Without a breath of warning, the boy slings me across his shoulders like a lamb and sprints back toward the Sky Palace. His calloused hands tighten around my ankles and wrists in an attempt to keep me from bouncing, but still, I groan with every step. Tears dampen my traitor’s mark and strands of his messy hair cling to the wetness.
As the blue haze dissipates, the Kalima’s blasts of rain and snow become more violent and accurate. The boy’s companions shout something, then scale the palace as deftly as tree leopards, dodging daggers of ice. Our ascent isn’t nearly as swift, with me hanging like a millstone from the boy’s neck. He curses and ducks, narrowly avoiding a crackle of lightning that splinters the marble pillar to our right.
“Bleeding skies, you have to help me a little.” He repositions my arms, and I clench my teeth and try to hold myself up, but the zurig turned my muscles to gravy. A blade of ice slices through the side of the boy’s ear, ripping out two golden earrings and a considerable amount of flesh. Blood drips onto his tunic. He pants as he looks up to his comrades, but they’re long out of range.
“Go,” I tell him. “There’s no reason for us both to be caught.”
He hesitates for half a second before dropping back to the ground and releasing me. “We need you. Find us,” he says, his tiger eyes alight with fire. Then he squeezes my forearm once and scurries up the Sky Palace even faster than the others.
“Stop them!” the king thunders.
Ghoa and the Kalima careen past, nearly trampling me. Varren catches the bottom of the boy’s tunic, but the fabric rips and he rockets up the wall. The king yells until he’s blue in the face and Ghoa barks orders while the rest of the warriors race around the palace like scurrying mice.
I sit in the middle of the pandemonium, forgotten. Compulsively rubbing my forearm.
When my savior in gray reaches the highest roof, his comrades loop chains around a black cable fastened to the top of the Sky Palace and slide away, flying through the Qusbegi banners and into the winding streets of Sagaan. The boy with the spiked hair follows. As he sails away, he shouts something I can’t quite hear. Something about the earth and stars.
I stare at the empty rooftop, half certain it was all a dream. Who are they? And why did they free me?
The throng in the courtyard devolves into absolute mayhem. Their voices are a mixture of awe and fear as they chant a single name over and over again.
Temujin. Temujin. Temujin.
Clearly, the boy is someone famous—or infamous, judging by the curses flying from the king’s lips—but I raise a feeble cheer because he freed me from the zurig. And his hands were so gentle, his words so kind. I haven’t a clue why he and his friends risked their lives to help me, but they did, and it must mean something.
I need it to mean something.
I’m still smiling dazedly at the rooftop when Varren grips my bad arm—on purpose—and tugs me to my feet. He’s glaring with so much loathing, like this is somehow my fault.
Like he thinks I’m in league with the strangers.
A boulder of ice settles in my gut. My breath comes out in a wheeze. “It isn’t what you think!” But he wrenches my arms behind my back and drags me across the landing.
Toward Ghoa and the king.
CHAPTER SIX
“P-PLEASE!” I STAMMER. “I DON’T KNOW THEM. I DIDN’T ask—”
“Swallow your lies. I saw your traitorous smile.” Varren tries to force me to the ground at the king’s feet, but the king grabs my bicep and flings me backward.
“Get her out of my sight!”
With a shriek, I tumble halfway down the flight of stairs and land splayed up to the heavens.
“Take her back to Ikh Zuree and question her!” the king roars. He shoves a slack-jawed Varren aside and cuts across the landing. Ghoa trails him like a whipped dog.
Choking on grateful tears, I let my head fall back and thank the Lady of the Sky for this second miracle, even as Varren and several other members of the Kalima bind my wrists and ankles and stuff me into the eagle cart.
We are a somber, silent bunch, trekking across the grasslands in the violet-stained twilight. Our retinue has more than doubled since our journey into Sagaan. Instead of Serik and me, the eagles and the open road, Ghoa now escorts us along with Varren and three members of the king’s personal guard, who watch Ghoa with narrowed eyes. She, of course, pretends not to be bothered by their presence, but tiny icicles drip from her horse’s reins. The king’s guards never accompany the Kalima—they’ve never needed to. Ghoa has always been beyond reproach.
