Night Spinner

by Addie Thorley

  We decided this would be an ideal rendezvous point, as the boulders provide plenty of cover and no one ventures willingly into these fields. They’re nicknamed the Boneyard for good reason; many people perish in the slides each winter, and as soon as the snow melts, a wash of bones litter the ground. I step gingerly around them, trying not to look into the skulls’ gaping eyes or at the snapped and twisted limbs scattered around like kindling.

  Cupping my hands to my mouth, I hoot three times like an owl, and wait for three hoots of response.

  They come from a boulder thirty paces to my left, so I leave the horse and weave in that direction. When I’m within five paces, the gravel shifts and a hooded figure emerges from behind the rock. Their face is concealed beneath a deep cowl, but the person is tall and impossibly thin, like Temujin described. I loosen my grip on the night enough to reveal my form but not enough for the stranger to see my face.

  “Are you Kartok?” I whisper.

  “That depends who’s asking.” The voice is a hoarse rasp, like the hiss of a snake. But I relax a fraction because it’s the exact same thing the Bone Reader said to me in her hut.

  “Be humble, for you are made of earth. Be noble, for you are made of stars,” I intone the old desert proverb.

  Kartok nods and peels back his hood. “Welcome, Enebish.” His face is gaunt and pale and riddled with dozens of silvery pockmarks. His head is naked, like a monk’s, but where Serik’s is obviously shaved, Kartok’s is smoother than a river rock. Temujin told me he spent half his life in a Zemyan prison camp, enduring unfathomable torture, and I smile at the skeletal man because I see so much of myself in him. We may be scarred on the outside, but we’re fighters within. Whether or not we’re fighting for the same side has yet to be decided.

  “It’s brave, what you do,” I say. “Risking your life out here every night when you could be safe in the realm of the Eternal Blue with the others.”

  “Someone must shepherd the recruits, and with my unfortunate skin condition, I wouldn’t fare too well in a land of eternal sunshine.” Kartok smiles blandly at his joke. His voice is strange—low and susurrating—but Temujin prepared me for this, too. The Zemyans cut off a portion of his tongue during his imprisonment. They left no part of him unscathed.

  “Shall we?” He waves me forward with his reed-thin arm. “The guards will be changing soon.”

  As we snake through the boulders, I flutter my fingers to extend my cloak of darkness over Kartok, but the night pushes back, rolling down his brown cape like beads of water. I scowl and push harder. I’m tired from the journey and out of practice, but if I can’t conceal one man, how will I manage an entire group of deserters?

  Focus, Enebish.

  I clench my fingers tighter, until red crescents stipple my palm. Finally the darkness slips over Kartok, and I breathe a little easier, knowing we’re cocooned in shadow.

  We walk in silence, and even though I try to be discreet, he catches me examining his scars across the dimness. “They called me Maggot,” he says without looking at me. “Because I was so white and wriggling in the pit where they kept us.”

  I can tell by the set of his jaw he’s bracing for me to respond with sympathy, but I know from experience that isn’t what someone with injuries like ours needs or wants. “They call me Enebish the Destroyer.”

  “And are you?” His dark eyes glitter like wet tar in the moonlight.

  I shrug and smile. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  “A murderer and a maggot.” Kartok chuckles. “What is Temujin thinking, placing his rebellion in our hands?” His spindly fingers stroke the wide sleeves of his cloak, and when he speaks again, his voice is serious. “Deadly or not, I’m grateful for your assistance. I could only transport one or two recruits at a time myself. But with your help, our numbers will swell until that damned fool on the throne is forced to negotiate with us.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “We will make him,” Kartok says with vicious resolve. He crouches behind the last boulder and stares across a clearing at a line of torches and tents that extend for leagues and leagues. So far, I can’t see the beginning or the end. Blue-and-gold banners wave in the midnight wind and mounted warriors ride in serpentine patterns through the tents.

  “Shouldn’t they be more concerned with guarding the perimeter?” I whisper.

