Serik too.
He remains at my side, his hand clamped firmly around my arm. “Don’t panic. Everything will be fine,” he whispers.
A hysterical sob burbles from my lips. “Go. Save yourself.”
“I can’t just leave you. This is my fault.”
“It’s my fault as much as yours. I agreed to come into Sagaan.”
“Because I pressured you.” He scrubs his hand over his head.
Sunlight glints across the warriors’ leather armor as they batter through the masses. I cringe and shrink lower. One of them is surely Ghoa.
I can’t bear to see her right now. She believed in me, trusted me, and I let her down.
Again.
The bracelet she gave me feels like lead around my wrist. The tiny feathers are a fetter, tethering me to the earth when I need wings more than ever.
Serik and I huddle together as the warriors close in. Orbai’s talons dig into my shoulder, stabbing and sharp.
“What do we do?” I whisper.
Serik presses his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. “Pray.”
That’s when my composure snaps. If Serik has resorted to praying, we are dead. We are worse than dead.
“Have mercy!” I turn to entreat the crowd. “I meant no harm. I only wanted to see the festival.” I stumble forward, arms outstretched in submission, but the people still shriek and lunge back.
The king’s guards explode through the spectators and surround us, followed by the Kalima. Serik pushes me behind him, but that only buys an extra second. Varren, Ghoa’s second in command, who’s as wide as an ox and covered, every inch, in swirling black tattoos, steps forward and raises his hand. A deluge of water falls from the cloudless sky. But rather than striking us, which would violate the oath that forbids Kalima warriors from unleashing the skies upon Ashkar’s citizens, the rain slices between us like an executioner’s blade, separating me from Serik.
Through the shimmering wall of water, I watch Serik charge at Varren, who easily deflects the attack and lands two blows to Serik’s stomach and one to his jaw. The crack of bone lifts the hairs on my arms, and I scream as Serik collapses into the growing puddle, sputtering and whimpering like a wounded animal.
As much as Serik doesn’t want to admit it, Ghoa is right: he is a monk—a man of peace and prayers and song. He doesn’t stand a chance against ordinary warriors, let alone the power of the sky.
Varren steps over Serik’s soggy form, plunges through the deluge of rain that parts around him like a curtain, and fists my tunic with a massive dripping hand. Orbai flies off in a whoosh, taking my blue scarf with her. As it unwinds from my face, another horrified gasp passes through the crowd.
Even Varren grimaces and looks away, which is more crushing than his iron grip. We served together for years, but not even he can stand the sight of my face.
More of my former comrades join Varren, drawing their sabers as if facing down a battalion of Zemyans instead of one injured girl. The old Enebish would have flashed a malicious grin and taken this as a compliment. But now it feels more like a slap to the face. A reminder of how far I’ve fallen. I can’t contend with one warrior, let alone a dozen.
Ghoa comes next. In hushed reverence, the masses part, clearing a pathway for the commander of the Kalima. The stones turn to ice beneath her boots and the crowd shivers as she stalks past.
As soon as she sees me, her steps falter and her eyes widen.
“Ghoa, forgive me,” I blurt, and fall to my knees. “I didn’t mean to—I can explain—” I reach for her leg, but she steps out of reach. Staring through me. Like she doesn’t know me at all.
I tear at my hair and babble apologies, wishing her brows would knit with fury or her mouth would twist into a sneer. Anger would be better than this cool disregard. Anger would prove she still cares—at least a little.
She’s just protecting her reputation, I tell myself. If she showed me mercy, she would look weak in the eyes of the king. But her sneer is so convincing, I fear she has actually forsaken me this time.
The king arrives last, his deep voice bellowing over the chaos like battle cannons. “You!” He levels a beringed finger at me.
Varren slams his boot onto my back, forcing me even lower. Until my forehead presses against the ground in utter submission. “F-forgive me, Your Majesty. I meant no harm or offense.”
The king grunts and spits on the back of my head—a thick, wet blob that tangles in my hair. Then he raises his hands and turns to the multitude. “Fear not! I shall protect you from this dangerous traitor. Take her to the steps of the Sky Palace.”