My stomach churns with sickness. My sister values her position and honor above all else, and I have put both in jeopardy.
I stare down at the beautiful feather bracelet and memories bombard me: Ghoa’s encouraging face leaning over the railing of the wrestling pits, urging me to duck lower and punch harder; the magnanimous way she allowed me to take credit when we raided a Zemyan supply caravan and returned with a wagonload of dried meat; and the furious speed with which she careened across the battlefield and carried me to safety when an arrow pierced my thigh in the Battle of the Swirling Sands.
How many times has she lifted me, protected me?
How many times have I failed her in return?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but it’s lost in the rattle of the cart. I clear my throat to try again, but a rush of frigid air sets fire to my lungs.
Ghoa clearly isn’t ready to talk. Her hair is as white as fresh snow and her lips glow blue in the rising moonlight. But worst of all are her vacant, downcast eyes.
The ache in my chest sharpens to a point. I will never disobey again. I will never leave the monastery—or even ask for such a favor. There’s nothing out there for me. I know that now. The people of Ashkar fear and loathe me. Their terrible insults still wriggle beneath my skin, pricking and biting:
Monster. Beast. Murderer.
That’s all they’ll ever think of me.
Except for my saviors in gray.
Who were they? The warriors clearly know. They whisper and exchange furtive looks. I press my ear against the side of the cart, but their voices are muffled by the horses’ hooves, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I am going to hide in the monastery, tend to the eagles, and fade into the background until the people of Ashkar, and more important, the king, have no recollection of the dangerous girl who ruined the Qusbegi Festival.
Which means I will never know the truth about my mysterious heroes.
As we rumble down the path, the sky grows ever darker—a midnight bruise overtaking the fuchsia clouds. Right on cue, the whorls of night skitter down from overhanging branches. They slither through the tall grass and curl around my dangling ankles, but for once, I kick them away without trouble, consumed by bigger worries and sharper pain.
Serik limps alongside the cart, silent for once in his life. When the sprawling white walls of Ikh Zuree appear through the mist, we both flinch. Anxiety thrashes in my chest like a wild bird. The monastery looks more prison-like than ever.
You deserve to be imprisoned, I remind myself as we pass through the gates.
With a wave of her hand, Ghoa dismisses the Kalima and the king’s guards to tend to their mounts, then she turns to me. Her gaze slams into my gut with the force of a battering ram, and I wilt even lower, wishing I could sink through the wagon floor.
Serik curses beside me—his fears coming to light as well. Ghoa sent a rider ahead to inform the abba of the day’s events, and the old man hobbles across the yard with frightening speed, his wiry eyebrows gathered and his cane waving like a club. He pinches Serik’s ear and drags him across the compound, making no concession for his injuries.
The last time the abba was this furious—after Serik tore every page from the book of transgressions he was supposed to be illuminating and spread them like straw in the mules’ stalls—he locked Serik in a prayer temple and refused to release him until he recited ten thousand penances. But Serik picked the lock and burned the temp
le to the ground. When the abba found him the next morning, dancing in the ashes, I had no doubt Serik would be cast from the monastery. Serik had no doubt either. But the abba wasn’t about to lose the holy war. Since liberation was the thing Serik desired most, the abba dug him a special underground “temple,” and Serik has fulfilled his punishments there ever since. At this point, I think he’s spent more of his life belowground than above.
To Serik’s credit, he doesn’t fight or cry out. He glances back at me, his expression miserable, but there’s a promise in his eyes: he’ll find me as soon as he’s free.
I muster a shallow nod, hoping he knows how grateful I am for his sacrifice. The boy with the jagged black hair may have saved me in the end, but Serik was there first—shielding me from Varren and the crowd. His poor face is covered in bruises, and I wish more than anything that I could slather them with witch hazel and wrap them in eucalyptus leaves.
“Go to your chamber, Enebish,” Ghoa orders. She dismounts and loosens her horse’s girth. “After I water my horse, I will speak with you.”
