Night Spinner

by Addie Thorley

“Keep an eye on the street.” Temujin sends them out with a wave of his arm. “Make sure we haven’t been followed. And you—” He turns back to me, but I’m already picking my way through the tables and chairs.

  “Serik!” I whisper-shout. He has to be here. I saw him slip inside. This must be some sort of safe house. “It’s me!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Temujin growls. “He’s gone. I know that’s hard to accept, but you can’t go chasing every passerby who bears the slightest resemblance. It’s dangerous.” He takes my arm and tugs me toward the door.

  “But—” I cast around in desperation.

  “Let him go,” Temujin says again. “He’s with the First Gods now.” His voice is gentle, but his grip is uncomfortably tight. He pulls me back another step. We’re nearly to the door when fabric rustles behind us.

  “Show yourself!” Temujin’s voice is a vicious snarl, and he pulls a hidden dagger from his belt.

  Slowly, a hooded figure steps away from the far wall. Blood thunders in my ears as they inch forward, one excruciating step after another, until the dim patch of moonlight finally illuminates the golden hem of their cloak.

  I sag against the nearest table. “Serik! Why didn’t you answer before?”

  “How is he alive?” Temujin demands.

  Serik continues forward without speaking, gliding between the tables like a ghost.

  “Serik?” My voice is a faint, rattling whisper and I take an instinctive step back.

  The door slams shut behind us.

  “Trap!” Temujin shouts as I shriek and stumble into a stool.

  Out on the street, Chanar and Inkar throw themselves against the door, but the iron bolt clangs into place, locking them out.

  And sealing us in.

  Shadows shimmer to life along the walls. Tall, hulking shadows that smell of leather oil and creak ever so slightly.

  Lamellar armor.

  Cold sweat drips between my shoulder blades as the warriors edge toward us. Slow and deliberate, like spiders stalking their prey. One familiar face after the next, until the whole of the Kalima surrounds us.

  Serik enters the circle last, clapping slowly.

  Temujin’s breath comes in bursts and he turns to gape at me. “Did you help him escape and burn the supply shack? I knew he would betray us!”

  “Serik wouldn’t betray me.”

  “Then who, pray tell, is that?”

  “I don’t know!” I snap, even though there’s only one possibility. Only one other person who knows how much Serik loves that cloak. Who knows it would lure me like an eagle to a rabbit.

  Ghoa removes the hood with a dramatic flourish, and I flinch, even though I was expecting it. Dread thumps my chest like the hilt of a sword. Because Serik would never give her his cloak. Not willingly. Which can only mean …

  Temujin swears and raises his dagger higher.

  While the Kalima chuckle, I realize I have a far stronger weapon.

  Thousands of midnight threads writhe in the corners of the tavern. I thrust out my hands, and the darkness slings across the room like glossy black spears, but before I can catch them, Ghoa yells and tattooed arms encircle me from behind.

  The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and I gulp and gag as Varren drags me backward. At the same time, three Kalima warriors lunge for Temujin. They swing their curved blades at his head, but he drops to the floor. Their sabers whistle past, so close that his fur cap hits the ground in shreds.

  I thrash against Varren and call the night again, but he slaps a damp cloth over my nose and mouth. It’s gritty, like sand, and it smells earthy and sweet. Familiar somehow.

  When the tendrils of night slide through my fingers, and the numbing emptiness that shrouded me for two years at Ikh Zuree returns, I howl with indignation. I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the cloth is coated with crushed moonstone.

  Temujin vaults over a table and parries with one Kalima warrior. But as soon as they tire, another takes their place. They attack in waves, from every angle. Not even bothering to use their powers. Temujin blocks strike after strike, but each one makes him weaker.

  I scream and flail harder, but the more I fight and pant, the more the tingling in my throat vanishes.

  The Kalima warriors beat Temujin back until he’s once again trapped in the center of the room. His clothes are drenched in sweat and blood and his jagged hair clings to his forehead. He draws a shuddering breath and lifts his dagger bravely, even though it’s clear the battle’s over. Two warriors easily wrestle the weapon away and bind his hands behind his back.

