“He would obviously head straight for Namaag,” Temujin says. “His younger sister is married to the vice chancellor. They would give him asylum.”
“But the Sky King would expect that. He’d have warriors waiting along the caravan routes,” I argue.
“The Sky King would have to pull warriors from the battlefront to do that, and thanks to us, he doesn’t have many to spare….”
“True, but I still don’t think Minoak would risk it. And he wouldn’t just abandon his people. He’s somewhere close. Where he can watch the imperial governor and regroup.”
“You speak as if you know him personally.” Temujin chuckles. “I hope you’re right, but how can you have so much confidence in a king you’ve never met?”
“The same way I devote my life to a goddess I’ve never seen. The same way I trust a notorious criminal to save our people.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Commitment born of perfect knowledge lacks the most powerful factor of all—faith.”
Temujin studies me thoughtfully before his face scrunches with exaggerated shock. “Do my ears deceive me, or did you just admit that you finally trust me?”
“Maybe. Partially. But don’t let it go to your head.”
I expect him to come back with a witty reply, but he reaches into his satchel and removes his Book of Whisperings instead. “Enough for this?”
He holds it out and I suck in a breath. The leather is so old and crinkled, it looks like the ear of an elephant. It’s smaller than my family’s book, and held together with a long leather strap instead of a metal clasp, but the same hum of energy emanates from its pages. An overwhelming sense of peace and strength.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Positive.” He scoots so close, our thighs brush. With careful fingers, he unwinds the strap and opens the book across our laps. He reaches into his tunic and pulls out two quills, offering one to me. “Let’s write together.”
I nibble my lip and look from the quill to Temujin. I have never written with someone else. I was too young to do so when my family perished. But it’s not something to be taken lightly. To write in a Book of Whisperings with someone is to invite them into your head, to bare the innermost parts of your soul. You converse with the Lady of the Sky together, which means there are no secrets. No hiding. But what do I have to hide at this point?
You could still come back, Ghoa’s voice dances through my ears like the strains of a distant song. When I first entered the realm of the Eternal Blue, her voice was nearly as loud as my own. But now it’s nothing more than the shush of wind through grass. I’d almost miss it if I forgot to listen closely.
“Unless it makes you uncomfortable …” Temujin says. “Because I would never—”
I take the quill. “Let’s do it.”
I can hear Serik sputter with disgust from a world away. It’s too much, he whispers. Temujin has an agenda. But I silence his voice too. He relinquished his right to comment on my decisions when he chose to leave.
Temujin and I turn to the book and our quills scratch across the parchment. As soon as my letters sink into the rippling page, Temujin’s appear, not in the book, but scrawled across the blackness of my mind.
Are we ever beyond redemption?
Tingles flood my body, from the top of my head to the base of my spine. He could have asked the Goddess anything—for guidance navigating the war, for reassurance, for the strength to continue—but he asked a question for me. To calm me. To fortify me. I can already feel Her answer pulsing in my chest: constant and steady and sure. A fierce and protective love, despite my many mistakes.
It makes my own question feel trite and childish: If this is the right path, why has it been so difficult?
My cheeks burn and I curl in on myself.
“Don’t do that,” Temujin says.
“Don’t do what?”
“That. How you shrink into your shoulders and hide behind your hair like a tortoise retreating into its shell.” His hand shoots out and brushes the thick strands of black behind my ear. His fingers linger, hesitate, then carefully trace the three slashes of my traitor’s mark. Embracing the things about me that most people shy away from.
Something molten stirs in my belly and every tiny hair on my cheek stands ramrod straight. I don’t know if it’s his heady tea soap scent or the sacred book lying across our laps or the feel of his thigh pressed against mine, but I accidentally blurt, “You’re different than I expected.”
The smile that melts across his lips makes heat skitter through my rib cage. “So are you.” He takes me by the hand and tugs me to my feet. “Come with us tonight. We’re doing something special in Sagaan and I want you to be part of it.”
“Really?” Other than my missions with Kartok, I haven’t been permitted to raid supply wagons or deliver rations or even steal cannons. Serik would say it’s because the Shoniin don’t trust me, but Temujin assured me it’s only because my night spinning is much more vital. Anyone can deliver rations, but only I can bring warriors safely to our side. “You want me to join you?”
Temujin smirks and tugs my braid. “I don’t want you to come; I am insisting.”
I bite my lip and glance around the tent. Whatever Temujin has planned, the quiet of my bedroll will be easier. But sitting in an empty tent and nursing memories of Serik won’t bring him back. He doesn’t want to come back.
“Okay,” I agree. It’s time to get out of my head. Time to move on.
“Excellent. Inkar will bring you clothes.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I say, and we both laugh, since I still haven’t changed from the filthy tunic I wore on last night’s mission.
Inkar arrives shortly after Temujin leaves and tosses me a bundle of clothes. They’re nothing special—the garb of a middle-class Ashkarian: a tunic made of navy wool, flowing brown pants, and a rabbit fur coat.
“You’re looking perfectly plain this evening,” she says with a wink when I emerge from our tent. She and Temujin and Chanar are wearing similarly bland outfits—fur caps and nondescript cloaks. I’m so used to seeing them all in Shoniin gray, they look like eagles that have sprouted fur rather than feathers.