“What about the eagles?” I say, so softly that I’m not sure she heard me. I can hardly hear myself over the thundering of my pulse. I don’t want her to think I’m being defiant, but someone must return the birds to the mews.
“Someone else will take care of the eagles.” She says it with such sharpness, such finality. She doesn’t mean forever—does she?
“Go, Enebish.” Ghoa unleashes the full weight of her disappointment on me: burning eyes and pinched lips. It impales me through the heart as I wriggle down from the wagon.
In my room, I shed my tunic, which is soiled and ripped beyond repair, and step back into my penance robe. It’s old and shabby brown, the edges worn as thin as parchment. It makes me feel meek and contrite. I hope it makes me look so, too. As I unload my satchel and tidy up the clothing scattered around from that morning’s whirlwind of packing, I find my prayer doll and clutch its soft body to my chest. I whisper in its ears, begging for strength, for mercy, wishing I could turn back time and never leave Ikh Zuree.
“It was a terrible mistake,” I murmur as I tuck the doll gingerly inside my trunk and bury it beneath a heap of robes and scarves. Then I close the lid with a vicious grunt and swallow hard because the words taste false on my lips. It wasn’t all bad. The countryside was so lovely—the crystal sky and frost-tipped grass. And the shrine to the Lady of the Sky will stand forever as a monument in my memory. Serik’s laughter was so loud, his company so easy. And Orbai was a vision: pure gold and muscle and wind, swirling through the clouds.
And, of course, there was Temujin.
My pulse quickens when I think of him touching my arm without pulling away in disgust. I can still hear the fiery determination in his voice and see the way his muscles rippled beneath his tunic as he ascended the Sky Palace.
I groan and slump against the trunk. While I feel terrible for the trouble I caused Ghoa, I’m not sorry for the rest of it. At least, not how I should be. And she’ll know.
With wobbly fingers, I unfasten my braid, so the thick curtain of black falls over my face. A moment later, a sharp rap sounds on my chamber door. I expect Ghoa to billow into the room like a gust of arctic wind, but she carefully stomps the frost from her boots and removes her cloak. Her expression is difficult to read: her mouth is a thin red slash and her eyes are squished into disappointed slits. But away from the scrutinizing gaze of the other warriors, there’s something else, too. Her fingers fidget with that flap of leather at her hip, and she keeps glancing at the window. Then the door. And pulling at her collar as if she can’t get enough air.
Guilt pummels me like an avalanche. Ghoa is never afraid. Never weak or doubting. My heart splinters into a thousand brittle pieces as I watch her shamble across the room.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper, throwing myself to the floor. “Please, forgive me. Whatever you ask, whatever it takes.” I rattle off a list of punishments I can inflict upon myself, but Ghoa motions me up. She huffs down on my trunk and leans forward, cradling her head in her hands.
Wordlessly, I sit beside her.
“Do you have any idea how bad this looks?” she says after a long silence. “The Sky King is questioning not only my skills as commander but my loyalty because he thinks you are in league with Temujin.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“How do you know him?” she interrupts.
“I don’t. I haven’t a clue why he helped me.”
Ghoa turns and appraises me with red-rimmed eyes. “After everything I’ve done for you … please tell me you wouldn’t lie to me.”
I shake my head quickly. “Of course not. I swear it. I’ve never heard of Temujin before today.”
“How is that possible? Everyone knows who he is.”
I shrug and gesture across my chamber. It’s the size of a horse’s stall, barely large enough for a bedroll, clothing trunk, and a tattered rug. “You miss many things when your world is so small. Not that I’m complaining,” I quickly add when the air cools a fraction. “I’m most grateful for my place here, but I never leave Ikh Zuree. I’m like a fish that hasn’t a clue the whole wide ocean exists beyond its bowl.”
Ghoa stares at me, her skeptical gaze boring into my face, but I do not falter because I don’t know who Temujin is. Eventually the air warms and she lets out a long, tired sigh. She reaches into her boot and extracts something small and gray—the strip of fabric Varren tore from Temujin’s tunic.
