CHAPTER TEN
MY LEAN-TO IS A TORNADO OF CRUMPLED PARCHMENT.
Charred pine ink stains my fingers and I’m fairly certain it’s also smeared across my cheeks from dragging my hands down my face. I’ve been attempting to write my report to Ghoa for over an hour, but I haven’t a clue what to say.
Tell her everything you’ve learned, Enebish the Warrior insists. It’s your duty, the only thing standing between you and the Kalima. Ghoa is counting on you.
But every time I dip my quill into the inkpot, I remember the refugees’ mud-spattered tents. I see a toddler sucking on an empty ration sack and sighing as if it were a honey cake. I hear the animals bleating miserably in the cold.
Temujin is helping them. He helped me—twice now, between the zurig and the blanket. And I haven’t actually found him or his hideout yet. Just a symbol and nonsensical clues. It would be better to follow these leads, obtain the location of the Shoniin’s lair, and then tell Ghoa of the ram and military rations. No sense seizing the refugees’ food until the last moment possible. That will also give me time to learn the empire’s plans to aid the shepherds—and why nothing appears to be happening.
Decided, I finally compose my update:
Dearest Sister,
I have been hard at work, following potential leads throughout the grazing lands as well as in the marketplace at Diylar Square. While I haven’t found the rebels yet, I believe I’m on the right track. I’ll update you the moment I learn something useful. In the meantime, I’m most concerned for the shepherds. While I have no doubt you coordinated a relief effort, I fear your orders have been misunderstood. They are without the barest essentials. Would you like me to look into the disconnect? What have you arranged and who is to carry it out?
Also, please send word of Serik. I feel guilty, knowing he’s stuffed inside a prayer temple, while I’m out here.
Yours in obedience,
Enebish
I try to sleep, but the darkness has other plans for me. The threads wriggle like worms from the dilapidated boards and slither like vipers through the soggy leaves. More determined than ever to wake the monster. Daring me to take them in my fist and slam them to the ground. Pull a shade over this entire, miserable place.
I toss and turn, clenching my moonstone so tight that the edges of my skin bleed.
When I finally drift to sleep, the sky is already a smoky gray and my blanket rustles seemingly minutes later. Orbai screeches and nearly nibbles a hole in the wool by the time I sit up. “I trained you too well,” I groan as I grapple for the embossed parchment on her leg.
Dear Enebish,
I am pleased to hear you’re quickly closing in on Temujin. I had no doubt you would succeed. I am concerned, however, that your preoccupation with the shepherds is hindering your progress. I’m also hurt that you’d doubt my dedication to the people. Don’t I deserve the same level of trust and faith I have always offered you? I assure you once again—the refugees are not forgotten. I’m sending a member of the Kalima to deal with the miscommunication. Please focus on the task at hand. Everything depends on this.
Your loving sister,
Ghoa
Shame pelts me like hailstones and I toss the missive to the leaves, where I won’t have to look at it. I would never question Ghoa’s devotion to the people. That’s not what I meant. I only wanted to help. I thought—
You thought you could do better than Ghoa, my conscience scolds. Just like you did in the weeks leading up to Nariin.
No. It isn’t remotely the same.
The scars on my injured arm and leg seem to throb in disagreement, and I rub at them furiously.
No longer tired in the least, I pull on my cloak and boots and wrestle my hair into a braid. I will find Temujin now. Today. To prove Ghoa did right by giving me this opportunity. To prove I never doubted her.
I scour the grazing lands again, keeping the Bone Reader’s clue in mind: Use the head, girl. That’s the way. Hoods and hats and headscarves seem like the most natural connection, so I study the clothing of each passerby, hoping for a glimpse of the ram. But I can’t find a single one. Even the girl who washed dishes with me has mysteriously vanished. And I’m so busy squinting at laundry lines instead of looking where I’m walking, I trip over group after group of muddy, barefoot children. Each time, my heart breaks a little more. It’s difficult to look at them, knowing I can’t help. Knowing I’ve offended Ghoa.
