Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology)

by Addie Thorley

  Hadassah sighs with exasperation. “Did he try anything else?”

  “Other than attempting to drown me in it? No. The water seemed to be his only plan.”

  “If he thinks nullifying your powers is the key to winning the war, he won’t stop until he’s found a way. Did he make threats or say anything that points to what he might try next?”

  “No. He didn’t give me a torture itinerary, unfortunately,” I say. Hadassah rolls her eyes. “He just asked about the Kalima’s numbers and rendezvous points—as if finding them will do any good. Then he scowled and repeated all of the tired old platitudes your people love about ensuring everyone has an equal opportunity in magic. Avenging and exalting Zemya. On and on and on.”

  Hadassah deflates. “That’s all?”

  I almost lie and say yes. I don’t want to believe I gave Kartok anything remotely helpful. But if I did, perhaps this Zemyan girl will understand his train of thought.

  I force the words out. “There’s one more thing. Before Kartok left, I said the only way to thwart our Kalima powers would be to stop us from receiving them. I meant it as a taunt. So he’d see the futility of his quest. But he thanked me for finally saying ‘something useful.’ ”

  “How could he sever your ability to receive power …?” Hadassah’s voice trails off.

  “He obviously can’t. It’s impossible,” I say. Because it has to be.

  But I don’t like the way the Zemyan girl’s forehead crumples, or how she worries her lip and mutters to herself as she leaves the throne room. As if she thinks it’s something he could actually accomplish.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ENEBISH

  THERE’S NOTHING TO DO BUT WAIT….

  For King Ihsan’s scouts to return and confirm our reports of Verdenet and Chotgor.

  For Minoak to wake and regain his strength.

  For the Zemyans and Shoniin to arrive and ruin everything.

  And I am the only one who seems worried or impatient.

  In an unexpected show of generosity, the Namagaans allow us to construct pens on the root pathways below the city, to house the goats and sheep. It feels entirely too permanent, but up the makeshift bars go, and the shepherds fall into the routine of this strange forest world. Every morning, a group of shepherds lead the animals from the pens to a clearing of swamp grass, with the help of Namagaan guides. The animals spend the day there grazing, then the shepherds bring them back into the swamp at sunset—so they can keep a close eye on them overnight, to ensure congregations of alligators or yellow-eyed reed panthers don’t attack.

  The process is inconvenient and unsustainable, but no matter how many hints I drop, reminding the shepherds of the beauty of the open grasslands and that traveling is their way of life, they wave away my remarks and assure me their animals are resilient. And that they themselves are not averse to change.

  “After the suffering we’ve endured these past months, our mindset has shifted,” Bultum explains when he returns from bringing in the sheep. “I finally see the appeal of having a permanent home and putting down roots.” He pats one of the large tree trunks and smiles. As if Namaag is that home and these trees are his roots.

  The other shepherds nod their agreement, and it leaves me so flabbergasted, I babble in starts and stops as I follow them back up to the canopy.

  “Doesn’t it bother you that the Namagaans plainly don’t want us here?” I ask Emani and Lalyne, along with several other shepherdesses, the next day as they sit at their wheels, spinning wool. “I hate how they stare at us through their windows and spy on us from behind branches but never offer greetings or help. I’ll be relieved when King Minoak recovers and we can return to a more normal existence, somewhere we won’t feel like burdensome outcasts.”

  “Where will that be?” Lalyne demands. “Where will we ever be welcome? You may be from Verdenet, but the rest of us aren’t. They may not be any more hospitable.”

  I have nothing to say to that.

  A week later I’m forced to swallow more complaints when the Namagaans finally venture down from their tree houses and become too friendly: showing us how to make buttonbush pastes and sea oat poultices to dress our wounds, how to mend holes in our tunics and tents with fibrous pondweed that’s stronger than cloth, and how to work the wonderous aqueducts. With the turn of a knob, water streams from above, as if summoned by a Rain Maker, washing away the day’s sweat and grime. With the lift of a lever, you can fill waterskins or wash dishes, accomplishing tasks in one tenth the amount of time it takes in Ashkar.

