“Yes, yes! Praise the goddess of the heavens,” he moans.
I quirk a brow as he grapples for grass and twigs to use as kindling. I’ve never heard that particular expression before, but he was trapped in a Zemyan prison camp for a good deal of his life. He’s bound to do things differently.
“This job is much more pleasant since you came along, Enebish the Destroyer,” Kartok says once our fire is roaring and I’ve stitched a veil of night around us. “Though, don’t get too comfortable. We have a job to do.” He tuts his tongue like the monks at the Ikh Zuree and points an accusatory finger at me, reclined on my elbows, the threads of darkness resting slack in my palms. “You’re acting like you’re Queen of Night after one successful mission.”
I laugh because it feels so natural to be lounging in the darkness like this, I almost forgot to be afraid. Almost forgot a monster prowls beneath my skin.
Kartok and I exchange tales while we wait for the recruits to extinguish and relight the lantern in the eastern tower—our signal that it’s nearly midnight.
“It was by pure luck I escaped from the Zemyans,” Kartok says in a faraway voice. “I’d been captive so long, and was so docile and defeated, they stopped checking the shackles around my ankles. One day I discovered the iron had corroded from the filth, so I climbed out when the night watch changed, bludgeoned the unsuspecting guard over the head, and ran to freedom.”
“I am the opposite,” I tell him. “Poor luck brought about my freedom. Had I never been discovered and tortured at the Qusbegi Festival, Ghoa never would have sent me on my mission. I would still be trapped within the walls of Ikh Zuree, ignorant to the truth about the Protected Territories and the Imperial Army. Afraid of my own shadow.”
Across the field, a light winks on and off, ordinary enough to look like a gust of wind or a clumsy hand—but we know better.
Our approach at this camp is much different than the first; with the high fortress walls, I can’t simply slip into the encampment and dodge from tent to tent. Thankfully, Kartok devised a different plan.
I wrap the darkness around us like a thick wool shawl and we creep across the barren field to the wall. Kartok reaches into his cloak and extracts a handful of long steel bolts and a tiny crossbow that he straps to his wrist. When the bells in the watchtower toll the hour, Kartok shoots a bolt into the wood at knee level and then another slightly higher. Deft as an acrobat, and, in perfect rhythm with the clanging bells, he drives handholds and footholds into the wall and pulls himself up, higher and higher until he settles into the valley between two sharp parapets, just as the bells fall silent.
My mouth drops open as he lashes coils of rope to the parapets. I no longer have any trouble picturing him climbing out of the Zemyan prison pit.
He squints down at me expectantly, which is when I remember I’m more than just a spectator on this mission. Using his handholds and footholds, I carefully pull myself up to the top of the wall. It takes me five times longer than Kartok, and I don’t even have to place the bolts.
Shaky and out of breath, I swing into the parapet beside him and whisper a quick prayer to the Lady of the Sky, partly in thanks, but mostly for additional help; the treacherous climb was the easy part.
Below, in the fort, there are rows and rows of barracks surrounding a stone watchtower in the center. At the top of the tower, alongside the bells, is a massive rotating lamp that illuminates sections of the camp at random. “You failed to mention there was a spotlight,” I snap at Kartok.
“I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
“Of course it’s a problem! My darkness only blends in if it’s dark.”
Our plan seemed simple enough when Kartok suggested it. We would climb to the top of the wall, where I would create a long tunnel of darkness that extended to the ground and into the center of camp. Inside the tunnel, Kartok would secure ropes to the wall for the recruits to climb out of the fort. Then, at our signal, which the recruits would know thanks to coded instructions Kartok hid in a ration shipment the day before, they would sneak from their beds, slip into the tunnel, follow it to the wall, and scale the ropes, completely unseen.
Unless that skies-forsaken light ruins everything.
“Arranging the threads of night into a tunnel large enough, and stable enough, for people to pass through will take all of my strength and concentration,” I murmur. “But now I also have to avoid and deflect the spotlight.”
