As far as I can see, everyone is dressed in plain working clothes, like ours, and they’re pushing milk carts and operating vegetable stands, as they would any regular day. There aren’t banners decorating the snow-dusted buildings or colorful lanterns floating overhead, but there is an undeniable air of celebration. And the laughing group of women who skirt around us are eating giant racks of roasted lamb. Something available to only the wealthiest Ashkarians, and only during the spring.
“What in the skies …”
“Perfect timing!” Chanar points down the street.
I shield my eyes against the sun and squint into the distance, where the tiny dot of a horse-drawn carriage rumbles closer. The cobbles shudder as it nears, and the cheers become even more deafening. Somehow the crowd parts to make way, and I gasp as we’re crushed against a stone building. I cling to Inkar and Temujin and stare wide-eyed at the wagon’s gilded wheels. I take in the sleek blue body of the coach. Unmistakably Ashkarian blue and gold.
A royal carriage.
But the driver is a boy clad in shimmering Shoniin gray and a Shoniin girl sits on the box beside him, blowing a horn wildly. The tune makes my heart hammer twice as fast, for it’s the ode to the Lady of the Sky we sing around the bonfire. As they thunder past, objects fly from the carriage windows: figs and persimmons and pears. Loaves of glazed bread and sugar-dusted pastries. Beets and potatoes and even a few brightly colored candies.
The people rush forward, shoving the bounty into their pockets, and I smile at their squeals of delight.
“How?” I shout over the din. “That was clearly a royal coach, but the king would never fling such luxurious food to commoners.”
Temujin plops a handful of roasted chestnuts into his mouth and sighs. “Eat first! Questions later!”
An apple rolls against the toe of my boot and I pick it up, shining the red skin on my shirt. I bite into the flesh and sigh. I can’t remember the last time I tasted anything so fresh and crisp and delicious. We scrabble around like mice, munching this and that, until Temujin leads us down a slightly less crowded street.
“Oyunna is a genius,” Chanar says through a mouthful of flaky almond pastry.
“This could be our finest accomplishment yet,” Inkar agrees.
Temujin nods and throws a satisfied glance in the direction of the Sky Palace. “The king will be furious, and the people will revere us more than ever.”
“What’s going on?” I feel a bit like a clueless younger sibling, but I try not to take it personally. I’ve been away constantly on missions and as good as absent even when I am in the realm of the Eternal Blue.
“Oyunna caught wind that the Sky King planned to throw a lavish banquet,” Temujin explains, “to prove he isn’t concerned with the Zemyan threat, and she thought it was unfair he should enjoy such bounty while the rest of us starve. So our Shoniin working inside the palace loaded the banquet food into carts and drove them through the gates.”
“That’s brilliant,” I say, “but won’t the palace guards come after them?”
“I’m sure they’re trying, but I doubt they’ll get far.” Temujin motions to the impassable throng that has spilled back into the road.
“Not to mention there are very few guards remaining at the palace,” Chanar adds. “Most have been called to the war front. Along with the horses and heavy artillery.”
Inkar, Chanar, and Temujin exchange a smile at this, but I swallow hard. Things at the front must be bleak for the king to leave himself so poorly guarded. “Do you think he’ll agree to our terms soon?” I ask.
“He’ll be signing his death warrant if he doesn’t,” Temujin says.
And the death warrant of all these people.A hard knob of guilt jabs my side. Shouldn’t we be fortifying the city walls? Wouldn’t our time be better spent gathering water and firewood and preparing for siege rather than celebrating?
“Uh-oh. I know that look.” Inkar waves a finger in my face. “Let the people enjoy tonight. Who knows how long it will be before they’re afforded another festival day?Weneed to enjoy it too. A reminder of what we’re fighting for.”
“Do you dance, En?” Temujin offers me his hand, but I shake my head vehemently. I wasn’t a good dancer before Nariin, and I haven’t attempted it since. “How bad could you be?” he asks as he tugs me back into the mayhem.
The music is booming and feverish, a wild mix of drums and fiddles and flutes, and it vibrates through my sluggish feet until my toes begin tapping and my hips begin swinging. I am slow and rigid and off beat, and I step on Temujin’s feet five times in two songs, but he never once complains.
“Look at them.” He motions to a group of girls holding hands, skipping in a circle to our right. Behind them, a father tosses his giggling child high in the air. All around us, citizens clap and hoot, bow and leap. As free and invigorated as lambs in spring grass. “Thisis what our people deserve!” he shouts over the din. “And thanks to you, this is what we will continue to give them.”
I have always deflected such praise. An army is like a clock, made up of a million little gears. No one piece is more important than the next. But I throw my head back and let out a whoop, allowing myself to be proud, to have this moment.
Temujin pulls me closer, and his hands burn like a firebrand against the small of my back. He hums a Verdenese folk song in my ear, and my legs turn to sand, scorching and sifting as we sway to the music. The tangerine sky deepens and the ribbons of darkness curl around us. But instead of goading me, they glide across my collarbone and coil around my wrists like bangles, heightening every sensation. Comfortable, at last, with our new truce.
The four of us sway and twirl among the people—common citizens of Ashkar for one evening—and I about die of shock when Chanar asks me to dance too. He spins me in a dizzying circle, laughing all the while, and I’m so happy, so consumed with a bone-deep sense of belonging, I almost forget to miss Serik.
A landslide of shame, for allowing myself to move on, even in this small way, nearly knocks me off my feet. A second later it’s followed by an aftershock of guilt. I shouldn’t want to see him here. A true friend would want him to be as far away from Sagaan and Ghoa and the Shoniin as possible, but my breath still catches every time I glimpse a shaved head. And once or twice I swear I catch a whiff of parchment and pine ink.
We stay until the crowd thins enough for imperial guards to break through the wall of revelers, ordering everyone to return home or risk being arrested for stealing the Sky King’s food. But who can they pin the blame on when the entire city partook in the spoils?