The crowd roars their approval, and I let out a warbling cry. Only one thing happens on those infamous steps. They’re made of white marble for two reasons: first, to resemble clouds—a heavenly pathway leading up to the resplendent golden palace. And second, because the blood of traitors stands out stark against the pale, glittering stones.
Fear squeezes my neck like a garrote as the throng heaves toward the steps, racing to obtain the best view of my execution.
I never should have come here. I never should have left Ikh Zuree.
Serik calls my name, but his voice is muffled by the stampede.
As soon as the eyes of the crowd are no longer upon us, the king turns slowly. I hold my breath and brace for a boot to the ribs, but his storm-gray eyes settle on Ghoa. He leans so close, droplets of spittle spray her cheeks. “You swore the girl would be contained, that she wouldn’t be a problem or a danger. But here she is, in my city, ruining my celebration, making a mockery of me when I can’t afford to look weak!”
Tyberion has never forgotten the riots that broke out at the very hour of his father’s death. How the people rejected him, and nearly deposed him, for his lack of a Kalima power.
His feathered mantle quivers and he jabs a finger into Ghoa’s chest. “You have failed me.”
Ghoa’s face shines with sweat and her throat works furiously. She looks seconds away from vomiting as she stutters over an apology. Each choked word slices through my flesh like a blade because I am the guilty one. I should be groveling. Ghoa did nothing wrong; she was only trying to help me and Serik. She is always trying to help me and Serik. We are her one weakness. The chink in her armor. And the king knows it.
I send a silent prayer up to the Lady of the Sky, begging Her to turn the sun’s fiery rays upon me. Burn me to dust and blow me away. Anything to make this better for Ghoa. But even the Goddess must be ashamed, for I remain where I am. Helpless and disgraced.
I lift my head and mouth the words, I’m sorry, but Ghoa keeps her gaze rigidly fixed upon the king.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I assure you this will never happen again,” she says, forcing steel into her voice.
“It certainly won’t. Because we’re going to put this monster down, as we should have two years ago. And you will perform the execution, Commander, since you are the one who failed to keep her in line.”
“No!” As soon as the word is out, Ghoa slaps her hand over her lips. “I mean—”
“Yes,” the king hisses. He motions to Varren and the other Kalima warriors surrounding me. “Bring the girl.”
“Please don’t do this!” I wail. “Have mercy.” I’m not pleading for myself; that’s a lost cause. But I cannot put Ghoa in this terrible position.
The Kalima drag me forward and bursts of pain flare through my mangled arm. I howl and thrash, but that only makes the mob gasp louder. Which makes my captors’ holds tighten. A vicious cycle of torture and humiliation.
Serik pushes up to his elbows and grasps for my boot as they drag me past, but a Breeze Bringer sends a spray of dirt and snow into his face and he crumples once more, motionless in his grimy sunburst cloak.
Better that he doesn’t see. He needn’t shoulder the blame.
The Kalima drag me up the palace steps, flight after excruciating flight, until we reach the final landing. The heavy doors slide open and a guard emerges wheeling a tall woode
n rack—four beams nailed together like a picture frame. The torturous instrument is called a zurig, and the sight of it makes my joints burn, for I am to be the broken artwork hanging within. Stretched like a canvas until torn to pieces.
With rough hands, they wrench my arms above my head and lash them to the upper corners. They do the same with my legs, securing them to the bottom of the posts. Below, the people shout their approval, their eyes rapt with macabre excitement. They are wholly unrecognizable from the smiling neighbors I reveled with minutes before. Almost as ravenous as the monks at Ikh Zuree. The Snow Conjurers of the Kalima have to erect a wall to keep them from charging up the palace steps.