“Not only is Temujin a traitor,” Ghoa says, rubbing the cloth between her fingers, “he’s a belligerent thief, a dangerous pretender, and a menace to Ashkar. The Sky King has been hunting him and his band of rebels for months.”
The wings of hope that had been fluttering in my chest crash to the pit of my stomach and fester like rancid meat. All these grand illusions I’d had of heroes and saviors, but of course Temujin is a criminal. Who else would help Enebish the Destroyer?
“What has he done?” I ask quietly, afraid to hear the answer. I don’t even know the boy, but the thought of him being a murderer makes my heart howl with disappointment. I need him to be good because I need someone to believe I am good, and being saved by a criminal essentially proves the opposite.
“He’s the leader of the Shoniin.” Ghoa waits, studying my face. Somehow I manage to keep my expression blank, even though my thoughts are galloping faster than the stallions in the Qusbegi races. According to outlawed legend, the Shoniin were a mystical group of shaman—the oldest and most devout followers of the First Gods. Is she hinting at my secret worship? Is she trying to entrap me on more than one charge?
“You know, the traitors who reject the Sky King’s reforms and continue to worship that sky goddess?” she presses. “Surely you’ve heard of them?” I nod carefully and she continues with greater zeal. “They whisper blasphemies to their wicked prayer dolls, and dabble in divination and unnatural healing, and, worst of all, they refuse to honor their military obligations. They are deserters, Enebish.”
As elated as I am to hear there are others who still believe as I do, this last admission is a knife in my ribs.
It is the greatest honor and highest accolade to be an Ashkarian warrior. The thirst for battle is sewn into the fabric of our beings, and conquest is the lifeblood of our economy. By continually pressing the standards of Ashkar blue and gold and welcoming more Protected Territories into the empire, we increase our grazing lands, replenish our herds, and gain a great many resources. There are very few rich men across the Unified Empire, but there are very few poor men, too.
Our conquering lifestyle also provides much needed unity. As a patchwork nation with ever-changing borders and varied peoples—from the dark-eyed dwellers of the deserts of Verdenet, where I’m originally from, to the yellow-haired river people in the marshlands of Namaag, to the stout ice-fisherman of Chotgor—the cause of war binds us together. By fighting side by side, we forge a kinship. An unbreakable bond. They become us and we b
ecome them, and together we lift Ashkar to new heights.
Running from this calling is the biggest disgrace imaginable. An abomination in the eyes of the Sky King and the Lady of the Sky. The one thing everyone can agree upon across every language and culture.
“Deserters,” Ghoa repeats, disdain dripping from each syllable. “And Temujin is the worst of them, the instigator. He fled from his post at Novesti a little over a year ago, leaving three hundred men to die at the hands of the Zemyans, and he encourages other warriors to do the same. And they follow him because he claims to be Goddess-touched. Can you imagine? Though there’s nothing divine about stealing cannons and raiding supply wagons, luring warriors away and rescuing condemned criminals. Scores of shameful deeds that must be stopped.”
I finger the holey hem of my robe, unable to look up. Because I am one of those condemned criminals. Another shameful deed. Ghoa doesn’t even recognize her offense. She continues muttering and wringing the gray fabric through her hands. “They spit on their duty to our country and king, and I will not stand for it.”
“Surely you and the Kalima can capture Temujin and put an end to this? It should be easy for such highly trained warriors to track down one boy and a handful of Shoniin.”
“You would think so….” Ghoa says, viciously tightening her ponytail. And suddenly it all makes sense. This is why she’s back in Sagaan. He, Temujin, is the reason she’s returned. I have a special mission, isn’t that what she said?
“You are tasked with capturing him,” I say. A statement, not a question.
“I am.” She stares across my chamber for so long, I’m certain the topic is dead. It’s official business, after all, and I’m no longer privy to such things. That’s why I nearly tumble to the floor when she slams the cloth against the trunk and turns. Her icy breath burns across my cheek. “And you, Enebish, are going to help me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I WAIT FOR GHOA TO LAUGH.
She’s toying with me. Delivering the cruelest punishment imaginable. But the seconds tick away, and she continues staring—expectantly.
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