Night Spinner

by Addie Thorley

  Which is why I must ignore Temujin’s lie.

  How could it be anything else? He has no reason to be keeping tabs on Serik or Ikh Zuree. He’s baiting me, and I refuse to bite.

  I heave to my feet and stomp back to the bustling common room. It’s still packed to the hilt with customers, though the children are gone—leaving behind a graveyard of empty bowls tipped on their sides. Only Inkar remains at the table, sitting alone at the far end. She waves me over when she spots me.

  “How did it go?” she asks, kicking out a chair for me.

  “Excellent,” I say through my teeth, hoping my expression resembles a smile more than a sneer. I drop into the chair and inhale the bowl of soup she saved for me, partially so I don’t have to talk and partially because I truly am starving.

  Inkar swivels sideways, so she’s facing me, clearly waiting for me to gush and prattle on and on about how wonderful Temujin is.

  I drain every last drop of salty broth and return it to the table with a clank. “He’s even sharper than I expected,” I eventually say.

  “Right? He’s going to transform the entire continent. And we will be part of it.”

  I nod. Once. It’s all I can stomach. Then I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and stand. “Thank you for the soup. He said you’d let me know when and where to report for assignments.”

  “You’re leaving now?” Inkar’s brow crumples as if she’s truly sad to see me go. I blink down at her. She’s so nice. So warm and affable. Do you know who you’ve sided with? I want to say. You never should have gotten mixed up with the likes of Temujin. Instead I readjust my scarf to hide my scars—and my smile, which grows thinner by the second.

  “I’m exhausted.” I gesture to my arm and leg. “Training the children takes a lot out of me.”

  Her eyes dart across my scars and she looks away sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Of course. I didn’t mean to pressure you. I just thought you’d like to meet some of the others now that—”

  “Next time,” I promise, feeling slightly guilty that next time will most likely involve a raid that ends with her bound, facedown, on these sticky floors. But she made that choice when she cast her lot with a deserter’s.

  Can you blame her? something deep inside me whispers. Wouldn’t you have done the same if Serik had perished in Gazar?

  As he very well could, Temujin’s voice taunts me, in three days’ time.

  My throat closes. I need to get out of here. Away from this deafening tavern and Temujin’s loyal followers so I can actually think about what to believe. And what to do next.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I tell Inkar. Then I let myself out into the night, limping quickly through Sagaan. Clusters of darkness lie in wait down every greasy alleyway and they lunge as I pass, clinging to me like leeches. More and more and more, until it looks like I’m trailing a massive cloak of midnight.

  “Not now. Leave me be!” I wave my arms behind me, but that only earns me a strange look from a shoe shiner, perched on a stoop.

  When I arrive at my lean-to, I collapse into the leaves, close my eyes, and place my hands over the moonstone. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Temujin’s lies have me flustered, which makes me agitated, which prods the monster, which beckons the night.

  If I am calm and rational, the cycle will stop.

  Everything will be fine. Everything is fine—better than fine. I’ve done what Ghoa asked; I found Temujin and his hideout. All I have to do is send word, and my crimes will be forgiven. I’ll be reinstated in the Kalima.

  But the cacophony in my head refuses to quiet. The lonely dark of my lean-to is even worse than the busy tavern because, here, there are no distractions. There’s no ignoring the possibility that Temujin is telling the truth.

  He isn’t.

  Could you live with yourself if you’re wrong? If Serik’s bound for Gazar and you did nothing to stop it?

  I press my hands over my ears and scream.

  Orbai dives into the lean-to and blinks at me with her pale yellow eyes. I wait for her to peck my hand, looking for the scraps I forgot to bring her. But she hops over to my satchel and pokes her head inside.

  “There’s nothing there but barley cakes,” I say with a groan.

  She continues digging anyway, and when she drags my Book of Whisperings out into the leaves, I immediately burst into tears. “You brilliant, beautiful bird.” I scratch her neck as I place the fragile book in my lap.