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

  I watch the guards make their constant rounds. “How have you managed to rescue anyone under these circumstances?”

  “Security has gotten tighter as our rebellion has gained traction, but it’s never been easy. I usually try to create a diversion—spook the horses, set a tent on fire, send up the alarm of attack—in order to give our recruits time to slip from their tents and run like hell to the Boneyard. The trouble is, the guards have caught on to my tactics. Last week five warriors attempted to flee, but only two of them made it.”

  “What happened to the others?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  “They were dragged back to camp and beheaded before the rest of the troops.”

  My stomach upends and I vomit into the dirt. I’ve been so consumed with the possibility of losing control of my power, or losing Serik, and betraying Ghoa, I failed to realize people’s lives would quite literally depend on my ability to successfully shield them.

  They’re deserters, half of my mind retorts. They deserve whatever punishment they have coming.

  But I still don’t want to watch them die. I don’t want their deaths to be on my head. Especially when I’m facilitating their desertion. And I can’t even claim that it’s part of my mission; Ghoa would never encourage me to go this far.

  “Are you ready?” Kartok asks when the nearest guard dismounts. “After you slip into camp, stop at these three tents”—he shows me a diagram etched onto his forearm—“collect the recruits, and return here. I’ll be hiding several hundred paces away, ready to create havoc in case of disaster.”

  My voice is trapped behind a lump of guilt and terror, but I manage to nod.

  “Well?” Kartok asks when I still don’t move.

  I look up at him, searching for some sign or guarantee that I’m not a failure for betraying my country like this. That I’m not driving a saber into Ghoa’s heart and severing our sisterhood for nothing. What I get is a rough shove to the back.

  “Forge your own confidence, Destroyer,” he says as I stumble into the clearing.

  My darkness sputters for half a second before I regain my balance. But even once I’m steady, the threads yank at my hands as I walk toward the tents—like a horse taking the bit in its teeth. I yank back. I can do this. I have to do this. It’s the only way Temujin will release Serik.

  I shuffle closer to the tents, so focused on blending the shadows and keeping my injured leg quiet, I’m completely ambushed by the smell. Bleeding skies. I cover my face with my vambraced arm. I’m used to the stench of unwashed bodies and sweaty armor, but this smells like rotten meat. Not just a day or two old, but left to molder in the sun for weeks. It’s so strong, I can taste it.

  The quiet hits me next. Even in the middle of the night, army encampments never truly sleep. Pages are always running errands. Generals are always barking orders. Warriors moan and thrash as they wake from the throes of nightmares. But not in this camp. It might as well be a graveyard. The extreme stillness feels like beetles creeping across my flesh. Not only is it unnerving, it’s problematic. I can only blot out forms, not the tread of running feet.

  I slip down a row of tents, and sticky mud sucks at my boots. The air is cold enough, the ground should be frozen, but it’s a river of brown muck from so many chamber pots being emptied in one location. The filthy containers lie on their sides, spilling excrement, and I gag as I pull my boots free—nearly running straight into a mounted guard. I bite down on my scream and skid to a halt, breath held to keep it from billowing in front of my face. For a second I even close my eyes. My heart batters agains
t my rib cage like a fox in a trap.

  The horse blows and sidesteps, its eyes rimmed white, but, thankfully, the rider looks straight through me. He murmurs to his horse and urges it on with a stern kick.

  Once they’ve trotted away, I double over and take two deep breaths. Then I readjust my hold on the night and dart to the first tent I’m to visit. I bend myself through the door like a shadow, and find seven warriors huddled in the center, staring as the tent flap drops back into place, seemingly by itself.

  They’re gasping and shaky, most of them seriously wounded, many of them not a day older than fourteen. Their blue-and-gold uniforms are shredded and coated with blood, and several clutch broken limbs and angry gashes. Not only that, they’re horrifically emaciated—gaunt spines and knobby ribs protrude like broken bones through their tunics. It’s blindingly clear how the Zemyans are advancing. I doubt they even need to call upon their sorcery. A stiff winter wind could blow our warriors over.

