CHAPTER FOUR
IHAD FORGOTTEN WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE AMONG SO MANYpeople. The Grand Courtyard—comprised of the white-and-gold marbled Sky Palace on one side, the bluestone treasury on another, and hundreds of colorful vendor stalls twisting like a serpent’s tail to enclose the remaining two borders—is nearly as large as the entire compound of Ikh Zuree. But even at the edges, we are crammed shoulder to shoulder with festivalgoers. We thrash and fight like fish in a net. Squeeze and sweat like grapes in a press.
I dig my nails into Serik’s wrist, pressing harder and harder until he yelps and looks back. “‘We’ll keep to the shadows, far from the crowds and noise,’” I hiss his words back to him.
He shrugs and mouths the wordsorry,though it’s clear he isn’t. His face glows brighter than the marigold lanterns bobbing overhead, and his movements are as frenzied as the blue-and-gold imperial banners snapping in the breeze.
We weave around the edges of the cobbled square. In the center, the crowd throngs around Kalima warriors displaying various powers. Rain Makers create a mist so fine and sparkling, the festivalgoers look to be dusted in crystals. Hail Forgers bring rainbow-colored stones floating to the ground like bubbles, and Sun Stokers juggle blinding orbs of light that are hot enough to melt iron. Beside them, the two most illustrious magic-barren warriors, Toko the Thrasher and Gupta the Brutal, sign leaflets and give weapons demonstrations, all while herding hordes of eager children toward the recruitment tables.
Nearly every child in Ashkar enlists at the age of eleven. Not because they’re forced to, but because they dream of wielding the sky. And if a Kalima power doesn’t present, no matter. They’ll happily claim the fame and adoration won by fearsome warriors like Toko and Gupta. The king is clever, I’ll give him that. The war with Zemya has raged so long, and acquiring the Protected Territories required such a massive effort, he could have easily made conscription mandatory. Instead he painted banners with his warriors’ faces and named holidays in their honor. He made the upcoming generationswantto enlist and give their lives to Ashkar.
Bitter bile stings my throat and I turn my back on the warriors, but the rest of the festival offers little comfort. Men in polished leather vests tower above me, readying for the eagle competition—an event I spend the entire year training for but will never compete in. Beautiful women twirl lacy parasols and trail the cloyingly sweet scent of rose and citrus. I choke and cough on the perfume, hating the admiring eyes that follow their every movement. Hating that I will never look like them. Hating that Iwantto look like them.
People knock into my shoulder and brush against my back. Hands graze mine, and I recoil with a gasp. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me, other than Serik and Ghoa, and it feels so foreign, so slippery and hot andwrong.I shove my hands inside my cloak and bite my lips together to keep from shouting a warning:
Keep back. It’s dangerous.Iam dangerous.
“You look like you swallowed a handful of rocks.” Serik laughs and slings his arm around me. He smells of incense and pine ink and old prayer scrolls. Smells I thought I despised, but now they feel so familiar. So safe. I nestle into the crook of his arm and scrunch my eyes. “Relax, En. The chaos is a good thing. We’re specks in the crowd.”
This isn’t just a crowd. It’s a stampede, a swarm. We’re ants on a teeming hill, surrounded by thousands of other ants all vying for the same crumb. I tug furiously at my collar, suddenly hot. How did I ever feel comfortable here? A few short years ago I plowed through these masses like a charging bull. Now I’m a squeaking mouse. If it weren’t for Serik holding me up and pulling me forward, I’d be trampled.
“Maybe something warm will calm your nerves.” Serik steers me toward a vendor cart, and, as promised, we purchase winterberry pies. Though I haven’t a clue where Serik got the money and I’m afraid to ask because he probably stole it from the alms box at Ikh Zuree. I may not support the Sky King’s religion, but I would never steal from a church. Serik purchases another slice, devours it in two bites, and licks the sticky purple juice from his fingers.
I take my time with my pie, relishing the rich, buttery crust and the explosion of warm, tart berries in my mouth. When I exhale, some of my worries rush away with my breath. A hint of a smile spreads across my lips.
“See? This isn’t so bad.” Serik nudges me.
