan. You’ve seen how they are.”
Ziva shakes her head like a disappointed parent. “You still refuse to trust any of us. Does Serik know you’re out here? Spying on me?”
“No. And he doesn’t need to know. This is between you and me. Just please, please, for the love of the Lady and Father, don’t do or say anything foolish. Don’t sabotage our negotiations and don’t utter a word about the Shoniin scout. No one can know we were spotted. Not even Yatindra.”
“Would you like to accompany me inside to make sure I mind my manners?” Ziva points at the mansion towering above us.
I grumble and start back down the ladder.
Once I reach our barracks, I shimmy beneath my blanket and command myself to sleep, but I can’t stop tossing and turning. Worrying about Ziva. And the Shoniin scout. And King Ihsan. And all of these shepherds, who look so grateful and content.
When the rustling of blankets finally marks the beginning of a new day, I feel even more exhausted than I did while trekking across the desert. Serik, however, sighs and stretches like a lazy cat—back arched and fingers kneading the blankets.
“I haven’t slept that well since I ‘accidentally’ locked myself in the abba’s chamber while cleaning his commode. Naturally, I had no choice but to sleep on his feathered bed while they dismantled the lock.” He looks at me with dancing eyes, and I try to summon a scandalized smile, but he recoils with a jerk. “Bleeding skies, En, you look awful.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say.
He scoots closer, making my skin prickle with heat. “You don’t need to worry so much. Things are finally looking up. For the first time in weeks, the shepherds are calm and hopeful, and I think King Ihsan will be amenable to our proposition with a bit of convincing.” He swings an arm around my shoulders and draws me even closer. “We’re doing everything right.”
Not me. I snuck out and followed Ziva just last night.
That’s what I should say.
But I can’t. Not when he’s looking at me with those soft hazel eyes. Not when I can feel his breath skimming across my face. So I say nothing at all.
An hour later Ruya and her stone-faced comrades escort us back to the Marsh King’s study, where we first met him. Today Ihsan has opted to wear a simple leaf-embroidered tunic rather than his dressing gown. A definite improvement, but I’d hardly call it regal. And he sits in a shabby leather armchair, so soft it nearly swallows him. A fire roars in the hearth and an array of honeyed scones and nutty muffins are laid out alongside a pitcher of liquid that smells like sap. Ihsan even smiles good-naturedly, as if we’re visiting dignitaries rather than hunted refugees.
The ruse no longer works on me. Not after last night.
“Please, help yourself.” Ihsan gestures to the spread, but my eyes immediately stray to the hundreds of framed insects adorning the walls. Creatures I’ve never seen before with needle-thin noses and long, spindly legs that have been stretched beyond their limits. Delicate, opalescent wings have been punctured and held down with pins. It has the macabre air of a torture chamber, enhanced by the presence of a small white alligator curled up like a cat beside Ihsan. Its pink, milky eyes watch us, and it hisses when we approach the king, showing rows of razor-like teeth.
“Hush, Alamacus,” the Marsh King says with an indulgent tut. “These are our guests.”
The word guests has never sounded quite so menacing. I dart a glance at Serik, but he, of course, is already piling a plate with pastries and asking questions about the alligator as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
I give the reptile a wide berth, pluck a roll from the tray, and settle into one of the simple wooden chairs set out for the rest of us. Murtaugh, Yatindra, and Ziva sweep into the room a moment later. Murtaugh arranges himself beside the king like a stone-faced sculpture, but Yatindra and Ziva cross the study to join me. I scour Yatindra’s face for any indication that she knows more than she should. Proof that Ziva let our secrets slip. But her face is placid, her smile serene, as they take the chairs across from me.
“I trust you slept well, Enebish?” Ziva asks through a large mouthful of scone.
“Like the dead. A thief could have crept in and robbed us and I wouldn’t have known it,” I say, even though I can feel Serik’s confused gaze from across the room.
King Ihsan stands and clears his throat, motioning for Serik to take the seat beside me. “We have much to discuss, and since King Minoak can’t participate in this council, his daughter has volunteered to represent him, under the guidance of her aunt and uncle. I presume you have no objection to this?” The Marsh King looks to us.
Oh, I have plenty of objections. Namely, we have no idea what she and Yatindra discussed last night. This could be a setup. But I shake my head.
“These are most unusual circumstances,” King Ihsan continues, pacing slowly through the center of the room—me and Serik on one side, Ziva and Yatindra on the other. Murtaugh and Alamacus stand sentinel at either end. “Never, in the history of Namaag, have refugees from Verdenet and Ashkar appeared in our swamp, seemingly bound together in purpose. My question is, what is that purpose?”
Ziva hurries to swallow an enormous bite and scoots to the edge of her seat, but Ihsan holds up a hand. “I am well aware of your views, Miss Yimeni. You made them quite clear last night. I want to hear from them.” He turns and peers down at me and Serik.