“What exactly are we doing?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise.” Inkar tugs me through the encampment and across the globeflower field to the portal site. “Oyunna arranged it, so you know it will be good.”
Temujin opens the gateway, and as soon as we land in the dusty bedroom at the back of the Ram’s Head, I can hear the chaos in the streets. The windows rattle with laughter and singing, and a gong twangs so loudly, the oil lamp on the dressing table topples on its side.
“What’s going on?” I spin a quick circle. “It isn’t a festival day.”
Inkar cackles at my confused expression, and she and the boys shepherd me out of the tavern, where we’re instantly consumed by the throng. It’s so packed, I can’t actually see the street. Just a mass of bodies, crammed down block after block, until the dots grow too small to be distinguished.
“What’s the occasion?” I shout over the roar.
As far as I can see, everyone is dressed in plain working clothes, like ours, and they’re pushing milk carts and operating vegetable stands, as they would any regular day. There aren’t banners decorating the snow-dusted buildings or colorful lanterns floating overhead, but there is an undeniable air of celebration. And the laughing group of women who skirt around us are eating giant racks of roasted lamb. Something available to only the wealthiest Ashkarians, and only during the spring.
“What in the skies …”
“Perfect timing!” Chanar points down the street.
I shield my eyes against the sun and squint into the distance, where the tiny dot of a horse-drawn carriage rumbles closer. The cobbles shudder as it nears, and the cheers become even more deafening. Somehow the crowd parts to make way, and I gasp as we’re crushed against a stone building. I cling to Inkar and Temujin and stare wide-eyed at the wagon’s gilded wheels.
I take in the sleek blue body of the coach. Unmistakably Ashkarian blue and gold.
A royal carriage.
But the driver is a boy clad in shimmering Shoniin gray and a Shoniin girl sits on the box beside him, blowing a horn wildly. The tune makes my heart hammer twice as fast, for it’s the ode to the Lady of the Sky we sing around the bonfire. As they thunder past, objects fly from the carriage windows: figs and persimmons and pears. Loaves of glazed bread and sugar-dusted pastries. Beets and potatoes and even a few brightly colored candies.
The people rush forward, shoving the bounty into their pockets, and I smile at their squeals of delight.
“How?” I shout over the din. “That was clearly a royal coach, but the king would never fling such luxurious food to commoners.”
Temujin plops a handful of roasted chestnuts into his mouth and sighs. “Eat first! Questions later!”
An apple rolls against the toe of my boot and I pick it up, shining the red skin on my shirt. I bite into the flesh and sigh. I can’t remember the last time I tasted anything so fresh and crisp and delicious. We scrabble around like mice, munching this and that, until Temujin leads us down a slightly less crowded street.
“Oyunna is a genius,” Chanar says through a mouthful of flaky almond pastry.
“This could be our finest accomplishment yet,” Inkar agrees.
Temujin nods and throws a satisfied glance in the direction of the Sky Palace. “The king will be furious, and the people will revere us more than ever.”
“What’s going on?” I feel a bit like a clueless younger sibling, but I try not to take it personally. I’ve been away constantly on missions and as good as absent even when I am in the realm of the Eternal Blue.
“Oyunna caught wind that the Sky King planned to throw a lavish banquet,” Temujin explains, “to prove he isn’t concerned with the Zemyan threat, and she thought it was unfair he should enjoy such bounty while the rest of us starve. So our Shoniin working inside the palace loaded the banquet food into carts and drove them through the gates.”
“That’s brilliant,” I say, “but won’t the palace guards come after them?”
“I’m sure they’re trying, but I doubt they’ll get far.” Temujin motions to the impassable throng that has spilled back into the road.
“Not to mention there are very few guards remaining at the palace,” Chanar adds. “Most have been called to the war front. Along with the horses and heavy artillery.”
Inkar, Chanar, and Temujin exchange a smile at this, but I swallow hard. Things at the front must be bleak for the king to leave himself so poorly guarded. “Do you think he’ll agree to our terms soon?” I ask.
“He’ll be signing his death warrant if he doesn’t,” Temujin says.
And the death warrant of all these people. A hard knob of guilt jabs my side. Shouldn’t we be fortifying the city walls? Wouldn’t our time be better spent gathering water and firewood and preparing for siege rather than celebrating?
“Uh-oh. I know that look.” Inkar waves a finger in my face. “Let the people enjoy tonight. Who knows how long it will be before they’re afforded another festival day? We need to enjoy it too. A reminder of what we’re fighting for.”
“Do you dance, En?” Temujin offers me his hand, but I shake my head vehemently. I wasn’t a good dancer before Nariin, and I haven’t attempted it since. “How bad could you be?” he asks as he tugs me back into the mayhem.
The music is booming and feverish, a wild mix of drums and fiddles and flutes, and it vibrates through my sluggish feet until my toes begin tapping and my hips begin swinging. I am slow and rigid and off beat, and I step on Temujin’s feet five times in two songs, but he never once complains.