I nod as my heart slowly slides back down into my chest. He’s right. Everyone’s attention is on the festival and not the scarred wisp of a girl hidden beneath a faded scarf. Shining horses prance toward the fields to ready for the races, and performers dance with ribbons or play lutes. One old woman has trained pygmy goats to do tricks, their tiny hooves fitted with bells. It’s not as grand as celebrations in Verdenet, which continued day and night for nearly a week, with fire dancers and parades featuring towering statues of the Lady and Father. But this is a close second.
The only thing that blemishes the ethereal, dreamlike fantasy are the scores of people fighting against a line of mounted warriors blockading the northern entrance to the square. I tug Serik’s cloak and point in their direction. “Why aren’t they letting them in?”
“Maybe there’s no room? We’re lucky we arrived when we did.”
“They never turn anyone away from Qusbegi….” I squint at the commotion, but it’s a blurred swirl of homespun tunics.
Serik pulls me into the center of the square, where a lively game of tug-of-war is underway, one side teetering dangerously over a deep pit of mud. It’s always one of the most anticipated activities of Qusbegi, and the rowdy spectators sway back and forth with the flow of the game, hollering and exchanging bets. Serik stands on his toes and looks longingly at the men and women straining against the rope, but true to his word, we keep our distance and head back toward the edge, where the crowd is slightly thinner.
“Are you glad we came?” Serik asks, even though it’s obvious. I haven’t smiled this much in years. I didn’t fully appreciate the beauty of Sagaan when I lived here. I’ve grown so used to the monks’ scornful stares and biting remarks, part of me forgot that people were capable of laughter and cheer. The entire city is kin for the day, and I am part of it. A tiny stitch in the corner, but a thread in the tapestry all the same.
Serik points to a small stage where stringed puppets prance across fields of green velvet, but before we can move in that direction, the crowd heaves sideways. Shouts whirl around us and I nearly fall to my knees as a group of men in filthy homespun elbow through the throng. They overturn a cart of candied fruit and nuts, scoop the sweets into their tunics, and jostle past us, the mounted warriors close on their heels. The last thief, a boy no older than I am, glances up when our elbows brush. His eyes widen and he gasps as he dashes away.
My hands fly to the scarf, which is thankfully still in place. But an ominous, bone-deep dread still makes me drop the last bite of my pie. The boy was a warning from the Lady of the Sky. I grip Serik’s wrist with the crushing strength of Orbai’s talons. “We should go.”
“We can’t go now. It was just a few petty thieves. The warriors will catch them. Plus the parade is beginning.” He points to the glittering steps of the Sky Palace, where the eagle hunters strut back and forth, preening like peacocks. The first stage of the competition is a display of costumes to determine which hunter is the best turned out. Though it’s hardly a contest. All the men look fine enough in their ceremonial vests and polished boots, but they’re nothing compared to our illustriousruler,in his cape of golden eagle feathers and bejeweled crown lined with fox fur.
“The king wins every year,” I say, “and you promised we wouldn’t stay long.”
“But the trials will start any second,” Serik whines. His lips look extra full when he frowns. Not that I make a habit of looking at his lips. They’re just pinker than usual from the cold. “And look!” He grips my arm excitedly. “The Sky King has chosen Orbai. Don’t you want to watch her compete?”
My heart flutters at the sound of my eagle’s name. “Of course he chose her.” I lean up on my toes to see around the women chatting in front of us. Orbai sits proudly on a perch beside the king, her sleek brown feathers flashing in the sun. “Isn’t she stunning? Look how she holds her head. See how she beats her wings to intimidate the others. She knows she is the finest bird in the competition.”
Serik snorts, but I prattle on like a mother preening over her child. I can’t help it. Orbai is the smartest and quickest, the largest and fiercest of the birds in my mews. She is an eagle fit for a king.
I take a deep breath and look from Orbai to the road out of Sagaan. My heart at war with my mind.Go now,the lingering dread warns.You’ve seen her hunt a thousand times before. This will be no different.
But itisdifferent. I want to watch the king admire her. I want to hear the multitude exclaim at her speed and grace. I want to watch her win the competition and share in her victory. Because it will be my victory too. The only small victory I am afforded these days.
“Fine. We’ll stay a little while longer—one event, maybe two.”