Needing to be free of these miserable fields, I tether Orbai to our tree so she can’t follow me into the city proper, and search the Grand Courtyard and neighborhoods surrounding the royal complex. It’s Ashkar’s head of state, which could be what the Bone Reader’s clue meant. But the austere government buildings don’t even have curtains hanging from the windows or flags flying from the rooftops, where the ram could be hidden. And the walls are free of dirt and graffiti.
My leg aches and my head pounds, but I drag myself over to the industrial quarter to poke around the smokestacks next. It’s the headquarters for Ashkar’s ore refineries, and the drums are certainly large enough to conceal a sizeable group. But they are all echoing and empty, and after a few hours of breathing soot, my lungs scream for the clean air of the grazing lands.
I storm back to Diylar Square, determined to have something positive to report to Ghoa. I charge into the Bone Reader’s hut, shouting, “I’ve searched every head I can think of, but I’m not any closer to finding him!”
The old crone is hunched before the fire in a cross-legged position, and a girl with knotted hair sits across from her. The girl drops something in her lap and stares at me, but the Bone Reader’s eyes don’t leave the fire. “That isn’t the only clue I gave you.”
“It is! You repeated it three times and said nothing else.”
“Or maybe you weren’t listening. Go. And open your eyes.” She points to the door.
“But—”
“Go!” The old woman slams her hands to the ground and sparks billow up from the fire, creating a blast of ungodly heat that shoves me like forceful hands.
I stumble out into the cold twilight, so stunned and furious and terrified of what I’m going to tell Ghoa, I trip over more starving children darting across the road. They are everywhere. Taunting me. A constant reminder of my failure and incompetence.
The last little boy gapes up at me, and I yank my cloak higher to hide my traitor’s mark.
Still he watches me.
“What do you want?” I snap. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare?”
“The head, that’s the way,” he whispers before jogging to catch up with his friends.
It’s so simple, a child could lead you there.
Clever, Bone Reader. I’ll give you that.
I glance up at the threads of night emerging from their burrows and slithering down the rooftops. Coming for me. I should return to my lean-to and prepare for another night’s onslaught. It isn’t safe to be out here.
But I can’t pass up this opportunity.
With a hand pressed over the moonstone, I follow the children to a row of abandoned shops where they tunnel like termites between the buildings. Halfway down the alley, they turn into a lantern-lit garden behind one of the stores. I hang back and peer through the iron gate.
Thirty or so children, all slightly too young to enlist, line up in rows while a girl, who looks to be my age, passes out wooden sabers. She’s tall and lean, with close-set eyes and a light brown ponytail. She’s wearing a worn burlap tunic, like many of the refugees, but her boots are clearly made for combat—thick black soles with sharp-edged buckles that make me think she’s far more accustomed to Shoniin gray than these rags.
She moves between the rows, saying hello to the children and ruffling their hair. Then she takes her place at the front and calls them to attention. “Let’s get to work! The Sky King will not protect you. You must learn to defend yourselves.”
My fingers tighten around the bars. She’s poisoning these children
against the empire. Encouraging rebellion is much different than stealing rations to keep them alive.
Go. Report this to Ghoa. It’s another crime to add to the Shoniin’s charges. And enough to earn her forgiveness.
But my feet refuse to move. My vision blurs and swims as I watch the children pair off and perform the formal bows of combat. The girl corrects their form and shouts encouragement. And I’m falling, falling, back through time. To when I learned to string a bow and hold a saber—Ghoa’s calloused fingers overlapping mine on the hilt. Her voice hums in my ears, steady and patient, always stoking my confidence. I see her proud smile and feel the solid weight of her cold palm on my shoulder.
Despite myself, my lips lift into the tiniest of grins.
“Are you going to stand there lurking, or would you like to join us?” the girl calls to me.
I jolt back to the present. The girl waves me forward, but I shake my head. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“Of course you can. We’ve been waiting for you. Help me teach these runts a thing or two.”