“You’ll find a way,” Kartok says, watching the swinging beam of light.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then the warriors we’ve been sent to rescue will perish like the rest.” He nods to a dark heap in the far corner of the compound. At first it looks like a trash mound or manure pile, but the longer I study it, the more details come into focus: limp hands and twisted arms, blank faces and bloody hair.
A scream burns up my throat, and I slap my hand over my lips to contain it. There are so many bodies, the empire isn’t even attempting to bury them.
“No pressure.” Kartok claps me on the back.
I want to jab my elbow into his side. In addition to the spotlight, guards pace back and forth between the barracks, like they did at the first encampment. I’m so nauseous and dizzy, I nearly tumble from my perch. This was supposed to be simpler than leading a long, unruly line of recruits. And safer.
Help me, I beg the Lady of the Sky again. Then I suck in three deep breaths, form my hands into a circle, and bring them to my lips. When I blow, whorls of night funnel out from my hands, forming a long, spiraling tube that I nudge down the wall. Once it reaches the ground, I ease the tunnel forward one excruciating foot-length at a time so I can quickly halt or change directions when the skies-forsaken light sweeps past.
Sweat trickles down my face and stings my eyes. My heart thunders like a cannon in my ears. Finally the tunnel bumps up against the side window of the nearest barrack.
Soundlessly, Kartok ducks into the shaft and repels down the wall with the ropes. Then he lights a torch—a beacon to guide the recruits through the funnel of blackness, visible only to those looking directly down the tunnel.
He waves the torch back and forth, and I tighten my grip on the night, praying the recruits come quickly. The threads of darkness squirm in my hands like the slippery fire geckos in Verdenet. I have to squeeze so hard to keep the tunnel steady, the joint of every finger aches. The weaker I grow, the easier it will be for the monster to overpower me.
Hurry up.
After twelve long seconds, the first recruit finally staggers up to the wall and takes a rope from Kartok. Before they’re even halfway up, another recruit arrives. Then another. The line is never ending. It takes an eternity for them to scale the wall.
I steal a glance over my shoulder to see how many wait on the ground outside the fort.
My first mistake.
As soon as I look away, the spotlight sweeps across the tunnel of darkness. The beam stutters and swings back, and I try to make the tunnel look like the shadow of a building, but in my panic, I yank the weft of night too hard.
The spotlight blinks out altogether, plunging the camp into darkness.
There’s a shout and a high-pitched whistle. Horns blare and drums boom. But that’s not the worst of it; snuffing the massive light took so much of my power, the tunnel collapses into ash, revealing three recruits dangling halfway up the wall, caught mid-climb.
Two imperial guards round the corner of the barracks. They bellow and sprint toward the recruits, sabers drawn. The deserters flail like spiders blown in the wind, and one boy nearly loses his grip.
My body seizes with panic. If we don’t do something, the entire base will descend on us in seconds.
I could conceal the recruits, but the guards have seen them. They’ll follow us over the wall and the recruits waiting on the other side will be captured too. So do I attempt to fight the guards? The stars above me roar with readiness, but my hands won’t move. My vision blurs, blotting out the barracks a
nd the watchtower until all I see are broken bodies and blood smeared across the snow-white fields of Nariin.
Kartok shouts something up at me, but I’m too far-gone to hear it. With a curse, he turns and pounces like a mountain cat. Long, curved blades appear from beneath his sleeves, and he collides with the guards, a smear of white skin and brown robes.
It’s over so fast, they haven’t even time to scream. Blood sprays Kartok’s tunic as the warriors crumple to the frozen dirt. I have never seen such skill and speed, not even among the Kalima, and I gape at Kartok as his daggers vanish once more beneath his belled sleeves. He hauls himself up the rope, giving the last deserter a shove over the ramparts.
“Did you learn that in the pit?” I whisper as we scramble down the other side.
“Get to the ground and conceal the group,” Kartok commands.
I do as I’m told.
Or I try to, but the darkness yanks and pulls at my shaking hands, like a dog refusing to give up a bone. When I reach the group of recruits, I see why. More than forty deserters look back at me. Forty people with hollow cheeks and bloody uniforms who I have to shield over twice the distance. After I’ve already pushed my power far past its limit.