  The quill wobbles in my shaky fingers, but I manage to scrawl my question: Who should I trust? Then I banish all thoughts of Temujin and Serik and Ghoa and refugees and allow myself to tumble headfirst into the peaceful nothingness of the Lady of the Sky’s embrace.

  Dawn is creeping across the horizon when the burning answer finally appears: It’s a heavy thing, living with regret. As the words disintegrate, the letters form an image, only visible for an instant, of Serik below ground, behind bars.

  I snap the book shut, reach for a quill and parchment, and dash off the message to Ghoa. Three words. No groveling. No greeting:

  Come at once.

  Then I hurriedly lash the note to Orbai’s leg and send her off before I can change my mind.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  GHOA COMES SWIFTLY.

  Alarmingly so.

  I swear only a handful of minutes could have passed—hardly enough time for Orbai to deliver the letter and return—but I hear the distinct crunch of boots on snow.

  Why is it that the things I want most take a lifetime to come to pass—my years at Ikh Zuree were as long and interminable as the great freeze—while the moments I dread hurtle toward me with the speed and ferocity of a snow panther? As if they’ve been stalking me for years, waiting for the perfect time to pounce.

  I never told Ghoa the location of my lean-to, but I’m not trying to hide, and she finds it sure enough. I peer around the boards and watch her approach, the sky behind her as pink as the underbelly of a trout. At first glance, I almost think she’s another shepherd, draped in a tattered cloak with a brown scarf covering her hair. But there’s no mistaking her long, confident stride. Or the way the branches toll like frozen chimes as she stalks past.

  Burning skies.

  My toes tingle inside my boots, itching to run, but I smooth my clammy palms down my cloak and remain seated. I can do this. I can find a way to confirm Serik’s safety without raising suspicion or seeming disloyal.

  I poke my face out into the cold morning and wave. Which instantly feels absurd. Like I’m trying too hard. So I snatch my hand back and retreat beneath the boards. But that looks even worse.

  Act normal, I command myself. But what is normal? I am a girl cleaved in two. Before and after. Strong and weak. Everything and nothing.

  Ghoa stops outside of my hovel and crouches to peer in at me. “Enebish?”

  “You came,” I say, which is so idiotic, I could strangle myself.

  “As requested.” Ghoa frowns at the soggy boards teetering over me. “Are you really sleeping here? This is not what I envisioned when you told me you’d secured shelter.”

  “It’s not like there are many options,” I say, then quickly add, “for someone like me. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “Of course. Your message sounded urgent.” She leans closer, her eyes sparkling with expectation.

  When I don’t respond immediately, her face flattens into the serious, disgruntled expression she wears during war council.

  Just as I intended.

  I know better than to blatantly lie to her—she would sniff that out in an instant—but I pick my words as I would winterberries, careful to pluck only the sweetest fruit. “It’s been an excruciating week,” I say, clutching my arm to my chest.

  “Why? Are you injured?” She quickly scans my body, and my heart swells to see such genuine concern in her eyes. “What happened? Is the pull of the darkness too much?”

  “I’m fine. Nothing more than my usual complaints. I just forgot how taxing this is, how strong you must be. How
do you do this, day in and day out?”

  Ghoa props her elbows on her knees and buries her hands in her hair. “Please tell me you didn’t call me here to complain about being tired and lonely.”

  “No. There’s a reason, of course. I would never waste your time. I just thought … I don’t know. I feel so out of my depth, and I don’t want to let you down, and—”

  “Scoot over,” Ghoa commands, but there’s a hint of tenderness in her voice as she eases down beside me in the leaves. “I know it’s been a long while since you’ve served in an official capacity, so I will attempt to be patient.” She winks because we both know she is the least patient person across the Unified Empire. “Now, tell me, what’s so urgent that I had to traipse out to this flea trap at the crack of dawn?”

  I pull the gray wool blanket onto my lap and hand her the corner embroidered with the ram. “I’ve been seeing this symbol all over the grazing lands. On blankets and head scarves and bags.”