The offer is so unexpected, I don’t know how to respond. “You want my help?” I finally manage.
She turns to the children. “Who wants to learn to spar from a true imperial warrior?”
A few kids raise their hands. The rest study me, hunched beneath my cloak, my face hidden behind the scarf.
“She doesn’t look like a warrior,” calls a boy from the back.
“Looks can be deceiving,” the Shoniin girl says fiercely. “I assure you, she’s a warrior. And she’s the precise sort of help we need. I’ve been waiting for her to find us.” Her eyes meet mine, banishing the last of my doubts about her identity.
The children clap and chatter excitedly, but still I don’t move. Because knowing this girl is Shoniin only proves that they are conspiring against the empire.
Except, technically, she didn’t say anything about revolution, only that the children must protect themselves. Which is true. The grazing lands are dangerous, and no one seems to be looking out for them. This isn’t so different from Imperial Army training camps. It could be argued that these children are getting a head start even, which gives the army a head start. Plus, I need to worm my way into the Shoniin’s circle. And this is clearly my invitation.
My ticket to Temujin.
The girl hefts a wooden saber from the pile and tosses it to me. The blade spins end over end, the crimson ties fluttering like twin slashes of bloodred. At the last second, I lunge through the gate and catch the rough-hewn grip in my palm.
The children cheer, and the girl’s brows lift as if to say, Not bad. Slowly, I make my way to her side, lifting my chin and stiffening my knee to walk with as little a limp as possible. I don’t want the children to think me weak.
Or realize who I am.
They can know I’m a warrior, but they can never know which warrior.
“First, we’ll practice drawing techniques,” the girl announces. “Batto!” In one fluid motion, she slides her wooden sword from an imaginary sheath and raises it above her right shoulder. The children imitate her. I know they expect me to perform the move as well, but the sword slips in my sweaty palm. I’ll never be able to complete the move with my bad arm. I won’t be able to complete most of the moves—at least not well.
Something you should have considered before limping up here and making a fool of yourself.
Seeing my panic, the girl announces, “Our esteemed guest will be moving through the lines to correct your form. Listen well.”
Shooting her a grateful glance, I make my way through the group. At first the children are skeptical of my suggestions, but as they ask questions and I share tales from my days in battle, I slowly earn their trust until they soak up my coaching like bread in gravy.
Over the next hour, my confidence grows until I’m clapping and yelling as loud as the Shoniin girl—learning the children’s names and patting their backs. My cheeks ache from so much smiling, and despite the chilly night and late hour, I feel warm. And invigorated. Not even the pesky ribbons of night curling around my throat are able to ruin this moment.
For the first time in two years, I don’t just feel like a warrior again. I feel like myself.
“Will you join us again tomorrow?” the Shoniin girl asks as the children file out of the garden.
I accept without a second’s hesitation. I would say yes even if it didn’t advance my mission.
“Good. I’m Inkar, by the way,” she says. “And for what it’s worth, they’re wrong to call you a monster. Someone monstrous could never be so wonderful with the children. You’ve a gift for it.”
Her words trail me as I amble back to my lean-to and nibble on a barley cake. I hear them as I bow and scrape to Orbai, begging forgiveness for tethering her to this tree. And the compliment replays loudest of all when I retrieve my parchment to write Ghoa.
My quill skitters across the page. I want to make her proud. I want to rejoin the Kalima. But not by trampling children underfoot. Like the rations, the training is doing them an enormous amount of good. And Inkar never said a single thing that was outright contrary to the empire. Nor did she mention Temujin or his hideout. He could have nothing to do with this training operation.
You’re making excuses, Enebish the Warrior scolds. You know it’s all connected.
Which is why I will tell Ghoa. Soon. I’d report these things immediately if I thought they’d help me close in on Temujin. But a hasty letter from me now would only harm innocent children, who are already suffering enough. I can carry out my mission and help the people. One doesn’t have to hinder the other.
