Heart thudding, I lean closer. She smells of sweat and horse manure, but I don’t crinkle my nose. I know for a fact that I don’t smell any better. “He told me to find him. Where should I look?”
“If you’re looking for someone, perhaps you should consult the Bone Reader. I hear she has a knack for uniting people. Her shop is on the southeast corner of Diylar Square.”
I shoot to my feet and squint in the direction of the marketplace. Bone reading is an old outlawed practice from Verdenet. An ancient method of conversing with the First Gods that I haven’t witnessed since my grandmother died when I was six. A tingling sensation courses through my limbs. The same bone-deep rightness I feel when praying to the Lady of the Sky or singing my mother’s old tribal songs.
“Go,” the girl urges. “I can manage the dishes.”
The marketplace at Diylar Square is located between the slums of Sagaan and the winter grazing lands. To say the neighborhood is rough would be akin to calling the great freeze merely cold, and this sector is even dodgier than the rest. As soon as I slip into the maze of tattered tents, the pungent smell of hashish burns my nose and shouts erupt from a gaming hut. Pulling my hood low, I speed past a spice shop that clearly specializes in poisons and an armory offering a large selection of Zemyan blades and spears, all of which are illegal in Ashkar due to their wicked magical properties.
There are a handful of tales of Ashkarian warriors who attempted to wield Zemyan blades in battle, doubting the rumors that the steel was tainted with magic. In the most gruesome story, a warrior swung his sword at a charging Zemyan, but the blade retracted and burst through the opposite end of the hilt, impaling the foolish man through the heart.
I shoot the arms dealer a disapproving look, glad Serik isn’t here to see this reminder of his father, and hurry to the Bone Reader’s stall. It’s a crooked little hut covered with a conglomeration of exotic furs—snow leopard and grizzly and fox. Swells of sage and pinion incense pour through the door flap, tickling my nose.
Orbai settles on a tent across the aisle—she’s never been one for small, dark spaces—and I feel her eyes on my back as I duck inside. Dripping tallow candles balance on tables and crates, and a fire crackles in the center of the space. Behind the fire sits a petite, wrinkled woman with a shock of dark hair. Her legs are crossed beneath her and her hands are busy prodding the coals with a poker. The heat is thick and oppressive.
“Are you the Bone Reader?” For some reason I feel compelled to whisper.
“That depends who’s asking.”
“My name is En—” I mash my lips together at the last second. I cannot blow my cover in case the Bone Reader isn’t in league with Temujin and his Shoniin. “En-Eniira,” I stutter. “My name is Eniira.”
It could be the flickering light, but the Bone Reader’s lips seem to twitch as she eyes the scarf tucked around my face. “Sit,Eniira.” She gestures to the woven mat before the fire.
I ease down and stare into the red-gold flames. They curl and snap in the dark of the tent. The Bone Reader prods the bleached-white knobs nestled among the coals, and a blast of orange smoke puffs into the air. The tendrils of darkness hovering overhead surge toward the corners of the tent, as if retreating from the heat. After several minutes of quiet, the Bone Reader seeks out my eyes through the smoke. Time folds in on itself, and my vision bends until I see, not a stranger, but my grandmother chanting before the fire.
The Bone Reader taps my foot with her poker. “What do you wish to know? Who you will marry? Where to obtain your fortune?”
“I’m looking for someone. And I thinkhe’slooking for me.” I emphasize thehe,hoping she’ll catch on, but she simply nods.
“A family member lost in the chaos of the overcrowding?”
“No. I don’t know this person, but he helped me and I wish to thank him.”
She gazes at me, unblinking. “A noble pursuit.”
“Yes,” I agree, but the lump in my throat isn’t so sure. Temujin may have abandoned his post at Novesti, but I’m fairly certain he’s feeding half the city.
“You look troubled,” the Bone Reader muses.
“No. Just eager to offer my thanks.” I force a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been seeing this symbol everywhere.” I hold up a ration sack and point to the ram. “It’s Temujin’s symbol, isn’t it?”
The old woman’s lips twitch again. “You don’t need a Bone Reader to tell you that.”
“Does that mean the rations are from him, rather than the Sky King?”
“When has the Sky King ever offered a gift that did not benefit himself?”
“The king built the aqueducts from Namaag and ended the drought,” I say before I can stop myself. “He may not be a perfect ruler, but he saved all of Ashkar.”
“Which also stopped the riots and strengthened his claim to the throne,” the Bone Reader responds without hesitation.
“He offers prosperity and safety to the Protected Territories,” I try again.
“Only so he can conscript and exploit them.”
“What are you talking about?” I stare at the Bone Reader and she stares right back, her jowls clenched and her pinprick eyes glinting. Clearly, we’re never going to agree on this. Not when her view is so negative and skewed. “Where can I find Temujin?”
She drags a smoldering shank bone from the fire and taps it with her poker. It hisses and jagged splinters cleave through the brittle white. She studies them, muttering to herself and pushing matted strands of hair from her face. “Use the head, girl. That’s the way.”
