Slowly, I look up to find every eye fixed on me, and not on the king who stands on the Sky Palace steps. Forgotten and humiliated.
Even from a distance, I can see his handsome face is no longer smiling.
It is murderous.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT TAKES LESS THAN FIVE SECONDS FOR THE PEOPLE TO PIECEtogether who I am: a young girl, scarred and limping, a trainer of eagles.
Horrified screams hurtle toward me like spears. Someone throws a half-eaten turkey leg at my face. Hot grease drips down my cheek and pieces of skin cling to my eyebrows. I wipe it off and cover my face with my hands, but their insults still flay me open like the abba’s steel-barbed whip.
Clearly, I haven’t made a new name for myself, as Ghoa claimed. The people of Ashkar will never forget what I truly am: a murderer, a monster.
Enebish the Destroyer.
How foolish to thinkIcould forget, even for a day.
The crowd scrambles back, clearing a space around Serik and me. Flags and banners clatter to the ground. Cups of vorkhi and bowls of spicy stew splash across the cobblestones. Women clutch their children tightly to their legs and men draw their sabers. All the while, tears well behind my eyelashes. I reach up to stroke Orbai. I don’t know what else to do. I will never be able to plow through the wall of onlookers—and there’s nowhere to hide. I’m trapped like the rabbit Orbai crushed in her talons. And the worst part is, I’m going to bring her down with me.
Serik too.
He remains at my side, his hand clamped firmly around my arm. “Don’t panic. Everything will be fine,” he whispers.
A hysterical sob burbles from my lips. “Go. Save yourself.”
“I can’t just leave you. This is my fault.”
“It’s my fault as much as yours. I agreed to come into Sagaan.”
“BecauseIpressured you.” He scrubs his hand over his head.
Sunlight glints across the warriors’ leather armor as they batter through the masses. I cringe and shrink lower. One of them is surely Ghoa.
I can’t bear to see her right now. She believed in me, trusted me, and I let her down.
Again.
The bracelet she gave me feels like lead around my wrist. The tiny feathers are a fetter, tethering me to the earth when I need wings more than ever.
Serik and I huddle together as the warriors close in. Orbai’s talons dig into my shoulder, stabbing and sharp.
“What do we do?” I whisper.
Serik presses his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. “Pray.”
That’s when my composure snaps. If Serik has resorted to praying, we are dead. We are worse than dead.
“Have mercy!” I turn to entreat the crowd. “I meant no harm. I only wanted to see the festival.” I stumble forward, arms outstretched in submission, but the people still shriek and lunge back.
The king’s guards explode through the spectators and surround us, followed by the Kalima. Serik pushes me behind him, but that only buys an extra second. Varren, Ghoa’s second in command, who’s as wide as an ox and covered, every inch, in swirling black tattoos, steps forward and raises his hand. A deluge of water falls from the cloudless sky. But rather than striking us, which would violate the oath that forbids Kalima warriors from unleashing the skies upon Ashkar’s citizens, the rain slices between us like an executioner’s blade, separating me from Serik.
Through the shimmering wall of water, I watch Serik charge at Varren, who easily deflects the attack and lands two blows to Serik’s stomach and one to his jaw. The crack of bone lifts the hairs on my arms, and I scream as Serik collapses into the growing puddle, sputtering and whimpering like a wounded animal.
As much as Serik doesn’t want to admit it, Ghoa is right: he is a monk—a man of peace and prayers and song. He doesn’t stand a chance against ordinary warriors, let alone the power of the sky.
Varren steps over Serik’s soggy form, plunges through the deluge of rain that parts around him like a curtain, and fists my tunic with a massive dripping hand. Orbai flies off in a whoosh, taking my blue scarf with her. As it unwinds from my face, another horrified gasp passes through the crowd.
Even Varren grimaces and looks away, which is more crushing than his iron grip. We served together foryears,but not even he can stand the sight of my face.