I whimper and look to Kartok. “You promised there would be the same number of recruits.”
“Others must have tagged along. We can ask them to wait,” he says, but we both know that isn’t an option. Drums and horns blare from the fort like a mother whose children have been ripped from her bosom. Chains rattle as the portcullis rises. Anyone left behind will be captured by scouting parties long before the sun is up.
I stretch my aching fingers and shake my head. “No, I can do it.”
Drudging up strength from the center of my bones, I manage to drape my darkness over the group. Kartok guides us northward—through mud and wind and snow. Each step is agonizing. The whorls of night flail and heave, trying to take advantage of my exhaustion.
Even though we spend the daylight hours resting in a cave, I’m still bleary-eyed and wobbly the second night of our trek. And the more my feet stumble, the more my darkness sputters. By the time we reach the outskirts of Sagaan, Kartok has to bear me up and drag me along.
I somehow keep my grip on the night until we crash through the door of the Ram’s Head. Then the last of my strength gives out. Kartok digs the portal stone from my pocket, throws it at the wall, and hands me to a recruit. I do not see the glow of the gateway. Or the vibrant green fields. My eyes are as heavy as sandbags. Everything is black and bleeding, like wet ink, and a different sort of darkness drags me under.
I burst back into consciousness crying, haunted not only by dreams of Nariin, but by heaps of bodies—like the one inside the fort, and Kartok’s bloodstained blades, and legions of imperial warriors hunting us across the grasslands, ripping recruits from beneath my cover of darkness and beheading them in front of me.
I try to open my eyes, but blinding sunlight filters through the green walls of Inkar’s tent, searing my vision. I toss my arm over my face and arch up from the blankets, but gentle hands press me down.
“Lie still. You need to recover.”
I turn my head toward the voice and find Temujin’s amber eyes squinting down at me.
“What happened?” I babble. “Where is everyone? Did the recruits make it?”
“Everyone’s fine,” Inkar says from my other side. She smooths the hair from my face and offers me a glass of water. “Can you tell us what happened? The recruits tried to explain, but they’re understandably upset. We don’t trust the accuracy of their reports.”
I take a long drink and ease up to my elbows. “At least twenty more recruits than expected wished to flee with us, and we couldn’t leave them behind to be discovered by scouting parties, so I pushed my Kalima power to the limit to accommodate them. And before that, there was an incident with a spotlight at the fort. I made a miscalculation and a few imperial guards saw us. Kartok disposed of them, but the entire mission was terrifying and overwhelming and exhausting. I’m sorry I didn’t—”
“You have no reason to apologize,” Temujin interrupts. His expression is gentle and concerned. Tender, almost. “You’ve done brilliantly. In three days, you’ve brought us sixty new warriors. That’s no small feat.”
“And I’ll bring more as soon as my strength returns. You were right. About everything.” I shake my head, but like Nariin, I’ll never be able to stave off those terrible images. “There were bodies everywhere—so many that they aren’t even attempting to bury them. And the recruits we rescued are in bad shape. I can be ready to go again soon. A day or two at most.”
“I knew you’d eventually thank me.” Temujin ruffles my hair like he did at our first meeting, only now it makes me smile. He places something in the crook of my arm. Something warm and soft and familiar. “Thought you could use some comfort while you recover.”
I look down at the little prayer doll resting in my arms. Not just any prayer doll. My prayer doll. The one I had to leave behind when I fled the grazing lands with Orbai. “You went back for it,” I whisper. There isn’t a word big enough to describe the burning in my chest and the stinging in my eyes.
“I tried to recover your Book of Whisperings as well, but it had been left in the snow too long. The pages disintegrated beneath my touch. But you’re welcome to use mine anytime you’d like.”
“You’d let me do that?” A Book of Whisperings is a person’s most private possession. A direct channel to the innermost part of their soul, usually reserved for family.
