“The monks don’t know I’m doing this?” The question comes out more skeptical than intended. Of course I don’t want them tracking my every sneeze, but not telling them about the mission makes it feel wrong, almost.
Ghoa slashes her arm across her body, sweeping my worries away. “Those old fusspots don’t need to have their hands in everything. I am Commander of the Kalima warriors, and this is a confidential matter of state.”
I grunt my agreement, but my gaze still slides to the window. It seems strange to keep something so pressing from the abba. And it feels wrong to leave without knowing if Serik is all right. “Can’t I please see Serik quickly? He promised to come, but I haven’t—”
“The abba is keeping a tight leash on him, but he’s fine,” Ghoa assures me. “I’ve seen him at morning supplication. His arms are bandaged, but he’s already back to being his obnoxious, disagreeable self.”
“Probably because he’s had to endure your company,” I jibe.
While Ghoa chuckles, I take a deep breath and let it crackle through my lungs. Let it fill me with confidence and purpose, but most of all, gratitude. “Thank you.” I drop to a knee and press my forehead to the back of Ghoa’s hand. “For trusting me, for believing in me. I’m the one who brought you low, so I will be the one to raise you back up. That’s the divine purpose of family—to fall and rise as one.”
“It is,” Ghoa agrees. She takes my chin, lifts my face, and tenderly traces my traitor’s mark. “Go. Find Temujin. And raise us up together.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ILEAVEIKHZUREE THAT AFTERNOON WITHORBAI ON MYarm and an overstuffed satchel on my back. I scan the compound for Serik as Ghoa spirits me through the gate behind the bathhouses, but most of the monks are sequestered in their temples for midday supplication, and the few who are hurrying down the paths are too old or too young. Too short or too fat. Not Serik.
“Remember, the fewer people you interact with the better,” Ghoa says as she adjusts the fur cloak around my neck. “You must listen and spy. Blend into the shadows. And when youdolocate Temujin, stick to the stories we came up with: you slipped a sleeping draft into the monks’ supply of holy vorkhi, broke out of your chamber, and scaled the wall. You’re being hunted, of course, but not outright, as the citizens of Ashkar would be in a frenzy if they knew such a dangerous criminal was on the loose. But most of all, you must make them believe you hate me. That there’s no way, in this life or any other, that you would return to me or the Sky King.”
She rubs my hands vigorously, though that only causes them to grow colder. If it were anyone else, I would bristle and snap at being coddled like an infant, but it feels so good to have Ghoa’s hard-won confidence, I savor every touch.
Finally I will redeem myself.
Finally I will make her proud.
“I’m sorry I can’t make arrangements for you to stay at an inn,” she continues, “but you would be too recognizable in such close quarters. And a Kalima warrior should be able to manage something as simple as shelter.”
“Of course. You needn’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“To reclaim your rightful place in the Kalima.” Ghoa claps me on the shoulder.
My entire body stills—my heart most of all—every time she says that word. The grin that spreads across my face is so wide, it tugs at the scars on my cheek. “My rightful place,” I whisper.
Ghoa hands me my staff, and I take my first step down the overgrown trail. The high, frosty grass tickles my palms and crunches beneath my boots. “Send word once you arrive,” she calls. “And every night thereafter. As well as the moment you learn anything of Temujin.”
My stomach dips ever so slightly at his name. He’s the only person who showed me mercy at Qusbegi. But the Lady of the Sky confirmed this path. Ghoa needs me. And she’s saved me far more times than Temujin has.
I march forward with long, purposeful strides. Hardening my resolve. Reawakening the warrior within me. If I want to reclaim my life, I cannot second-guess. Cannot waver.
Orbai shrieks with agreement and takes to the sky, leading the way to Sagaan—and redemption.
After two hours, I limp up to the fateful shrine where Serik and I stopped to worship. Orbai perches on a stick at the top of the mound, next to our empty bottle of vorkhi, and I feel a sudden pang of longing—followed by a sharp stab of guilt. Serik is trapped in a dark, windowless temple receiving countless lashes and muttering thousands of penances while I’m out here, on a secret mission, with a chance to earn back my position.
“I’ll find a way to help you too,” I vow, kneeling before the shrine to whisper a prayer for us both. Serik would hate it, but we need blessings and guidance more than ever. “Help me,” I beseech the Lady of the Sky as I finger the porcelain cups and dried petals. “You are the window to the universe; you see everything from your lofty perch, and I know I’m smaller than a speck of dust, but I ask you to see me. To guide my feet. Help me accomplish this mission and restore my and Ghoa’s honor.”
After murmuring amen, I check both shoulders to ensure no one’s watching, and stretch my fingers toward a stone at the base of the mound. I hold my breath—even though I know a gateway to the realm of the Eternal Blue won’t appear. I may be blessed with a gift from the Lady of the Sky, but that isn’t the same as being Goddess-touched. Only three people in the history of Ashkar have held that honor, and they were all personally marked by the sky in some way: Jamukha the Invincible, who was struck by seven bolts of lightning and lived; Zen the Devoted, whose prayers were so fervent, the Lady of the Sky parted the clouds and lifted him up into Her presence; and Ciamar the Daring, who built a tower so tall, it scraped the heavens. When she pitched herself from the top of it, her faith was so firm, the Lady of the Sky caught her in a chariot of sunlight and bore her away.
I have done nothing so grand to prove my devotion, but I place my tingling fingers against the stone anyway. The rock remains cold and sharp beneath my fingers, as expected.
Shaking my head, I regain my feet and circle the mound three times, content to incur the blessings reserved for common men and women. Then I cup my hand over my eyes and gaze at the top of the cairn. It’s so tall, Orbai appears to be swaying between the clouds, dancing to the howl of the late autumn wind.
Dirt crunches behind me, and I freeze like a deer staring down a hunter’s arrow. I cannot be caught worshiping the Lady of the Sky.
I cannot be caughtperiod.
In less time than it takes to draw a breath, my good hand shifts to the center of my staff and I spin to strike out at the stranger. Blinding pain flashes down my bad leg, but I grit my teeth and move faster, grip tighter. A war cry tears from my throat as my staff slices through the air. I make three frantic slashes before I realize the path is empty, save the brown rump of a marmot dodging into a bush.
The staff clatters to the dirt and I double over panting. At first from pain, but my gasps slowly turn to giggles, and soon I’m laughing so hard that tears stream down my cheeks. Orbai screeches and takes flight. I must look like I’ve lost all sense, lashing out at harmless rodents and laughing hysterically, but for the first time in two years, I feel the pulse of Enebish the Warrior beating faintly through my veins—like the first green buds of spring, breaking through the frosty soil.
