My body knew what to do. I was ready to defend myself.
“Don’t you see? It was a sign!” I call to Orbai. “Sent from the Goddess Herself. Proof that I can do this.”
I retrieve my staff, grip it like a saber, and swing it through the air in patterns I practiced so many times, I could repeat them in my sleep. My motions are slower than before, and I make a mess of the footwork, but it feels so good and right, my elation overshadows the pain.
“I am still a warrior.” My voice is barely a whisper, and the statement sounds more like a question, but I repeat it again and again, hoping if I say it enough, it will somehow be true.
The sun warms my cheeks, making the hairs prickle down my arms, and my foolish, hopeful heart can’t help but take it as a sign: the Lady of the Sky agrees.
Latching onto that flicker of confidence, I continue down the trail toward the serrated skyline of Sagaan. The colorful rooftops flash silver and rose and cobalt in the sun, like a chest of jewels splayed open along the riverbank. A glittering oasis surrounded by an endless expanse of prairie. Ashkar has always been a nation of nomadic herders, making cities largely unnecessary. Sagaan was the first settlement, founded by Miigrath to defend against the Zemyans, and it has remained the beating heart of the empire for nearly two hundred years. Even at the farthest reaches of the Protected Territories, orders and customs and instructions pump first through Sagaan. Making it the ideal location for criminals like Temujin to wreak havoc.
“Where are you hiding?” I whisper to the distant smear of smoke.
By the time I reach the outskirts of the city, I’m even more exhausted than the time the Kalima marched twenty miles through thigh-deep snow to secure the fort at Golyn. My muscles howl as if I’m dragging a fully loaded oxcart, and because I had to stop to rest my leg so many times, the last traces of daylight are swiftly vanishing into twilight mist.
The tendrils of night swoop and dive at me like hunting bats. They pulse against my skin with the steady pressure of a beating heart.
You need us. You want us. Reach out.
I slit my eyes, clutch my bad arm to my chest, and trudge down the mud-ravaged streets. Most people are already indoors, taking their evening meal, and only a few stragglers bustle down the road, hoods drawn against the cold. The inns and taverns lining the main thoroughfare belch inviting chimney smoke and laughter, but Ghoa’s right: I cannot show my scarred face anywhere so public. And the braziers that light the entryways to mark vacancy are darkened anyway. After a quick glance around, I make my way over to Salkhi, a poor residential district comprised of single-story row houses.
The tiny brown buildings are smashed together like a mouthful of crooked teeth, and herds of sheep crowd the muddy roads. Goats and oxen are tied to nearly every fence post, ripping up what’s left of the dying grass. A large portion of Ashkarians still make their living herding sheep and cattle across the grasslands and must constantly chase the fertile fields. Which means they depend heavily on the hospitality of city-dwellers to survive the lean winter months. The arrangement benefits the city-dwellers, too, as they need the wool and meat the shepherds provide. As such, it’s an unspoken agreement that every household welcomes travelers with open arms, feeding them their finest cut of meat and sharing in a shot of vorkhi.
“I’m not so different from a merchant or a shepherd,” I say to Orbai. “A simple servant of the empire.” Orbai shifts nervously on my shoulder. She’s right. I’m far more threatening than the average traveler. If the night wriggled in through a crack in the window, I could endanger my hosts. Or they could easily notice my traitor’s mark. Unfortunately, it’s so cold, shelves of ice float down the Amereti and frostbite nibbles my nose. Not a night to sleep outdoors.
The hour is late and the majority of the houses are dark, but I take a breath for courage, arrange my hood and scarf over my scars, and call out a greeting to the first door I come upon.
A candle flickers to life behind the waxed-paper windows and hushed whispers argue back and forth behind the thin walls. At last, footsteps pad to the door and I stand up straighter as it swings open. Candlelight spills across my boots and the sweet smell of curried goat meat wafts past my nose, making my mouth water. A young woman squints at me, her face pinched.
It’s bad luck and incredibly rude to speak across the threshold of a residence, so I wait to be invited in, but the girl’s dark eyes merely flick from me to Orbai. I squirm and attempt to smile from beneath my hood, but still she does not welcome me. Finally I can wait no longer. I must either offend her or freeze to death. “I’m sorry to trouble you at such a late hour, but—”
The girl tumbles outside, waving her hands. “Do you wish to curse us both?” She waits until the door latch clicks before continuing. “What do you want?” She crosses her sinewy arms and her eyes rake up and down my frame.
“I mean no harm,” I say with a bow. “I’m a weary traveler looking for shelter from the cold.”
“We’re already housing a family of five. And next door, they took in two families with small children. It’s the same all down the street. I’m sure you understand.” She retreats toward the door.
“Idon’tunderstand.” I scurry after her. “Why is Salkhi so crowded?”
“The shepherds have nowhere to go. The winter grazing lands are an ice floe.” She taps her toe impatiently.
“What?”
“Have you been living under a rock? The Sun Stokers couldn’t be spared from the war front to warm the fields. The Sky King has sent fewer each year, making for long, hard winters, but this year he withheld them entirely.”
My mind spins like the tail of a kite. Each year thousands of shepherds migrate to the winter grazing lands outside of Sagaan. It’s the only way their flocks are able to survive the great freeze. “The Sky King would never allow that. He cultivated the fields for the express purpose of—”
“Never allow it?” She laughs. “He ordered it. The caravans that arrived first found shelter and boarding for their animals, but the rest are camping on the ice field, brawling for the scanty shelter beneath trees. Go see for yourself if you don’t believe me. There’s an entire city of freezing homeless.”
I try to speak, but my lungs sputter as if choking on a violent gust of wind. Ghoa’s ragged voice echoes in my thoughts:We’re losing.
The girl’s expression softens. She reaches into her apron and presses a small bundle into my hands. I peel back the cloth to reveal three strips of dried goat’s meat.
“It’s all we can spare.” She shrugs apologetically and slips back inside.
Orbai scoots down my arm and snatches a strip of meat while I stare at the smattering of torchlight downriver, where the winter grazing lands begin. The girl was lying. Or exaggerating. Conditions can’t be as dire as she claimed. Ghoa would never allow it. She would send the Sun Stokers immediately if she knew thousands of shepherds were suffering.
An image of her desperate eyes flashes through my thoughts. Her voice cracks over the admission:I’m failing.