The king ascends the stairs with slow, purposeful strides. I want to hate him, but it would be like hating a bear for defending its cubs. He lives and breathes and fights for the well-being of his people. And not just Ashkarians. He defends and bolsters Verdenet and the other Protected Territories. I have always admired him, even when I disagreed with his religious leanings, which is why it kills me to see his down-turned lips and gimlet eyes. Not so long ago, he looked on me with confidence and pride, and as he looms nearer, I beg him to see me, to acknowledge the warrior I used to be, just once more before I die.
But his gaze passes over me as if I am a rock or a tree—an inanimate object unworthy of notice.
I deflate with a whimper.
Ghoa takes her place beside him on the stair below me. Her chestnut hair has unraveled from its braid and hangs in her face, but still I see her expression. Changed yet again. Instead of gaping wild-eyed like a frightened horse, her jaw is set and her back is rigid. She speaks in a low, coaxing voice. “I urge you to reconsider, Your Majesty. You’ve said yourself that Enebish is the finest eagle trainer you have ever employed. And she served for many years in the Imperial Army. I beg you to lessen her sentence.”
The king shakes his head and snow sprays from his red fur cap. “What use is a servant who undermines the competition for which my birds are trained? She’s a nuisance. A danger. Both on and off the battlefield.”
“She’s a poor, wounded girl.” Ghoa’s voice breaks, causing the king to look down at her. A flash of unexpected tenderness softens his scowl. “Punish her, of course,” Ghoa continues in a rush, “but let me take her back to Ikh Zuree. You have yet to announce her sentence, so no one will think you weak. I ask this favor as Commander of the Kalima warriors. As your most devoted servant.”
The king studies her beautiful face for so long, the audience begins to murmur. But Ghoa stands tall and steadfast, her eyes locked on the king’s.
“Fine,” he relents at last. “I suppose there’s no need to waste a perfectly good servant. But she must learn her place. No one will interfere with her punishment. Not even you.” He points at Ghoa, then he turns and his finger sweeps across the multitude below. “She will hang for two hours, and no one will approach her. No one will show her mercy. And you shall tighten the ropes,” he orders Ghoa.
With a small nod, she mounts the final step to the zurig. Her fingers tremble as they wrap around the rope fastened to my injured arm. “Forgive me, Enebish,” she murmurs.
“It’s not your fault,” I say, wishing I could reach out and take her hand. Give her strength. I even screw my lips into a thin smile. I will not make this worse for her.
“But it is my fault.”
“You were so kind to give us this chance. I failed you.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, lowering her head. Then she hauls down on the rope.
Fiery agony carves through my shoulder. For a moment everything goes black and the marble steps seem to crumble beneath my feet. When my vision returns, the entire royal courtyard is upended and leaning. The torches blur like falling stars. The horrified faces of the crowd mix like butter in a churn, until I see one ugly face. One collective sneer. The winterberry pie I ate threatens to come back up as Ghoa ties a knot and moves to the next corner.
Her fingers hesitate slightly, and the king frowns. “Shall I allow someone else to finish the task?”
Several members of the Kalima step forward, as if waiting for this invitation.
Ghoa glares down at them and yanks the rope with all her strength. I shriek and twist. Tears fog my eyes. But inwardly I thank my sister; her harshest tug is sure to be far gentler than the other warriors’ weakest. Still, the wrenching pain penetrates to my bones. By stretching this arm, the other strains as well, yanking it out of joint. A scream carves up my throat, and I howl until there’s nothing left in my lungs. The sound is monstrous, even to my own ears, and the crowd bleats and brays like a herd of sheep beset by wolves.
“Beast!” they call me. “Destroyer!” The king raises his hands, encouraging them to cheer louder.
One by one, my limbs pull taut until I’m no longer standing on the ground but suspended in the zurig like a five-point star. The weight of my body causes me to list forward and back. Sweat races down my brow, stinging my eyes, and my breath rushes out in big, billowing puffs. I fight and thrash and roar like an animal caught in a snare.
Like a monster.
That tiny admission is all it takes; the wickedness inside me shudders to life, stretching its claws and shaking out its leathery wings.