  In return, the shepherds roast lamb each day in the clearing, where it’s safe to build a fire, and the Namagaans happily feast on the new delicacies. They’re equally excited about the balls of raw wool that the weavers “magically” transform into yarn.

  I relay it all to King Minoak as I perch outside his window in a cocoon of darkness, praying one of these reports will be troubling enough to wake him. But he remains in a fitful, fevered sleep.

  “Doesn’t this concern you?” I finally break down and ask Serik at the close of our second week in the marshlands. We’re sitting on the edge of a platform, legs dangling through the rope railing, watching the marketplace below—where the shepherds are wearing colorful Namagaan head wraps and eagerly gathering chokeberries and hickory nuts. Some even help to prepare tree fowl and alligator for supper—things they will never cook again once we leave Namaag.

  Serik chuckles and gives me a puzzled look. “Why would this concern me? It’s exactly what we hoped for—kinship and camaraderie. When the scouts return and verify our claims, the Namagaans will be more likely to stand with us.”

  “But we’re getting too comfortable!” I wave at the disturbing scene below. “Just look at them. They practically look Namagaan. They’ll never agree to leave.”

  “First off, I think they’ve earned a little comfort after everything they’ve endured. And of course we’ll leave. If we don’t stand up to the Sky King and Zemyans, Namaag will be overtaken too. The shepherds know we can’t stay. We just have to hope the Namagaans will join us when we return to Verdenet. Try to relax and enjoy this small victory. We’ve had so few. Hopefully morale will be high when we do leave.”

  I mumble something that could pass for agreement, even though I’m more agitated than ever. Of course Serik doesn’t see the problem; like the shepherds, he’s settled into Namagaan life with frightening ease. He’s either rubbing elbows with their soldiers and groveling before King Ihsan, or down at water level with the fisherman, armed with a double-pronged spear. Turns out, his power is most useful for spotlighting the black speckled manta rays that swim through the water after dark.

  I am the only one who doesn’t fit here. The only one who isn’t being lulled into complacency. How many times must I remind them that Kartok and Temujin are coming? They could arrive any day!

  I invent an excuse about promising to help Azamat weave a palm-frond mat, but as soon as I’m out of Serik’s view, I head toward Yatindra and Murtaugh’s mansion. Ziva will share my restlessness. She never stops talking about marching to Verdenet—when she’s around. Disquiet dances down my spine when I realize I haven’t seen her in days. Well over a week. It’s almost as unsettling as the shepherds’ contentment. If even Ziva has lost her urgency, I might as well start unpacking.

  With twitching hands, I climb the treacherous ladder and practically run to the extravagant mansion. I tug on a braided rope dangling in the entry, so desperate to find Ziva, I foolishly assumed she would answer the door. My smile falters at the sight of Yatindra. Her smile flattens too, and it makes me feel instantly vindicated. Re-centered. There’s no need to put on pretenses here.

  “What do you want?” Yatindra asks, already closing the door. Despite her heavy Namagaan makeup, dark circles ring her eyes and she looks thinner than when we first arrived. She’s avoided us, but I’ve still seen her coming and going from the infirmary, dutifully visiting her brother. When she’s not perched at his bedside, she flutt
ers about the treetops to luncheons or scrawls invitations to tea or dinner on little yellow note cards that she personally delivers. As if the entire continent isn’t on the verge of collapse.

  “I’m looking for Ziva,” I say.

  Yatindra clucks her tongue. “So impudent, referring to the princess of your realm so casually.”

  “Ziva doesn’t care.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “Fetch her now and I will.”

  She shakes her head and tuts again. “I’m afraid my niece is busy.”

  “Doing what? Why do I never see her? Are you purposely keeping her from us?”

  Yatindra sighs heavily. “That would require me to actually think about you and your misfit caravan. Believe it or not, you aren’t a pressing concern of mine.”

  “Liar,” I accuse.

  Yatindra pretends not to hear me. “Zivana is a princess. She has many studies to attend to. Not to mention caring for her father, whom you failed to heal and protect while traveling here. I wouldn’t expect someone such as yourself to understand the demands put upon the leaders of a country.”

