“Positive.” He scoots so close, our thighs brush. With careful fingers, he unwinds the strap and opens the book across our laps. He reaches into his tunic and pulls out two quills, offering one to me. “Let’s write together.”
I nibble my lip and look from the quill to Temujin. I have never written with someone else. I was too young to do so when my family perished. But it’s not something to be taken lightly. To write in a Book of Whisperings with someone is to invite them into your head, to bare the innermost parts of your soul. You converse with the Lady of the Sky together, which means there are no secrets. No hiding. But what do I have to hide at this point?
You could still come back,Ghoa’s voice dances through my ears like the strains of a distant song. When I first entered the realm of the Eternal Blue, her voice was nearly as loud as my own. But now it’s nothing more than the shush of wind through grass. I’d almost miss it if I forgot to listen closely.
“Unless it makes you uncomfortable …” Temujin says. “Because I would never—”
I take the quill. “Let’s do it.”
I can hear Serik sputter with disgust from a world away.It’s too much,he whispers.Temujin has an agenda.But I silence his voice too. He relinquished his right to comment on my decisions when he chose to leave.
Temujin and I turn to the book and our quills scratch across the parchment. As soon as my letters sink into the rippling page, Temujin’s appear, not in the book, but scrawled across the blackness of my mind.
Are we ever beyond redemption?
Tingles flood my body, from the top of my head to the base of my spine. He could have asked the Goddess anything—for guidance navigating the war, for reassurance, for the strength to continue—but he asked a question for me. To calm me. To fortify me. I can already feel Her answer pulsing in my chest: constant and steady and sure. A fierce and protective love, despite my many mistakes.
It makes my own question feel trite and childish:If this is the right path, why has it been so difficult?
My cheeks burn and I curl in on myself.
“Don’t do that,” Temujin says.
“Don’t do what?”
“That. How you shrink into your shoulders and hide behind your hair like a tortoise retreating into its shell.” His hand shoots out and brushes the thick strands of black behind my ear. His fingers linger, hesitate, then carefully trace the three slashes of my traitor’s mark. Embracing the things about me that most people shy away from.
Something molten stirs in my belly and every tiny hair on my cheek stands ramrod straight. I don’t know if it’s his heady tea soap scent or the sacred book lying across our laps or the feel of his thigh pressed against mine, but I accidentally blurt, “You’re different than I expected.”
The smile that melts across his lips makes heat skitter through my rib cage. “So are you.” He takes me by the hand and tugs me to my feet. “Come with us tonight. We’re doing something special in Sagaan and I want you to be part of it.”
“Really?” Other than my missions with Kartok, I haven’t been permitted to raid supply wagons or deliver rations or even steal cannons. Serik would say it’s because the Shoniin don’t trust me, but Temujin assured me it’s only because my night spinning is much more vital. Anyone can deliver rations, but only I can bring warriors safely to our side. “You want me to join you?”
Temujin smirks and tugs my braid. “I don’t want you to come; I aminsisting.”
I bite my lip and glance around the tent. Whatever Temujin has planned, the quiet of my bedroll will be easier. But sitting in an empty tent and nursing memories of Serik won’t bring him back. He doesn’twantto come back.
“Okay,” I agree. It’s time to get out of my head. Time to move on.
“Excellent. Inkar will bring you clothes.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I say, and we both laugh, since I still haven’t changed from the filthy tunic I wore on last night’s mission.
Inkar arrives shortly after Temujin leaves and tosses me a bundle of clothes. They’re nothing special—the garb of a middle-class Ashkarian: a tunic made of navy wool, flowing brown pants, and a rabbit fur coat.
“You’re looking perfectly plain this evening,” she says with a wink when I emerge from our tent. She and Temujin and Chanar are wearing similarly bland outfits—fur caps and nondescript cloaks. I’m so used to seeing them all in Shoniin gray, they look like eagles that have sprouted fur rather than feathers.
“What exactly are we doing?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise.” Inkar tugs me through the encampment and across the globeflower field to the portal site. “Oyunna arranged it, so you know it will be good.”
Temujin opens the gateway, and as soon as we land in the dusty bedroom at the back of the Ram’s Head, I can hear the chaos in the streets. The windows rattle with laughter and singing, and a gong twangs so loudly, the oil lamp on the dressing table topples on its side.
“What’s going on?” I spin a quick circle. “It isn’t a festival day.”
Inkar cackles at my confused expression, and she and the boys shepherd me out of the tavern, where we’re instantly consumed by the throng. It’s so packed, I can’t actuallyseethe street. Just a mass of bodies, crammed down block after block, until the dots grow too small to be distinguished.
“What’s the occasion?” I shout over the roar.