No, no, no! I tip my head back, begging the Lady of the Sky for strength. Today, Her kingdom is the color of the tiny icicles clinging to the trees—a pale and translucent blue. So beautiful and perfect. Yet painfully far away. Has the sky always been so far? Or has She finally forsaken me too?
Frenzied and hyperventilating, my prayer trails off and I realize I’m alone on the palace steps. Ghoa and the Kalima warriors have followed the king back down to the courtyard, where they will watch me suffer for two long hours.
The minutes limp by slowly. I attempt to count them, hoping it will distract me from the pain and lull the monster into submission, and it works for a time. But as the sun inches higher, sizzling across my skin and blazing into my eyes—intensified by the Sun Stokers of the Kalima—I lose count. My mind warps. The churning in my gut intensifies, as does the insidious clawing at the back of my throat. My tongue is so chaffed and bloated, I can hardly swallow.
With every fresh wave of pain, the monster gains a little ground, climbing my ribs like a ladder. Soon it will tear free of my body, seize my dormant night spinning, and the people in the square will truly have something to scream about.
“Please!” I sob. “Help me.”
Ghoa looks at me with glassy eyes but does not move from her place beside the king.
My breath comes quicker. The monster slithers higher. The more I thrash and squirm to keep it caged, the louder the mob in the courtyard shouts. More and more voices join in, and people start pointing. Though, not at me.
Above me.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Lacquered tiles plummet from the rooftop and shatter around me like golden rain. Maybe the Lady of the Sky heard my prayer after all. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I asked for deliverance, but perhaps being crushed will be a mercy. Certainly better than harming an entire city of innocent souls.
It isn’t until I hear the grunts and whoops that I realize people are dropping from the rooftop alongside the tiles. Three figures in gray tunics somersault through the air and land beside the zurig, drawing long, curved sabers. I try to scream, but my throat is too raw and dry. They must be Zemyan warriors. And what a perfect time to attack—during Qusbegi, when the entire city is distracted and unprepared.
Except these three don’t have the towering height or long, lean build of Zemyans. They are compact and powerful, and their hair is black and brown rather than the yellow of sand or the silver white of waves. Though, according to Ghoa’s report, this could be due to sorcery. They could be hiding their true forms with their devil magic.
With a rumble of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning, the Kalima warriors charge up the steps and unleash a storm of defense against the intruders. They pelt the palace with wind and rain and sn
ow, with heat and cold and fog—but the gray figures are quick. One of them tosses a pewter orb down the stairs, and thick coils of sapphire smoke billow into the air, slowing the Kalima’s advance and obstructing their strikes.
The blue smoke smells of cloves and burnt rope, and it swells until it’s thicker than a stone wall. I cannot see the perpetrators, but I hear their boots scuffing around me.
I close my eyes and scream. I’ll be long dead by the time the Kalima reach me.
The ropes attached to my arms quiver and a high-pitched ringing fills my ears.
No, not ringing. Sawing.
My heart stutters and my screams fall away. Wouldn’t it be simpler to put a blade through my heart while I’m strung up and helpless?
With a pop, my right arm drops free. The other rope snaps a second later. I close my eyes and shield my face with my good hand as I pitch toward the landing, but solid arms encircle me.
“Easy there.”
The voice is low, but the words aren’t slippery and polished into the smooth Zemyan lilt. They are rough and blunt. Undeniably Ashkarian. I look up, and my vision must be distorted with pain, or maybe the fog is making me hallucinate, for I’m in the arms of the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. A crest of jagged black hair hangs in his golden eyes, and his skin gleams like polished copper. I must be unconscious. Or dead. Journeying through the seven levels of Heaven to meet the Lady of the Sky.
“You.” He gapes at me for a second but recovers quickly. “I mean, you looked a little uncomfortable up there.” He gestures back to the torturous frame and flashes me a smile that’s whiter than the snowcapped mountains.
“Am I dead?” I slur. “Are you a spirit sent from the ancestors?”
He laughs. “You are very much alive, and I am definitely not a spirit.” The ropes around my legs fall away, and one of his comrades shouts.
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