  Guilt drenches me like a freezing bucket of water. Maybe they do need the rations the Shoniin are stealing? But would they even see them if they’re the king’s sacrificial lambs, sent to hold the war front with no support? These new treasonous thoughts clang around my head, making the collar of my tunic feel too tight.

  This is wrong. Inhumane. Just as atrocious as what’s happening to the shepherds.

  And it proves Temujin right.

  Again.

  I accidentally clench my fists, and darkness consumes the tent. The recruits gasp, and I blow out a breath and ease back. I have to stay calm.

  “This way,” I whisper, revealing my face for a moment, so they know I’m a person instead of a ghost. I lift the tent flap, and as each deserter ducks past, I toss my net of darkness over them, stretching it wider and wider until it drapes over us like a blanket. Without a word, I place the front-most girl’s hand on my shoulder and instruct them to do the same down the line—to keep us together and so my ability will transfer through them. Then we inch forward like a train of bumbling camels.

  I repeat the same process at the next two tents, and by the end of my rounds, twenty recruits extend behind me like an unwieldy tail. I start to hyperventilate every time I glance back. If even one of them trips or sneezes, we’re all doomed.

  We shamble forward slowly, forced to break apart again and again to let guards pass, which means I have to loop back around to retrieve the severed group members, who are standing, blind and petrified, in the darkness.

  By the time we finally make it to the clearing, my hands are tingly and I can’t feel my face. It’s been a lifetime since I’ve breathed. “Stay together until we’re safe in the Boneyard,” I whisper.

  But the sight of safety is too much.

  With a hysterical whine, the youngest boy in the center of the pack surges past me, and the rest of the group bolts after him—like horses at the start of a race. As if the rocks will conceal them better than my darkness.

  They burst from beneath my blanket of night, and I have to throw my bad arm up to catch it. The pain is so blinding, I nearly fall to my knees. The effort leaves me sick and shaking and for an instant I have no control. My Kalima power falters, drained to the final drop. Everything goes black. Even for me.

  Behind us, there’s a shout.

  I grit my teeth and hobble as fast as I can to the Boneyard, where I find the deserters sprawled across the grass. Most are crying. A few are vomiting. “Keep moving!” I snap as I throw off my mantle of night. “The guards could be right behind us.”

  The recruits’ faces pale as I stomp toward them, and they dive out of my way with a yelp.

  “You should be afraid,” I growl.

  I am. For that single, terrible second of absolute darkness, I had no control. The monster could have claimed me, like it did at Nariin. Flashes from my nightmares bombard me and it’s all I can do to keep walking, to keep my lips clamped tight over my screams.

  The recruits fall quickly into line behind me, and Kartok claps slowly as he materializes from the rocks to our left. “You’re a natural born leader, I see.”

  “You could have warned me that following basic orders isn’t a requirement for Shoniin recruits.”

  Kartok laughs and pats my head. “Breathe, Destroyer. You did it. The hardest part is behind us.”

  The hardest part for the rest of them, maybe.

  A handful of guards do come to scout the Boneyard, and it takes every morsel of my strength to drape the darkness strategically over our group so the large swathes of shadow appear to come from surrounding trees and boulders. On top of that, it takes every modicum of my patience to keep the young warriors from giving in to their panic and condemning us all to death. Our progress is slow and my head aches. What took me two hours on horseback takes us five hours on foot, and by the time we steal into the city, fire ripples across the horizon, stamping the blackness like a molten orange brand.

  The threads of night begin to quake and peel away.

  Just a little farther.

  We spill into the tavern, and I toss the blue pebble at the bedroom wall. With a sizzle and a flash, the gateway burns through the wood grain. The recruits clap and practically throw themselves at the light.

  Something niggles at me as I watch them vanish—that feeling you get when you’ve forgotten to pick up something from the market, something essential, but you can’t for the life of you remember what. As the last boy disappears, I realize what it is.