  “Impressive.” Ghoa saunters over and brings her fingers beneath Temujin’s chin. “But not good enough. Where is your sky goddess now? Why doesn’t she save you?”

  Temujin’s jaw clenches and he refuses to meet Ghoa’s eyes.

  “Just as I thought. She doesn’t come because she doesn’t exist. You’re a traitorous heretic.”

  Temujin spits in her face, but Ghoa remains unnervingly calm. She procures the scrap of gray fabric that Varren tore from Temujin’s uniform at Qusbegi and drags it across her cheek. Then she tosses it at his face and turns to me.

  My entire body tenses, and for an instant I’m thankful for the noxious rag covering my mouth. So she can’t see my trembling lips and flared nostrils. I turn my head and brace for punishment, but Ghoa throws her arms around me. Hugging me like a comrade.

  Like a sister.

  “I’ve been so worried.” Her frosty breath spills across my neck, and I think it must have frozen my vocal cords because I’m entirely incapable of speech.

  “You’re not angry with me?” I finally whisper.

  Ghoa pulls back, keeping a tight grip on my bicep. “Of course I’m displeased you broke rank and vanished, but I suppose I can forgive you, since your method worked in the end. You brought me the deserter, as promised.”

  Temujin stares at me, genuine hurt glistening in his eyes. His mouth twists with shock, then revulsion. “You planned this ambush? Despite everything I’ve shown you? Despite everything we’ve accomplished?”

  Ghoa laughs and smooths my hair. “It seems you played your part well, little sister.”

  I ignore them both. I can’t stand to see Temujin’s devastated face. It hurts more than I thought it would. And I can’t look at Ghoa, knowing the horrors she’s overlooking at the war front and on the grazing lands. So I focus on something else. “Where’s Serik?” I demand. “How did you get his cloak?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Ghoa’s expression becomes grave and she fingers the frayed edge of his sunburst cloak. “He’s dead.”

  The word slams through me, colder and more shocking than the ice shards that impaled Orbai. “I don’t believe you,” I whisper. “You’re lying.”

  “I wish I were. We found his body floating in the Amereti River two nights ago. My poor, misguided cousin. He was so eager to fight and rebel and belong; I always knew it would be the death of him. He became entangled with the wrong crowd….” She glances pointedly over her shoulder. “Temujin killed him.”

  “What are you talking about?” Temujin bellows, but Ghoa speaks over him.

  “The people of Ashkar will be so relieved to have such a violent criminal off the streets. Especially if you consider the loss of life at the war front, which is also his doing.”

  I stare at Ghoa, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. Two nights ago Temujin sat in my tent until well after midnight, listening to me pick apart memories of Serik. He couldn’t have killed him then. He didn’t even know Serik was alive.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Temujin echoes my thoughts.

  “There’s no point lying, deserter,” Ghoa snaps. “He was found with your ram branded across his back. It was quite gruesome. It’s in all of the papers.” She motions one of her warriors forward with two fingers, and they present her with a sheaf of parchment. She unfurls it, and the rendering is so horrifying, my body goes limp, pulled to the earth by a heaviness that has nothing to
do with Varren’s crushing grip. The body is facedown in the muddy riverbank, but the short red-brown hair is so distinct. As is the cloak tangled around him in the current, complete with a glaring hole in the goldwork at the hem. The scorched ram consumes the whole of his back, red and raw and livid.

  A terrible, high-pitched wail drowns out the maddening strains of fiddle music, and it takes several seconds before I realize the sound is coming from me.

  Serik is dead.

  Because I let him leave the realm of the Eternal Blue. Because I didn’t go with him.

  I gape at Temujin, tears pulsing behind my eyes. The ram is unmistakable. “How could you?” I screech.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” he hollers again. “It’s a setup!”

  But I can’t stop shaking my head because if he didn’t do it, who did? Ghoa and Serik may have had their differences, but she wouldn’t kill him. Punish him, definitely. Send him to Gazar, probably. But she wouldn’t murder him.

  Would she?