  “What do you have against us?” I finally blurt with exasperation. “We are here to help!”

  “Is it true you were allied with the rebel Temujin?” she fires back.

  The sound of his name knocks me so off balance, I have to catch myself against the door frame. “Where did you hear that name?” I demand. Even though there’s only one logical explanation: Ziva told her about the scout.

  “I see I’ve hit a nerve.” Yatindra grins. “Ihsan isn’t the only one with spies. Nor is he the only one who’s keen to know more about your claims and your ‘cause.’ ”

  I turn and walk away. I don’t have the energy to fight with her. And she’s no longer the main source of my fury.

  I walk until I find a quiet bridge, then I sit down and pluck the emerging threads of darkness out of the indigo and claret sky. Once I’ve gathered a fistful, I give them a fierce tug. I haven’t communicated with another Night Spinner through the darkness since Tuva died, and it feels like part of me has been trapped in a small, windowless room, screaming at the top of my voice. But now, finally, someone is there to listen.

  Even if it’s only Ziva.

  When she doesn’t respond immediately, I tug again and again and again, which might be slightly unfair—she doesn’t know how to reply. She probably didn’t even know it was possible to communicate through the darkness, but her ignorance isn’t my problem. I keep pulling and prodding until she finally responds with a disgruntled jerk.

  What?

  Her agitation makes me smile. It’s also gratifying to know that Yatindra didn’t win. She can’t keep me from talking to her niece.

  I want to interrogate Ziva about Temujin and, specifically, what she told her aunt, but I’ll get nowhere if I burst in with my sword brandished. So I form the darkness into an image of Yatindra slamming the door in my face and send it Ziva.

  It takes her an eternity to respond, and when she does, the image is crude and disjointed—like a child learning their letters. Though, I’m impressed she managed at all.

  She’s strong. Stronger than I’d like, if I’m honest.

  Her darkness expands above my face, forming a picture of her narrowed eyes and shaking head. Why did you visit Yatindra?

  I murmur my answer into the darkness. I was looking for you, but she refused to admit me. Do you know why?

  Ziva’s answer comes much quicker this time. Why were you looking for me?

  Because I haven’t seen you in days—

  And you missed me?

  I grumble at her cheeky retort, forgetting that the night’s still listening—and relaying my frustration.

  The tendrils shiver around me with Ziva’s laughter, and the single thread of patience I had snaps. Did you tell Yatindra about the Shoniin scout?

  The laughter stops abruptly. Why would you think that? Did you honestly seek me out to accuse me?

  Not originally. I wanted your help with keeping the shepherds from becoming too complacent, but then Yatindra mentioned Temujin. How would she know that name if you didn’t tell her?

  Ziva’s answers pelt me one after the next, like the blow darts the Namagaans use to hunt birds. How in the skies should I know? Rumors are always flying. Isn’t that the explanation you gave King Ihsan for knowing about the Protected Territories? But thanks for assuming the worst of me.

  I close my eyes and count to ten before responding. Trying to stay patient. If you haven’t told Yatindra about the scout, why is she investigating us?

  Maybe because she’s an intelligent woman who wants to know more about the strangers who arrived in her kingdom seeking an alliance. Wouldn’t you do the same?

  Yes, but I wouldn’t be so hostile about it. It’s almost like she wants us to fail.

  Just like the rest of us, right? Ziva doesn’t even try to disguise her accusation. According to you, we’re all untrustworthy.

  I squirm with discomfort, glad Ziva can’t actually see me through the threads of night.

  Yatindra is my family, Ziva continues with such ardent hope, I feel sorry for her.

  That doesn’t always mean as much as it should, I warn.

  Maybe not in your family, but it means something in mine. Yatindra is with us. Stop meddling.

  But—

  Good night, Enebish.

  Ziva releases the darkness and the threads of night collapse, pouring over me like a bucket of filthy brown swamp water.

  At long last, King Minoak wakes.

  Though, I don’t know if or when we would’ve been informed had I not been dutifully keeping watch from the branch outside the infirmary window.