“Look at them.” He motions to a group of girls holding hands, skipping in a circle to our right. Behind them, a father tosses his giggling child high in the air. All around us, citizens clap and hoot, bow and leap. As free and invigorated as lambs in spring grass. “This is what our people deserve!” he shouts over the din. “And thanks to you, this is what we will continue to give them.”
I have always deflected such praise. An army is like a clock, made up of a million little gears. No one piece is more important than the next. But I throw my head back and let out a whoop, allowing myself to be proud, to have this moment.
Temujin pulls me closer, and his hands burn like a firebrand against the small of my back. He hums a Verdenese folk song in my ear, and my legs turn to sand, scorching and sifting as we sway to the music. The tangerine sky deepens and the ribbons of darkness curl around us. But instead of goading me, they glide across my collarbone and coil around my wrists like bangles, heightening every sensation. Comfortable, at last, with our new truce.
The four of us sway and twirl among the people—common citizens of Ashkar for one evening—and I about die of shock when Chanar asks me to dance too. He spins me in a dizzying circle, laughing all the while, and I’m so happy, so consumed with a bone-deep sense of belonging, I almost forget to miss Serik.
A landslide of shame, for allowing myself to move on, even in this small way, nearly knocks me off my feet. A second later it’s followed by an aftershock of guilt. I shouldn’t want to see him here. A true friend would want him to be as far away from Sagaan and Ghoa and the Shoniin as possible, but my breath still catches every time I glimpse a shaved head. And once or twice I swear I catch a whiff of parchment and pine ink.
We stay until the crowd thins enough for imperial guards to break through the wall of revelers, ordering everyone to return home or risk being arrested for stealing the Sky King’s food. But who can they pin the blame on when the entire city partook in the spoils?
We make our way back to the Ram’s Head. Temujin and Chanar walk behind me and Inkar, and I lean against her for support. I may be getting stronger, but my bad leg will never be accustomed to dancing.
“Are you glad you came?” she asks.
I let out a contented sigh. “This was exactly what I needed. I feel awake again.”
“I’d wager Temujin would be willing to keep you awake even longer….”
She winks and I smack her. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw you two dancing!”
“It isn’t like that,” I insist, but chills shiver down my neck when I think of how we danced. And how we wrote in his Book of Whisperings. How he shows me the real Temujin hidden beneath the perfect mask.
We reach an intersection, crowded with revelers crossing in every direction, and my musing stops abruptly. Through the blur of faces and coats, I could have sworn I saw …
I shake my head. Stop torturing yourself.
But then the flash comes again. A distinct ripple of gold on black.
I pull away from Inkar and dodge through the crowd, squinting, my heart in my throat.
He shouldn’t be here.
I don’t want him to be here.
But there’s no mistaking the intricate, gleaming goldwork of Serik’s sunburst cloak.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“SERIK?” MY VOICE IS A SCRATCHY WHISPER. I RUB MY tired eyes to make sure I’m not hallucinating, but even with the hood drawn, I’d recognize his swaggering gait and the glittering hem of his cloak anywhere.
He’s alive. And in Sagaan.
A glorious, burning ache pours through my limbs like mulled honey wine. I trip over my feet as I take off after him. “Serik!” I call again, louder. Though now my voice is muffled by blubbering cries.
I need to see his face. Wrap my arms around him. Find a compromise that suits us both. It will kill me to watch him walk away again.
“Enebish? Where are you going?” Inkar tries to catch my arm, but I wiggle free.
“Go on without me. I need to—”
Serik darts around the corner and I barrel after him, leaving my half-formed explanation hanging in the air.
He races around one corner, then another, and I beg my stinging leg to move faster. It’s all I can do to keep sight of his cloak as
he slips through another intersection and down a darkened street. Bright fiddle music trills from a shabby inn halfway down the block, and he scurries toward it. Dozens of signs plaster the windows, advertising fiddle duels and low-stakes games of nik. I smile as Serik’s shadow slips inside. It’s exactly the sort of place he’d hide out.
Inkar and the boys are chasing me. Gaining on me. Their footsteps pound the cobbles and they bark my name in hushed, angry voices. I’m being reckless. I know that. But I keep running anyway. I don’t even stop to consider how all thoughts of Temujin vanished the moment I saw Serik. I know only that the most primal, pulsing part of me insists I reach him. Now.
My bad leg gives out on the final step and I crash face-first through the inn’s double doors. Temujin bursts in on my heels, cursing and panting. “What are you doing?” He leans over to help me up, but we both freeze because the common room is empty. And dark. Lit only by a pale shaft of moonlight streaming through the window.
I had expected a roaring hearth fire and tables filled with rowdy gamblers. Perhaps a cluster of fiddlers sawing away in the corner. But a mouse nibbling the leg of a chair is the only sign of life.
Unease creeps down my spine as I gape around the room. The inn clearly isn’t abandoned. The bar is freshly oiled and the benches are free of dust. The yeasty smell of ale hangs thick in the air. It’s decidedly closed, though strangely, the high-pitched strings play on—a phantom tune drifting down from the upper floors.
Chanar and Inkar jog up and lean against the door frame. “Have you lost your mind?” Chanar wheezes at me.
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