Ghoa sends us off with an enthusiastic wave, but her other hand worries that strip of leather at her hip. “One of my warriors will be waiting at the crossroads,” she calls. “Give the birds to her and come directly back. No dawdling, no detours, and no going into Sagaan.”
“We know.” Serik waves over his shoulder. “All business. No fun.”
But just being out here, in the wide-open space, will be more fun than either of us have had in ages.
We’ve been walking for less than ten minutes when Serik peers down at my leg. Already it throbs to the beat of the mule’s hooves and we’re hardly down the first hill. I ball my hands into fists and silently curse my wounds. It seems like a different lifetime, or another person entirely, who marched in full armor across these endless fields. Now I can hardly keep up with this poor gray beast that stumbles over every pothole.
“Are we going too fast?” Serik pulls back on the mule’s rope, but I smack his wrist with my staff.
“I’ll tell you if I need to slow down,” I say, even though we both know I never would. Admitting I need help is the same as admitting there’s something wrong with me. And if my physical ailments are real, that means the ones inside me are real too.
“Hey.” Serik nudges my side. “I didn’t mean it like that, En. I only thought you might want to conserve your energy.”
I continue charging forward, keeping my gait even, my chin high. I won’t let my injuries hold me back. Not today. While I’m out here.
Free.
I drink in the vastness and beauty of the plains; the wavy grass topped with the first snow of fall, like sugared icing; the Ondor Mountains in the distance, biting the Lady of the Sky with their sharp indigo teeth; and the looming shadow of Sagaan, the needle-thin spires of the Sky Palace rising above the colorful houses and shops.
From my perch on the temple rooftops, it all looked so uniform: a distant smudge of ashen buildings, brown grass, and white snow. But out here, with the last of the round yellow globeflowers bobbing in the breeze and the smell of wet grass filling my nose, it’s alive and teeming with details. A sea of endless possibilities, and I want to drown in it.
I take a deep breath and let it rush through my insides. “I wish we could stay out here forever.”
Serik shoots me a devious grin. “We could, you know.”
I roll my eyes. “Since that worked so well for you the first time …”
The monks at Ikh Zuree often leave the compound to travel the continent and record infractions, but the one time they let Serik beyond the gates, he didn’t come back. They found him two days later, masquerading as a shepherd, and never let him leave again.
“I’d be smarter this time! Ashkar is so vast, with all of the Protected Territories. We could ‘accidentally’ take a wrong turn and end up in your old village in Verdenet. Gone, gone, gone, and the Sky King and the abba could do nothing about it.” He smiles his squinty-eyed smile and elbows me.
“Only if we wished to perish. We have no supplies—no shelter or food. We wouldn’t last two days, let alone make it to Verdenet.”
Serik is already wagging a finger in my face. “Wrong! Remember the letter you sent me from Guvee? We have the only provision we need.” He pats the mule’s lumpy neck.
Just the name of that wretched town makes my stomach turn. When I was fifteen, my division of the Kalima was caught in an avalanche and stranded in the foothills of Guvee. We had no supplies and, worse, no Sun Stokers to melt the snow. In order to keep from starving or dying of thirst while we awaited the thaw, we made nicks in our horses’ necks and drank the blood straight from their veins. Just enough to prolong our lives and not enough to endanger theirs. We’d sew the wounds loosely back together each night, then open them again the next day. My teeth were stained red for weeks.
I must be turning green, because Serik is biting back a wicked smirk. “Well, what do you say, En?”
“I say you’ve lost all sense. This sorry beast is no warhorse. He hasn’t enough blood for himself, let alone both of us, and the grasslands are so flat that they would never believe we got lost. The white walls of Ikh Zuree can be seen from ten leagues away, brighter than the guiding star. And just think how disappointed Ghoa would be.”
Serik lets out an exasperated breath. “I know it’s impossible, but you could have played along. Sometimes I miss the old Enebish.”
I slam my staff into the ground. “The old Enebish murdered an entire caravan of innocent merchants. I’m certain you’re the only one who misses her.”