“I know these are strange circumstances, Your Majesty.” Serik stands and smooths his tunic, even though it’s wrinkled and soiled beyond hope. “And we shall elucidate on your every concern, but first we’d like to thank you for this munificent reception.” He’s using that strange, official tone again, and he tries to mimic the complicated bow the Namagaans perform when addressing their king—a combination of elaborate arm waving and crisscrossed legs. When the Namagaans do it, they look like a dove gently touching down on a branch. When Serik does it, he looks like an eagle crashing into a finch’s nest.
It’s so bumbling, it’s kind of adorable. But I’m the only one who thinks so. Ziva,
Yatindra, Murtaugh, and even the king himself, look a breath away from laughter. I want to smack the cruel smirks off their faces. At least Serik’s making an effort.
You don’t have to overcompensate, I want to tell him. Just be yourself.
But that, right there, is the problem. In Serik’s mind, he has never been good enough.
“It all began with the shepherds freezing and starving on the winter grazing lands outside of Sagaan,” Serik resumes. “They usually endure the winter months on those fields with the help of Sun Stokers, but the Sky King withheld the Sun Stokers this year, then refused to provide shelter or aid. So we led the group south, toward Verdenet—where Enebish is from—with the hope we could appeal to King Minoak for refuge, in return for our help retaking Lutaar City from the imperial governor.”
“Who attempted to murder my father!” Ziva jumps to her feet, but Yatindra places a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder and pulls her back down.
“How did you know Lutaar City was seized?” Murtaugh asks. “We’ve heard nothing of it, and our relations are strong.” He points to his Verdenese wife.
“There were rumors …” I say, hating how flimsy it sounds.
“You dragged hundreds of people across the grasslands during winter based on a rumor?” King Ihsan stares at us, his craggy face pinched with disapproval. But he doesn’t understand. I knew it was more than just a rumor. Temujin may have lied about many things—nearly everything—but he wouldn’t lie about Verdenet.
“Technically, it isn’t a rumor if it’s true,” Ziva says matter-of-factly, and for the first time since meeting her, I appreciate her infuriating bravado. “The Sky King tried to have my father assassinated.”
“How do you know it was the Sky King and not a random mercenary?” King Ihsan demands.
“Because I was there! I drove a blade into the assassin’s back. I saw his blue-and-gold livery. The imperial governor’s voice filled the downstairs hall, for skies’ sake! They didn’t even attempt to hide their treachery.”
King Ihsan appraises the girl with greater interest. “You killed your father’s assailant?”
Ziva crosses her arms and attempts to scowl, but her lip quivers.
“Even prior to the assassination attempt,” I cut in, “the Sky King had been ravaging Verdenet—stripping the people of their culture and customs, forcing them to fight a war they had no stake in and no prayer of winning.”
“It’s true.” Ziva nods at me from across the aisle. “We were never treated with respect or given the protection we were promised.”
“And it’s the same in Chotgor,” I say. “They’re more like conquered slaves than imperial citizens.”
“Has this ‘situation’ in Chotgor been confirmed or is this another rumor?” Murtaugh asks archly, which earns him exasperated looks from me and Serik. “And I still don’t see how this has anything to do with you and your shepherds.”
“It has everything to do with us!” Heat radiates from Serik like the desert sun. “The Sky King exploited and turned his back on the shepherds, just as he’s done in Verdenet and Chotgor. And he’ll do the same to Namaag, too, if you sit back and do nothing to stop him. Our only prayer of salvaging our independence is together—united. The Imperial Army would lose three-quarters of its strength without the warriors conscripted from the Protected Territories. The empire would face the real possibility of falling to Zemya, putting us in a position to make demands of the Sky King.”
There’s a good chance we’ll fall to Zemya no matter who unites, but I don’t mention this. It might prompt Ihsan to continue to side with the Sky King. The alliance has kept his people safe in the past.
“How is any of this Namaag’s concern?” Murtaugh says. “If the other territories are being mistreated, it’s no one’s fault but their own. They shouldn’t have allowed the Sky King to gain such a firm hold. Make him respect you.”
“We didn’t allow anything!” I think Ziva’s going to throw her half-eaten scone at her uncle, but Yatindra grabs her wrist.
“Breathe, Ziva. Remember what we talked about.”
“The rest of the continent doesn’t have the same bargaining power as Namaag,” Serik explains, staying remarkably composed. “The Sky King is dependent on your aqueducts, so he’s had to respect you, but don’t believe for one second that you’re safe. Once he’s drained Chotgor and Verdenet of people and resources, the Sky King will come for you.”
“You cannot scare us into aligning with you based on these unfounded, and frankly ridiculous, claims,” Murtaugh says sharply, as if that’s the end of the conversation.
But King Ihsan taps his fingers against the side of his face and paces silently for a moment. “I don’t mean to sound dismissive,” he finally says, “but if your claims are true, do you honestly expect to succeed with an army of ravaged, war-torn people? Greater numbers do not always amount to greater strength.”