  “None of them were afraid,” I say to Kartok. “No one balked at the fiery gateway.”

  He shrugs with his entire body. “Why would they? They are believers, like you and me.”

  I nod slowly. Of course.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” I motion to the flickering door.

  Kartok steps back and gives his head a quick shake. “Someone must arrange the next pickup. See you soon, Destroyer.” He flashes a grin that’s toothy and grotesque, but sincere. Proud, even.

  “See you soon, Maggot,” I say, returning his smile.

  He bows and sweeps out of the room, vanishing so quickly that it’s almost as if he cloaked himself in darkness.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “THEY’RE BACK!” SOMEONE SHOUTS AS OUR RAGTAG COMPANY ducks beneath the silk walls of the Shoniin encampment.

  In an instant, we’re bombarded by faces and elbows and hands. I don’t even see Temujin’s distinctive spikey hair until he lifts me clean off the ground, crushes me in his arms, and plants a kiss on my cheek. Directly on my traitor’s mark. His lips come away black from the pine ink, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

  “You’re a godsend, Enebish. I knew you’d be successful, but twenty warriors on your first trip?”

  I blush furiously as the Shoniin hoot and clap. Orbai zips past with a screech, but she doesn’t land on my shoulder. She’s always been edgy in crowds.

  “Celebrate later.” Inkar pushes through the commotion with a basket of linens raised overhead. “After the wounded have been tended and we find them accommodations. We’ve never had so many at once.”

  Like always, she’s thinking of others, making sure the newest recruits are properly cared for. Many of them are on their knees, clutching the ground as if they’re afraid it will fall out from under them. Others lift their hands to the sky in thanks. A few of them cry and kiss my cheeks. Now that they aren’t a breath away from getting us killed, my heart palpates with a surge of gladness to see them here. Safe.

  Ghoa’s sharp voice immediately hisses in my ear: You shouldn’t be glad. They are deserters. But their wounds are even more grotesque in the light—the stench of infection and rot from the imperial encampment has followed us across the realms—and most are not Ashkarian. They are pale-skinned and red-haired Chotgori. Or dark and angular Southerners, like myself and Temujin. Or stalky marsh-dwellers with hair as yellow and coarse as cattails.

  Once again, everything aligns with Temujin’s horrific claims.

  “Can you help me with them?”
Inkar asks. “I think they’ll find comfort in your continued presence. You know how intimidating this place is at first.”

  I glance across the encampment toward the prison shack. I want to go straight to Serik. I upheld my end of the bargain. But Temujin has the key and he’s been swallowed up by the crowd. One of the new recruits stumbles into me while trying to lace her boots and lands hard on her injured leg.

  “Are you okay?” I offer her a hand up.

  She bites down hard on her lip and nods, but she clearly isn’t okay. None of them are.

  I’m weary to my bones and hollowed out from using every morsel of my power, but I take half of the linens and help guide the recruits to the infirmary tent. I want to help. And I want answers even more.

  We spend the next several hours cleansing wounds and fashioning bandages, learning the warriors’ names and listening to their stories.

  Chuva, a girl my age, was sent with her battalion to cut off the Zemyans at the Usinsk Pass, armed with only slings and spears against their mounted soldiers and enchanted blades. “They cut us down in seconds. I only survived by falling to the ground and pretending to be dead. I smeared the blood of my best friend across my face,” she says, her eyes clouded and faraway.

  “We haven’t had proper rations or clean water in months,” a boy named Hutu laments. “There are too many troops, too many mouths to feed. My brother was so weak, he could hardly stand, and when he went to the sick bay for help, they told him he’d been reassigned to a bloody battlefront. It wasn’t worth the resources to nurse him back to health, apparently.”

  I try to listen to these tales with an air of skepticism; they are obviously deserters, so their memories could be biased. Perhaps the loyal warriors don’t feel the same?