Serik hauls back on the mule’s rope, and my eagles caw and rattle in their cages. “That’s not all you are. I miss the Enebish who arrived from Verdenet burned and terrified but brimming with the fires of vengeance, determined to vanquish the Zemyans who killed her parents. The Enebish who helped me see that I didn’t have to be defined by my father’s crimes. The Enebish who stole winterberry pies that were meant for the matron and refused to give up that little ratty straw doll. The Enebish who sat with me beneath the larch trees and dreamed of something more. Don’t you want to escape the monastery and actually live the lives we imagined?”
Yes. More than anything. But I shouldn’t want such things. I cannot want such things. So I shake my head. “Let’s just enjoy today.”
Serik drops the lead rope, grabs my shoulders, and leans in close. “You are good, Enebish.”
“There’s no denying what I did….”
Serik’s breath puffs against my cheeks and his hazel eyes bore into mine. As if he can see into me. Shivers flash down my spine, and I try to squirm away. While I appreciate his confidence, it hurts all the more because his faith is so misguided.
His fingers tighten, like he knows my thoughts. “I don’t care what happened. To hell with the past. I’ve known you since you were eight years old. I know you better than anyone, and I know—”
“Look! A shrine!” I send a prayer of thanks up to the Lady of the Sky for providing the distraction and wiggle out of Serik’s grip. I can feel him glaring a hole into the back of my skull, but I refuse to turn around. I limp up the trail to where the sacred cairn protrudes from the earth. The heap of rocks and sticks is taller than my head and blue silk scarves flutter in the wind, tied to random protrusions.
It’s a monument to the Lady of the Sky; if travelers present an offering, She blesses their journey with clear roads, fair weather, and sound horses. The old teachings also claim the mounds are gateways. If one of the Goddess-touched places a palm to the base, the Lady of the Sky permits them to enter the realm of the Eternal Blue—the first level of Heaven, reserved for Her most devout followers. My mother said monuments like this used to populate the entire continent like globeflowers, all the way from the southern deserts of Verdenet to the icy steppes of Chotgor. But the king began destroying them two decades ago when he pronounced the First Gods dead and named himself the one true ruler of Heaven and Earth. Now only a few remain on lonely, ill-traveled roads.
I rifle through my satchel until I find an old, faded green scarf. It’s not the traditional cobalt pennant of the Lady of the Sky, but it’s better than nothing. With my head bowed in reverence, I venture forward and tie my scarf to a stick midway up the cairn.
“Ghoa would kill you if she caught you paying tribute to that thing,” Serik says, rumbling up with the cart.
Ghoa would also kill me if she knew there was a prayer doll hidden in the bottom of my satchel and that I still write in my Book of Whisperings. But I see no reason to bend to the king’s New Order. Even before my imprisonment, I struggled to accept his religious declarations.
“Why?” I asked constantly during our early days together, when Ghoa was grooming me to follow in her footsteps. “Don’t you find it slightly convenient that he denounced the First Gods and named himself ‘King of the Sky’ when the people were questioning his reign because he was the first ruler in the history of Ashkar without a Kalima power?”
“Do not speak such heresy!” she scolded. “You’r
e from the outskirts of the Unified Empire, where it took longer to eradicate old false customs and beliefs. Here in Sagaan, we witnessed his saving grace firsthand. When the First Gods turned their backs on us and allowed the land to be stricken with drought, the Sky King spared us all from certain death by marching to the marshlands of Namaag, convincing them to become the first Protected Territory, and building aqueducts to Sagaan. And he’s brought your people, and so many others, into the fold of the empire, offering protection from Zemya. Only a god on Earth could accomplish so much, yet still no Kalima power came. It’s proof the First Gods are dead.”
I nodded because I knew that’s what she wanted, but it didn’t make sense. When Zemya gave her power to her children, Ashkar was forced to do the same, to protect them from his spiteful sister. Though he was far more prudent. He designated one member from each clan, who had proven themselves true of heart, to serve as a protector, and together they formed the first Kalima warriors. “So then where do our Kalima powers come from, if not from Ashkar?”