  “I’m afraid it’s your word against mine—and the masses’.” Ghoa waves the paper.

  “The people will never side with you,” Temujin roars. “They adore the Shoniin. They need us. We’re more aware of their struggles than you and the usurper king will ever be.”

  Ghoa patiently waits for him to stop yelling. “Are you finished?”

  “I will never be finished!”

  “In that case, take him to Gazar,” Ghoa orders her warriors. “I’ve heard more than enough.”

  “Am I going to Gazar as well?” I ask as they drag Temujin away.

  Ghoa laughs and pats my cheek. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I send you to Gazar?” But her palm scorches my face and there’s an icy undercurrent to her tone that makes my entire body stiffen.

  Ghoa dismisses the rest of the Kalima and we trek alone across the city to the Sky Palace. As we walk, the tendrils of night sense my presence—a trickle of errant threads, at first. But with every step, more and more dive at my face and cling to my coat. Offended that I’m not reaching for them.

  Even if I could command them, I don’t know what I’d do. Because I still don’t know who to trust. Ghoa and Temujin are both so entrenched in their agendas, they would do almost anything, hurt almost anyone, to further their opposing causes.

  And I am caught squarely between them. A loyal, whimpering dog, desperate for a master—like Serik said.

  Thinking of him nearly stops my heart. I picture his moon-eyed smile and mischievous grin. His ink-stained fingers and gold-dust freckles. I try to conjure his voice, try to re-create the exact tenor of his laugh, but it’s already fading. Slipping through my fingers like smoke. Tears stream down my cheeks as Ghoa leads me through a narrow servants’ entrance behind the gatehouses and into the Sky Palace.

  I’ve been inside the royal complex many times. When I was a member of the Kalima, we reported directly to the king in his lavish throne room, but now Ghoa leads me to a hidden staircase at the end of the hall. We spiral up, up, up, and the higher we rise, the more the knots in my stomach tighten. I’m unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed that I’ve been spared an audience with the Sky King. On the one hand, it means Ghoa isn’t going to report my defection to the Shoniin. But it also means she isn’t going to present me for reinstatement.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Somewhere quiet, where we can talk,” Ghoa says without looking back.

  The staircase opens up into a decadent sitting room. The walls are made entirely of glass, and the flickering lights of Sagaan wink below like fireflies. There are overstuffed sofas around the perimeter, and in the center an intricate bronze stove belches fragrant heat. Behind a pair of double doors, a lacy, golden balcony overlooks the Grand Courtyard.

  “We’re up so high.” I place my palm against the glass. The night slams into the barrier—desperate and snarling, like the old days at Ikh Zuree. Only now it’s even worse; they refuse to lie down and be forgotten again. “I didn’t realize there were rooms up here,” I say as I back away from the window.

  Ghoa perches on one of the sofas. “The spire salons are reserved for the most important meetings. When it’s imperative that prying ears don’t overhear.”

  And where no one can hear you scream, my unease whispers, even though Ghoa’s face is placid, her smile earnest.

  She pats the cushion beside her. “Come. We have much to discuss.” She’s been surprisingly merciful and understanding, yet my pulse still jumps at my wrists as I limp across the room. Even though I brought her what she wanted, I didn’t do it willingly. She had to trap me, trick me. “How’s Orbai?” she asks once I’m settled beside her.

  “Orbai?” The question is so unexpected, I let out a breathy laugh. “She lives.”

  “Praise be to the Sky King.” Ghoa kisses her fingers and holds them up to the heavens. “I’m so sorry I hit her. You must know it wasn’t intentional. I understand why you ran—I don’t blame you for that. What I don’t understand is why you chose to stay away. Why you’ve been helping the Shoniin. I’ve seen the reports, and the only way so many deserters could flee the war front is with divine help—if someone were to, say, shield them with darkness….”

  I take my time, weighing my options. Do I tell her I was blackmailed? Forced? Or do I tell her about the horrors at the war front?

  Which she undoubtedly knows about—like the shepherds.