  Ghoa fingers the stitching and looks up at me. “And?”

  “Don’t you find that strange? It could be a secret icon of some sort. A code between members of a certain group, perhaps?” I lift my brows knowingly.

  Ghoa considers the ram again and frowns. “Perhaps … though, it looks like a common adornment to me. How else would shepherds embellish their belongings, if not with their animals? Have you asked the Shoniin girl you’ve been meeting with about it?”

  “I’ve hinted at it, but I don’t want to seem pushy.”

  “Does she wear this ram on her clothing?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “How are you even certain she’s one of them?” Ghoa asks, her voice growing sharper.

  Orbai ruffles her feathers in the tree overhead. Never one for conflict.

  “The girl complains openly against the Sky King,” I say. “And she speaks often of her friends who are of a like mind.”

  Ghoa pinches the bridge of her nose and blows out a breath. “Have you considered that her friends may simply be other shepherds who are disgruntled about their living conditions?”

  I know I shouldn’t go down this path now, but she mentioned the shepherds. It may be my only opportunity to learn how the empire plans to respond. “Speaking of the grazing lands—”

  “If this girl is with the Shoniin, why hasn’t she welcomed you into the fold already? They’re a ragtag group of rebels, for skies’ sake. They recruit deserters and criminals. It’s not like they’re selective.”

  “It’s only been a week.”

  “A week I don’t have.” Ghoa tosses the embroidered ram back onto my lap. “I thought I made it clear to you how urgent this is. Don’t you care that you put me in this position? Do you want to rejoin the Kalima? What more can I offer you?”

  “You could answer my inquiries about Serik,” I blurt, surprising even myself. “It’s difficult to focus on my mission when I’m constantly wondering how he’s faring.”

  An incredulous pop of laughter bursts from Ghoa’s lips. “We are losing ground every day, every hour, to Zemya, but you’re more concerned about Serik! I should have known you were too damaged to handle this assignment.”

  “Too damaged?” The word tears through my skin like a dull blade—slow and excruciating. But instead of slumping into the pain like I normally would, I draw my shoulders back and imagine an iron poker rammed down the length of my spine. “Is that what you truly think of me? Were all of your encouraging words and pretty promises back at Ikh Zuree nothing but a lie to get me to do your bidding?”

  “No, Enebish. I’m sorry.” Ghoa slaps her hand across her eyes. “I’m just under an enormous amount of pressure. I need you to—”

  “No. I need you to tell me if Serik is well.”

  Ghoa’s arm falls back to her side and her nostrils flare. “Where is this coming from?

  “Why aren’t you answering my questions?”

  “Because you shouldn’t be asking them!” Ghoa’s voice cracks like ice and I can suddenly see my breath.

  “That’s right,” I sneer. “I’m just a keeper of birds. A mindless minion to be used and discarded at your convenience.”

  “You can’t possibly think that! I’m risking everything to help you.”

  “Only because it helps you.”

  Ghoa rears back as if I slapped her. Her brown eyes glisten in the early-morning light, and her hand slowly comes to rest over her heart, as if I’m breaking it. But I refuse to grovel and scrape—like I always have before. Not if Serik’s life is at risk.

  “You claim to have coordinated a relief effort for the shepherds,” I forge on, letting the damning words spin from my lips like a battle-ax, “but I’ve yet to see a single grain of rice from the empire. And you claim Temujin is the source of Ashkar’s troubles, but from where I stand, he seems to be the only one helping.”

  Frost crystalizes through Ghoa’s lashes. Thick veins of ice plow into the ground where her fingers clench the dirt. “He’s gotten to you. What have you seen? I don’t know what lies Temujin’s peddling, but I promise nothing he’s doing is helpful.”

  “Is Serik bound for Gazar in two days’ time?” I demand.

  Whatever Ghoa was going to say dies on her lips and she stares at me. The chill of her body laps my skin like flames. “Did Temujin tell you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  She wets her lips, and my heart hammers faster with every second that passes, because she shouldn’t have to think about this.