  The moment I climb into the tree, I hear voices. And not just the bored chatter of the guards. There’s an entire choir’s worth of noise, ranging from sobbing to laughing to shrieking and giving thanks.

  Minoak is propped up in bed, haggard and dull-eyed, but alert enough to brush Yatindra’s fussing hands away. “Enough! You’re my sister, not my mother,” he says, voice scratchy with disuse and tinged with annoyance. Though, a broad smile overtakes his bearded face.

  “We both know Mother would have wrapped you head to toe in eucalyptus leaves and forced the entire country to kneel in prayer until you arose. My ministrations are mild by comparison.” Yatindra reaches out and smooths a lock of graying hair behind his ear. Minoak grumbles but his smile grows.

  “The Namagaan look suits you.” He tugs on one of her long cattail braids. “I’ve always meant to visit.”

  “Don’t lie. Ziva had to drag you here—literally.”

  “When did you get so strong?” He turns to Ziva, who’s sitting on the bed beside him, tucked beneath his arm. Minoak’s gaze is the definition of tenderness, and tears glisten in his eyes as he gazes down at his daughter. “You saved me, my brave, beautiful girl.”

  Ziva bursts into tears and lays her head in his lap. The jostling makes him flinch, but when Ziva tries to pull away, he holds her there. His big, weathered fingers skim across her cheek.

  “On behalf of Namaag, welcome back to the land of the living,” King Ihsan says. He stands at the foot of the bed with Murtaugh. Behind them, Ruya and five soldiers, as well as a handful of dignitaries, line the wall.

  So much for only permitting the royal family to visit.

  “We have much to discuss,” the Marsh King continues. “I’ve received some very interesting reports from my scouts.”

  My stomach drops as if the branch snapped beneath my feet. When did his scouts return? What did they report? And why weren’t we informed? It takes all of my restraint not to fling myself through the window and interrogate him.

  “King Ihsan is going to help us seize Lutaar City from the imperial governor,” Ziva cuts in.

  Murtaugh turns so pale, it looks like he should be laid out on one of the sickbeds, but Ihsan laughs heartily. “Your daughter is quite the politician, Minoak.”

  “Skies, Ziv
ana!” Yatindra scolds. “Don’t pester your father about marching into battle when he isn’t even well enough to stand. There will be plenty of time for our kings to discuss these things and form a plan. You needn’t worry yourself over such heavy matters any longer.”

  Her smooth dismissal of Ziva makes me bristle, but I don’t know if it’s because her comments warrant suspicion, because I simply don’t like Yatindra, or because I am suspicious and distrustful, looking for betrayal in every little word.

  Ziva doesn’t seem troubled in the slightest. She smiles and rolls her eyes as Yatindra ruffles her curls. Making me doubt myself more than ever. Prompting me not to breathe a word about Minoak’s revival to Serik or the shepherds, lest I look like a paranoid spy. Which is feeling more accurate every minute.

  When King Ihsan finally announces the good news two days later, I act as surprised and overjoyed as the rest of the shepherds—hugging and toasting with sap wine at the celebration held in Minoak’s honor. The cooks prepare both Namagaan and Verdenese delicacies, and a trio of our very own shepherds, including Serik, play lively dance songs on fiddles.

  Halfway through the revelry, King Minoak shuffles out onto a high platform overlooking the chaos. He still requires the aid of two healers and a cane, but when he takes his place beside Ihsan, you’d think he was an illustrious warrior marching across the battlefield, the way the crowd roars.

  “We are celebrating more than the recovery of this great man,” Ihsan booms. “Today also marks the birth of an even deeper alliance between Namaag and Verdenet.”

  Serik takes my hand and squeezes, his eyes as bright as the lightning bugs buzzing in the jars overhead. “It’s really happening.”

  I squeeze back, finally letting myself smile. Finally releasing the breath I’ve been holding since we left Sagaan. I hadn’t realized how close I was to suffocating until the rush of fresh air hits my lungs. It’s so light and invigorating, I tilt my head back and yell at the top of my voice. I stomp my feet and chant with the writhing mass of shepherds.