“Our gifts have lived within us from the beginning, so we could protect the people. We are not blessed by the gods; we are the gods. As is anyone who has been called to serve our great empire—like the Sky King.”
While I can see the appeal of proclaiming myself a god, I can’t believe it. Not when I feel the Lady of the Sky pulsing through my veins each night. Or hear the ghost of my mother’s voice singing praises to Father Guzan. Or see the flash of golden earrings crawling up my father’s ears. I cannot turn my back on the First Gods of my ancestors. On my parents’ memory.
I lean back on my heels and stare up at the towering shrine. It’s almost pretty in its disarray, with the offerings scattered about at random: a waterfall of scarves, cascading from top to bottom; tiny vorkhi cups painted with suns and moons and stars; and thousands of coins, some old and tarnished with time—bronze listras from Verdenet and heavy square happas from Namaag. As well as golden kahan coins—the common currency adopted across the Unified Empire. I trail a finger over the king’s stamped profile and smile. These new coins are proof that there are still a few remaining believers, like me, who pay tribute to the Lady of the Sky.
I don’t realize how deeply I’ve fallen under the mound’s spell until Serik pokes me in the back. “Done yet?”
I turn and find him picking the dirt under his nails. This sacred monument might as well be a pile of horse manure, for all the respect he’s paying it. Serik and I shared almost everything growing up, but never this. “Don’t you ever wish you had something to believe in?”
He snorts, and then outright laughs. “Nope. I don’t wish to waste my life recording the sins of others and kissing the feet of a vain king. Nor do I care to worship the First Gods, who overlooked and abandoned me. I believe in making my own destiny.”
“Well, since you’re not interested in participating, would you mind grabbing the vorkhi? It’s tucked in the outside pocket of my satchel.”
Serik’s eyes light up and he digs through my pack. He uncorks the green glass bottle and brings it to his lips. “I will happily worship like this any day.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” I snatch it away. “That’s for the shrine.” I pour a bit of the liquor into my palm and flick it toward the north in remembrance of Father Guzan. The sharp, yeasty smell fills the air, bringing with it another barrage of memories: the crowded army encampments at the war front, collapsing in my tent after a long day of battle, exhausted to my bones and drinking vorkhi with my comrades until the world was fuzzier and lighter.
“All right, all right. The Lady of the Sky and Father Guzan have had enough.” Serik pries the bottle from my fingers. “I’m sure they won’t mind sharing.” He takes a long sip and offers it to me.
I push the bottle aside. “We have a job to do. We can’t be staggering into Sagaan.”
“There’s hardly enough here to make us stagger, and in case you’ve forgotten, we’re not allowed to enter the city. We might as well have a little fun.” He shakes the vorkhi at me. “You do remember how to have fun, don’t you? Or has it been too long?”
“You are a bad influence, Serik.”
“I never claimed to be a good influence. Now drink, otherwise I’ll down the entire bottle and I will be staggering and you’ll have to carry me the rest of the way.”
“Fine.” I take the vorkhi and shoot him a very serious, very unamused look. “Just a few sips.”
But the liquor blazes like sparks across my tongue and a few sips turn into a few long drags. Before I know it, we’ve drained every drop. Serik balances the empty bottle at the top of the mound like a crown.
“That’s my offering!” he shouts to the cloudless sky. “You’re welcome.”
A burst of laughter tumbles from my mouth, even though his irreverence isn’t funny. We are asking to be stricken. I attempt to scowl at Serik, but I can’t stop laughing and I don’t want him to see, so I clap my hand over my mouth and stumble back to the cart.
The rest of our journey passes in a blur. Serik sings old folk songs about horses and battles and the beauty of Ashkar while I wave my staff around like a saber. The monastery doesn’t exist out here. Neither does the past or future. There is only now, this moment. Me and Serik, surrounded by the enormity of the grasslands. I spin and spin and spin, wanting to glimpse everything, needing to touch every corner of it.