  “This has nothing to do with Serik,” she finally says. “What do you know of Temujin? It’s your duty to report everything you’ve learned.”

  I scramble back, out of the lean-to. Away from Ghoa. Because Temujin was right.

  Bleeding skies, he was right.

  “How could you allow this?” I shout. “Serik is your family!”

  Orbai dives from the tree with an ear-piercing screech and thumps down on my arm, her talons tense, her wings outstretched.

  I reach up and stroke her chest as Ghoa emerges from the lean-to. She takes her time, adjusting the knife in her boot and brushing the leaves and snow from her breeches. “You are overreacting,” she says in a low, firm voice. “If you would stop hollering long enough to allow me to explain—”

  “How can you explain sentencing your own cousin to Gazar?”

  “It’s only for a short time. The abba is at his wits’ end. Serik still refuses to say his penances, he’s outright blasphemous during services, and they caught him squirreling away food in his robes, as if he were planning another escape. The abba thinks a few weeks in Gazar will give him some perspective—and, quite frankly, I agree.”

  “You know that no one is sentenced to Gazar for ‘a few weeks.’”

  Ghoa takes a step closer. “How about this: If you tell me what you know of Temujin, I will lessen Serik’s sentence. Suggest an alternative form of punishment.”

  I shake my head. “You weren’t even going to tell me he was in prison. Why would I believe you’d follow through on this offer?”

  “Because I’m your sister!” Ghoa erupts. “How could you honestly choose a deserter over me, after everything I’ve done for you? I have never doubted you. I didn’t walk away when the rest of the world washed their hands of you. Doesn’t than mean something to you? Don’t I mean something to you?”

  My tongue pulses with all of the words I could say to prove my love and gratitude, but Ghoa’s claims don’t match her expression. Her jaw is set and her shoulders are rigid. Her fingertips fidget at her hip—where that flap of worn leather would be if she were wearing her armor. But it’s the glint in her eyes that chills me most—an eerie, detached resolve that reminds me of the hellish days following the death of Chinua, the former commander of the Kalima warriors. Ghoa had worn tracks into the floor of our tent from pacing and murmuring to herself. Not out of grief for our fallen leader, but obsessing over who would take his place. She was willing to do anything to claim the title, and when her turn came to prove her merit, s
he ordered longer and more dangerous missions into Zemya. She doubled each watch and quickened every march. Pushing, pushing, pushing to prove her proficiency.

  Despite these monumental efforts, the king addressed his next correspondence to me.

  Only because he’s worried you’re overextending yourself, I’d assured Ghoa. Though, secretly, I’d been delighted to see my name embossed in gold. Secretly, I’d been pressing my night spinning further than I ever had, hoping he might consider me for the promotion. I didn’t want to take it from Ghoa, of course. But the position wasn’t yet hers. And she was already letting the taste of power go to her head.

  “Desperation is never a good look,” I say—the same admonition I gave her back then.

  Ghoa’s eyes flare with recognition, then fury. This isn’t something the submissive, obedient Enebish would say. It’s something Enebish the Warrior would say.

  My words clang in the space between us like the Gesper Temple bells.

  She steps closer, her hair as white as frost. A wash of ice pours across the ground, freezing the snow beneath my feet. “I will ask you once more, Enebish.” Ghoa carefully enunciates each word. “What do you know of Temujin?”

  “And if I choose not to tell you?”

  “I’ll do what I must to protect my king and country.”

  “And I’ll do what I must to protect my family.”

  “Am I not part of that family?” Ghoa’s voice breaks on the last word, but it’s too late for her to pretend to care.

  “Why don’t you ask Serik?” I bellow.

  Ghoa clutches her head and screams, “Enough!” A pulse of frigid air knocks me back and the icicles hanging from the trees fall like harsh, chiming raindrops. But instead of crashing to the ground, the shards hurtle toward me like daggers.