“For you, anything. Now get some rest.” Temujin squeezes my arm and shifts to stand, but I grab his hand before he pulls away.
“Can I see Serik again? I want to tell him about the mission. I think it will help—”
Outside the tent, someone screams. A second later a chorus of Shoniin are shouting. Temujin and Inkar share a worried glance across my bed. I shoot up from my blankets, but the grinding pain in my head levels me like a fist to the jaw. Temujin and Inkar look from me to the door, but before they can make a decision, Chanar bursts through the tent flap, coughing uncontrollably. Churning gray smoke pours in behind him.
“What in the blazing skies is going on?” Temujin demands.
Chanar braces himself on his knees and struggles for air. When he finally answers, he looks at me instead of Temujin. “The supply shack burned to the ground.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WHENEVER I FACED GRIM NEWS ON THE BATTLEFIELD, MY first response was to fly into action. Change the point of attack, shift the paradigm, advance, retreat. Whatever it took. There’s always a way to bend fate and fortune to your favor.
But there’s no fixing this.
The supply shack burned while Serik was trapped inside.
I stare up at the ceiling, unable to think or speak or even breathe because it can’t be true. He can’t be dead.
I throw off my blankets with every intention of charging out the door to see for myself, but my hammering head and wobbly limbs refuse to cooperate. I crumple with a grunt and Inkar forces me to lie still, but inside, my anxiety swirls faster, faster, faster.
“What do you mean it burned to the ground? How?” Temujin charges across the tent and sticks his head through the flap.
“I don’t know,” Chanar wheezes. “I went to deliver the monk’s rations, but as soon as I opened the door, I was enveloped in flames. The fanatic blew himself up and tried to take me down with him.”
The story sets every nerve in my body to prickling. Serik has a history of fiery retaliation.
Inkar’s face goes as white as freshly driven snow and she hurries to her brother’s side, inspecting the burns on his cheeks.
“Was anyone else injured?” Temujin asks.
“Techugar and Borte were right behind me, and there were others training nearby. Lots of burns and cuts.” Chanar coughs so hard, he vomits.
Temujin kicks Inkar’s bedroll. He glances at me, then back at the door.
“Please go, all of you,” I say. “Take care of the wounded.” They need to leave so I can leave.
Temujin studies me, his face etched with worry and compassion, but eventually he nods. “It will only take a minute.” He rushes from the tent and Inkar and Chanar hobble out on his heels.
As soon as they’re gone, I drag myself to the tent flap and whisper Serik’s name, praying to the Lady and Father my suspicions are right.
When no answer comes, I call a little louder. Then a little louder still. I wipe my clammy palms down my tunic and poke my head out of the tent. With the smoky ocher haze, the other Shoniin won’t be able to spot me easily. But Serik won’t be able to see me either. As much as I want to dash around the encampment looking for him, there’s no way I can walk so far, and wandering would make it more difficult for him to find me anyway. So I stay put.
The seconds tick past, and with each one, my certainty wavers. After twenty minutes, I’m chained head to toe with panic. Maybe I’m jumping to wild conclusions. Maybe Serik didn’t escape. Temujin and his Shoniin made it clear they weren’t fond of Serik, but they wouldn’t murder him.
Would they?
A sob explodes from my collapsing chest.
A moment later footsteps crunch outside the tent and a soft voice whispers, “Enebish?”
My name has never sounded so glorious.
I squeal and draw the tent flap aside. “You’re alive! Thank the skies.”
“Of course I’m alive.” Serik bends through the door, his skin so coated with soot that he looks painted with darkness. “There are too many damn tents in this place. How are you ever supposed to find anyone?”
I throw my arms around him and press my face against his chest, savoring his warmth and solidness, no matter that he reeks like a firepit. “How did you escape? What are you going to do? They’ll be back any second.” Every thought and worry rushes out of my head like a waterfall.
“I picked the lock,” Serik says with a wave of his hand, as if it should be obvious.
“Using what? There was nothing in that cell with you. They didn’t even leave the empty ration sacks or a water cup.”
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