A boulder of ice settles in my gut. My breath comes out in a wheeze. “It isn’t what you think!” But he wrenches my arms behind my back and drags me across the landing.
Toward Ghoa and the king.
CHAPTER SIX
“P-PLEASE!”ISTAMMER.“IDON’T KNOW THEM. IDIDN’Task—”
“Swallow your lies. I saw your traitorous smile.” Varren tries to force me to the ground at the king’s feet, but the king grabs my bicep and flings me backward.
“Get her out of my sight!”
With a shriek, I tumble halfway down the flight of stairs and land splayed up to the heavens.
“Take her back to Ikh Zuree and question her!” the king roars. He shoves a slack-jawed Varren aside and cuts across the landing. Ghoa trails him like a whipped dog.
Choking on grateful tears, I let my head fall back and thank the Lady of the Sky for this second miracle, even as Varren and several other members of the Kalima bind my wrists and ankles and stuff me into the eagle cart.
We are a somber, silent bunch, trekking across the grasslands in the violet-stained twilight. Our retinue has more than doubled since our journey into Sagaan. Instead of Serik and me, the eagles and the open road, Ghoa now escorts us along with Varren and three members of the king’s personal guard, who watch Ghoa with narrowed eyes. She, of course, pretends not to be bothered by their presence, but tiny icicles drip from her horse’s reins. The king’s guards never accompany the Kalima—they’ve never needed to. Ghoa has always been beyond reproach.
My stomach churns with sickness. My sister values her position and honor above all else, and I have put both in jeopardy.
I stare down at the beautiful feather bracelet and memories bombard me: Ghoa’s encouraging face leaning over the railing of the wrestling pits, urging me to duck lower and punch harder; the magnanimous way she allowed me to take credit when we raided a Zemyan supply caravan and returned with a wagonload of dried meat; and the furious speed with which she careened across the battlefield and carried me to safety when an arrow pierced my thigh in the Battle of the Swirling Sands.
How many times has she lifted me, protected me?
How many times have I failed her in return?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but it’s lost in the rattle of the cart. I clear my throat to try again, but a rush of frigid air sets fire to my lungs.
Ghoa clearly isn’t ready to talk. Her hair is as white as fresh snow and her lips glow blue in the rising moonlight. But worst of all are her vacant, downcast eyes.
The ache in my chest sharpens to a point. I will never disobey again. I will never leave the monastery—or even ask for such a favor. There’s nothing out there for me. I know that now. The people of Ashkar fear and loathe me. Their terrible insults still wriggle beneath my skin, pricking and biting:
Monster. Beast. Murderer.
That’s all they’ll ever think of me.
Except for my saviors in gray.
Whowerethey? The warriors clearly know. They whisper and exchange furtive looks. I press my ear against the side of the cart, but their voices are muffled by the horses’ hooves, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I am going to hide in the monastery, tend to the eagles, and fade into the background until the people of Ashkar, and more important, the king, have no recollection of the dangerous girl who ruined the Qusbegi Festival.
Which means I will never know the truth about my mysterious heroes.
As we rumble down the path, the sky grows ever darker—a midnight bruise overtaking the fuchsia clouds. Right on cue, the whorls of night skitter down from overhanging branches. They slither through the tall grass and curl around my dangling ankles, but for once, I kick them away without trouble, consumed by bigger worries and sharper pain.
Serik limps alongside the cart, silent for once in his life. When the sprawling white walls of Ikh Zuree appear through the mist, we both flinch. Anxiety thrashes in my chest like a wild bird. The monastery looks more prison-like than ever.
You deserve to be imprisoned,I remind myself as we pass through the gates.
With a wave of her hand, Ghoa dismisses the Kalima and the king’s guards to tend to their mounts, then she turns to me. Her gaze slams into my gut with the force of a battering ram, and I wilt even lower, wishing I could sink through the wagon floor.
Serik curses beside me—his fears coming to light as well. Ghoa sent a rider ahead to inform the abba of the day’s events, and the old man hobbles across the yard with frightening speed, his wiry eyebrows gathered and his cane waving like a club. He pinches Serik’s ear and drags him across the compound, making no concession for his injuries.
The last time the abba was this furious—after Serik tore every page from the book of transgressions he was supposed to be illuminating and spread them like straw in the mules’ stalls—he locked Serik in a prayer temple and refused to release him until he recited ten thousand penances. But Serik picked the lock and burned the temple to the ground. When the abba found him the next morning, dancing in the ashes, I had no doubt Serik would be cast from the monastery. Serik had no doubt either. But the abba wasn’t about to lose the holy war. Since liberation was the thing Serik desired most, the abba dug him a special underground “temple,” and Serik has fulfilled his punishments there ever since. At this point, I think he’s spent more of his life belowground than above.
To Serik’s credit, he doesn’t fight or cry out. He glances back at me, his expression miserable, but there’s a promise in his eyes: he’ll find me as soon as he’s free.
I muster a shallow nod, hoping he knows how grateful I am for his sacrifice. The boy with the jagged black hair may have saved me in the end, but Serik was there first—shielding me from Varren and the crowd. His poor face is covered in bruises, and I wish more than anything that I could slather them with witch hazel and wrap them in eucalyptus leaves.