It isn’t until Serik curses under his breath that I notice the mounted figure at the crossroads. My arms fall slack at my sides and my leg resumes throbbing. All the vorkhi in the world can’t dull the pain I feel at this glimpse of my former life.
“You should have arrived an hour ago,” the warrior calls in greeting. We shouldn’t be able to hear her yet, but she projects her voice on the wind, which means she’s a Breeze Bringer, blessed to control the gusts and squalls. Serik slides me a mischievous look and pulls back on the mule’s rope, slowing our approach even further. The warrior’s eyebrows gather.
“We came as quickly as we could,” he says without a hint of apology once we’re in actual hearing distance.
“I suppose I should have expected as much.” The girl looks pointedly at my leg and her lips curl with disgust. She’s several years younger than I am, so I couldn’t have served with her, but once again my reputation precedes me.
Serik sets his jaw and returns her glare. I try to mimic him, but the girl just snickers. She flips her long yellow braid over her shoulder, snatches the mule’s rope from Serik, and, without a word to either of us, spurs her horse down the hill to Sagaan. The eagle cart kicks up clouds of dust that make me cough.
The capital is far more than a smudge now. Hundreds of houses and shops edge the Amereti River like hand-sewn lace, following its curve as it snakes through the city. On the northern embankment, beyond the quaint gardens and residential streets, lies the Grand Courtyard of the Sky Palace. It teems with festivalgoers clad in their finest satins and silks: from here they look like azure, garnet, and blush-colored beetles. Beyond the royal complex, there’s a wrestling pit and a field roped off for horse races, and dozens of targets arranged for archery competitions.
The warrior girl grows smaller and smaller and the rattle of the eagle cart fades. Our duty is complete. We should return to Ikh Zuree. But I can’t tear my eyes away from the beauty of Sagaan. I used to lie beneath those maple trees and ice-fish on that stretch of the Amereti and gallop my horse through the streets with Ghoa and the other warriors, whooping and hollering, filthy from battle and drunk on victory.
Serik points across the valley to the cluster of colorful estates. “Can you see our old house?”
I cup my good hand over my eyes and squint until I spot the lavender mansion with its square towers and pewter roof, surrounded by groves of olive trees. The sight fills my heart with longing. I would give anything to return to those gleaming halls and sprawling fields. Where Serik and I ran as free and wild as foxes before conscription and Kalima powers and the New Order stamped our boundless futures to
dust.
“Monk!” A blast of winter air blows my hair back. The warrior girl has reached the bottom of the hill and she stands in her stirrups, leaning around the eagle cart to yell at us. “You know the orders. Get your monster back to her cage before she loses control and murders the innocent festivalgoers.”
Serik lunges in front of me as if he can shield me from her words, but they spin around me like a whirlwind of daggers. I melt into my shoulders, slump into my boots, and dissolve into a muddy puddle on the pathway. The old Enebish—Enebish the Warrior—would have charged down the hill with her saber drawn. But I’m no longer a warrior.
“She’s right,” I whisper. “We should get back to Ikh Zuree. We must follow Ghoa’s orders exactly if we ever want such an opportunity again. And it would be foolish to press my luck,” I murmur under my breath.
The girl raises her fist in a mocking salute. Serik sputters and makes a vulgar gesture at her back as she continues down the hill. He truly is the worst monk.
I place a hand on his heaving shoulder. “Let it go. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” He shrugs me off. “She can’t talk to you like that.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but everyone talks to me like that. I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t be.” He picks up a rock and heaves it down the path, even though the girl and the cart are well out of reach. “We walked all this way. We should get to enjoy Qusbegi.”
“No.” I limp back a step. “That’s a bad idea.”
“You thought the vorkhi was a bad idea too and look how much fun we had.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“We were alone on an empty road. But it was still a bad idea,” I add, not liking the determined look on Serik’s face.
With a sly grin, he draws the embroidered hood of his cloak over his head. “We’ll keep to the shadows, far from the crowds and noise. I just want to see real life for a change. Don’t you?”
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