I retrieve a fresh sheet of parchment and finally write my report.
Dearest Sister,
I have befriended one of Temujin’s followers. She has said nothing concerning him or his Shoniin—yet—but I believe she will, once she trusts me. She has requested my company again tomorrow night.
Please tell me of Serik. I know I need to stay focused, but that will be easier if I know he’s well.
Yours in obedience,
Enebish
I reread the message as I blow on the ink. I haven’t lied. I just didn’t include every tiny detail. But of course I will—once I’ve found Temujin.
Satisfied, I send the letter off with Orbai and settle into my blanket, trying to ignore the small embroidered ram glowing white against the darkness.
I help Inkar train the children the next three nights. Ghoa’s replies to my unchanging reports grow shorter and terser, but she knows as well as I, you can’t rush building a foundation of trust.
“How did you escape from Ikh Zuree after Qusbegi? Are the Kalima hunting you? Do you hate the commander for torturing you?”
Inkar peppers me with questions every night after the children leave, and thanks to my preparation with Ghoa, I am able to answer smoothly. Painting a picture of how I loathe my sister and the Imperial Army. How horribly they’ve wronged me. And, most important, how I plan to exact my revenge when the timing is right.
“I’m here to avenge my family as well,” Inkar tells me out of the blue one night as we’re walking back to the grazing lands. “My siblings and I spent five years in Gazar, because our parents failed to contribute a sufficient amount to the Sky King’s newest temple. We were noble, of the house of Darkhan, and the king claimed our pitiful endowment was proof of our affinity for the First Gods. The truth was, our father had a staggering gambling debt and we didn’t have supper most nights.”
“The king imprisoned children? For your father’s crime?” I can’t keep the horrified shock from my voice. The dark, festering pits of Gazar are unfit for vermin, let alone children.
“‘If you want to cleanse a house of termites, you must burn it to the final board, lest it infect other buildings on the street,’” Inkar says in a low, patronizing voice. “The Sky King’s words at our sentencing.”
I swallow hard. I want to say that I don’t believe it. That I can’t believe it. But I d
idn’t believe he would withhold the Sun Stokers from the grazing lands, either.
“How did you escape?”
“We didn’t. My twin brother and I served out our five-year sentence. And our younger sister, Taimar, didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “How old was she?”
“Barely eight, and as quiet and as gentle as a dove. She loved reading and drawing and singing. Not the sort of child you toss into a prison mine. Everything about the pits terrified her, so she walked slowly and worked slowly. One day, the warden grew tired of waiting. He sent her to work down a particularly treacherous shaft with a faulty harness and she fell to her death. He made it look like an accident, and the Sky King made new ‘safety declarations’ after the fact. But neither of them truly cared. No one gives a piss about the prisoners in Gazar.”
I blink back the heat pulsing behind my eyes. “That’s terrible. For all of you.”
“Taimar was never given a chance.” Inkar’s usually cheerful voice is forged of steel. “That’s why I train the children. I refuse to see them discarded in the same manner. I won’t let the Sky King or his mindless minions send them to be slaughtered due to weakness or inconvenience.”
The king doesn’t send anyone to be slaughtered, but I decide now isn’t the time to correct Inkar. “It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing,” I say after a heavy silence. I’m surprised to find I truly mean it.
Inkar’s eyes turn to flint and her smile turns to daggers. “I’ll do whatever I can, whatever I must, to avenge her.”
Finally, after an entire week of training, Inkar slings an arm around my shoulders and presents me before the children. “Shall we invite our new friend to supper?”
A cheer goes up and Jepith and Mima, two of my favorite students, rush forward and take my hands. They lead me through the grazing lands and into Sagaan, past houses and shops that grow taller and finer. Here, in the jewel box of the city, you’d never believe shepherds were starving and rioting just outside the walls. The paved streets are perfectly swept and paper lanterns zigzag overhead, joining one fine alehouse to the next.
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