  “I know you were angry with me,” she continues when I don’t speak, “and you had every right to be. But how could you betray me like this?” Her voice wobbles—quiet and raw and bare. “I’ve loved you like a sister. I’ve dedicated my life to your training and upbringing. I’ve saved you so many times: from the ashes of your hut, after Nariin, again at Qusbegi, and I offered you this chance at reinstatement. Is a speck of loyalty too much to ask in return? Don’t I deserve the same show of faith and forgiveness? Do you know how it feels to watch you choose a criminal over me?”

  Ghoa has cried exactly one time since I’ve known her—when she cut me down at Nariin—so when she looks away and stifles a sob, it’s all I can do not to throw myself at her feet. My eyes glaze with tears because I am always the source of her pain. And because she’s right. I haven’t given her the same concessions.

  But it’s not because of Temujin.

  “I didn’t choose traitors over you,” I say, reaching for her hand. “I chose the people—after seeing the atrocities at the war front. Ghoa, they’re starving and emaciated and untrained. They’re perishing by the thousands.”

  “Because Temujin is depleting our ranks! And stealing our food and cannons!” She flings my hand away, and it hurts more than a targeted blow. “How can we be expected to win the war against Zemya when our efforts are divided? When we’re fighting our own citizens?”

  “You know it’s more than that,” I say. “And you’ve been offered a solution—a compromise. But you refuse to accept it.”

  “What compromise?” Ghoa demands. “I’ve heard nothing of a compromise.”

  “We must be honest with each other if want to get anywhere. If you wish to be a true hero, put aside your prejudices, unite your imperial warriors with the Shoniin, and make a true stand against Zemya. Help the shepherds survive the great freeze and find ways to counteract the wool and meat shortages. Turn the king’s attention away from his next conquest and to the injustice in the Protected Territories. There’s so much good you could do, so many people you could help.”

  “Is that what you believe your benevolent Temujin was planning to do? That he would swoop in and save us all? Fix everything?” Ghoa slams her palm against the arm of the sofa, and the fabric stiffens with frost. “He has deluded you, Enebish! I understand that he let you play at being a warrior, and I can only imagine how good that must have felt after two years at Ikh Zuree, but it’s a game. A trick. I don’t know what he’s actually planning, but—”

  “Just because you tried to use me, doesn’t mean everyone is!” I shout over her. “
I’m not playing at being a warrior; I am a warrior.”

  Ghoa buries her fingers in her hair, mussing her high ponytail. “If Temujin is so eager to combine forces, why is this the first I’m hearing of it? We haven’t received any missives, nor has he attempted to arrange negotiations.”

  “What?” She looks so genuinely baffled, I almost believe her. But then my sense returns and I grind my teeth on the lie, crushing the momentary pain and worry to pulp. I composed the letters myself. I saw Temujin hand them off directly to the scouts. Why would he go to the trouble of staging such a scam? And he has no reason to destroy the missives. It would undermine everything he’s fighting for.

  But it would suit Ghoa’s needs perfectly.

  “Did you truly not receive our letters?” I ask. “Or did you conveniently forget to mention them to the king? The same way you forgot to tell me Serik was being sent to Gazar?”

  She raises her fist in the Kalima salute. “I swear on my position as Commander of the Kalima warriors, we haven’t received a single missive.”

  “What good is swearing on a position you lied and schemed and double-crossed to obtain?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about!” I slam my own hand against the couch, not realizing it’s my bad arm until shredding pain ricochets from my shoulder to wrist. I press through the agony. “I’m talking about all the mornings you dragged me out of bed and made me sit beside you in the tall grass, so you could see which members of the Kalima were sneaking out for extra training. So you’d know who else was vying for promotion and precisely how to crush them. Even though the matchups were supposed to be blind.

  “I’m talking about Nasan and Koju, who you sent into Zemyan territory during your trial as commander, even though our scouts had reported a contingent of enemy soldiers camped in the Usinsk Pass. Nasan lost his leg and Koju hasn’t spoken since. His mother has to nurse him like a babe, but you’ve never noticed or cared because they served their purpose. We marched to the beaches of Karekemish for the first time in history, and you secured the title of commander.