I force my lips into a smile, but my face feels as if it’s fracturing into tiny pieces. Because our situation is even grimmer than he knows. “I know we can succeed,” I say, “but only with Namaag’s strength and leadership.”
Murtaugh shakes his head sternly and leans forward to whisper into the king’s ear. Ihsan’s dark brow lowers and the tangle of dread in my gut knots tighter. If he doesn’t agree, we’re finished. Dead at the hands of the Sky King or the Zemyans. It hardly matters which.
Finally Ihsan says, “Allow me to consider it for a time. The Sky King has been slow to respond to my missives. And our shipment of Ashkarian goods hasn’t arrived for two weeks. I’d like to make some inquiries.”
Murtaugh looks like he’s going to crash into the swamp like a felled tree. “Your Majesty!”
Yatindra glares at her husband while Ziva flops back into her chair with a satisfied grin.
King Ihsan ignores all of it. “I also wish to send scouts to ascertain the conditions in the other territories and validate your claims before I make my decision.”
Serik nods diplomatically, but I squirm in my chair and blurt, “That will take weeks.”
“Is that a problem?” Ihsan turns back to me.
Serik’s fingers clamp around my wrist and tighten with warning. “No, of course not,” I whisper, lowering my chin.
“It isn’t wise to rush such important decisions,” the Marsh King continues. “If we are going to form a tightly knit alliance, I want to know you as well as I know my own kin. So, please, make yourselves at home in the treetops.” He holds out his arms as if he’s offering us a magnificent gift. But the glint in his bark-brown eyes feels less like an invitation and more like a warning.
Or a threat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GHOA
I STARE AT THE ZEMYAN SORCERER, HATING HIS SMUG, thin-lipped smile. How he glances over one shoulder, then the other, making a show of looking for my ice dagger. He even pats the blue papered walls and rustles the elaborate tapestries adorning the throne room, though it’s obvious that the blade I forged is gone.
It vanished.
But how?
Zemyans can manipulate the weave of the world to conceal things that do exist or to create replicas of things that don’t. But never, in twelve years of battle, have I seen a Zemyan stamp out something that I know for a fact was corporeal.
It isn’t possible.
Yet, Kartok stands before me, unharmed.
“How did you do that?” I shout.
“How did I do what?” His grin becomes even more oily. “Did you misplace something, Commander?”
I raise my hands and direct every morsel of strength I have left into my palms, to forge another blade and prove I’m not losing my mind. But my cold is so depleted, steam instead of ice rises from my hands.
Kartok lowers into one of the ornate council chairs and crosses his long legs, hands resting on his knee. “You and your sister are so alike. Rage all you’d like, Ice Herald. It only benefits me.”
I scramble to my feet and lunge at him with a furious roar. “I a
m nothing like my sister! I will never use my power for you!” He’s so thin and rangy, I should be able to snap him in half, but I’m even slower and clumsier than a magic-barren warrior. He slides his chair a fraction to the left, and I hit the slippery floor. My momentum carries me into the wall. The crunch of my nose reverberates through my skull, and as I curse and writhe, a hanging tapestry rattles loose. It covers me like a death shroud, making me scream even louder, because I’m nose to nose with the Sky King. His face flawlessly rendered in peach and gold threads.
Condemning me. Smothering me.
I fight against the cloth. It’s surprisingly heavy, or maybe I’ve become pitifully weak. Either way, I can’t claw my way free. Can’t hide from those searing eyes.
You failed me. You failed Ashkar.
Finally Kartok ambles over and peels back the tapestry. He looks down at me, not even attempting to suppress his peevish grin. “All of this flailing is quite unnecessary. I only want to run a few little tests. You’ll hardly feel a thing.”
“I’d rather skip to the part where you kill me.” I’d been so certain he would execute me as soon as we arrived in Karekemish—make a spectacle of my death for his empress and the throng of bloodthirsty Zemyans. So when it didn’t happen, I was momentarily relieved. But now I see it for the misfortune it is. I don’t want to die. But I want to be Kartok’s test subject even less.
He circles me like the sharks undoubtedly prowling the water surrounding this prison and retrieves a waterskin from the folds of his robe. “I presume you’re familiar with tales of our sacred hot spring?” he asks.
I eye the waterskin swinging like a pendulum from his bony fingers. “If by ‘sacred hot spring’ you mean ‘diabolical pool of unnatural magic,’ yes.”
Kartok doesn’t take the bait. He stands taller and speaks to the ceiling with reverence that borders on fanaticism. “We may not be born with power, but that doesn’t make our abilities any less valid. Quite the opposite. Zemya created our powers through persistence and innovation. Characteristics she passed along to her people—we are hungry and hardworking because we have to be. Instead of hoarding Her power and bestowing it on a select few, Zemya gave each of us equal opportunity to succeed by transferring Her magic into the hot spring and allowing all to drink. We are the masters of our own fate, depending on how hard we are willing to work.”
Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Page 12