Despite the ungodly hour, spectators pour into the courtyard, summoned by the drums. Already it’s more crowded than the Qusbegi Festival. Though, unlike Qusbegi, the people aren’t crying for blood as they were during my torture. They are crying for justice and begging for mercy. Heaving against the palace guards to free Temujin, their savior.
My gaze is drawn to a tall wooden gibbet erected at the base of the steps. Ordinarily, a criminal guilty of high treason would be slathered with sheep fat, wrapped in felt, trussed up by their wrists and ankles, and left to hang for weeks beneath the blazing sun, decaying alive until the maggots finished him. But a noose hangs from the post along with the usual trappings. Ghoa cannot risk the Shoniin cutting Temujin down before he’s dead, and she cannot end him quickly with her cold, as it would violate her vows to the people of Ashkar. So Temujin will be hanged by the neck first and then left to molder for the sake of tradition.
I reach for the night again, begging the few remaining tendrils to answer my plea, but they drift idly past, languid and translucent, weakened by the coming day. I poke and prod the monster in my belly, but it doesn’t stir. Because thereisno monster. Only me. Enebish.
I find I almost miss it.
The sun rides hard and fast along the horizon, galloping like warriors to battle. Called by the quickening drums.Dum-dum-dum-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum.Streaks of pink and orange paint the underbellies of the clouds, and a crested lark lands on the edge of the balcony, singing its welcome to the day. “Away with you,” I grumble. But it continues its merry strains until a wretched beam of sunlight punches the sky.
The drums are frantic. The crowd is too: pleading for Temujin’s release. I cannot see it, but I hear the reverberating bang as the Sky Palace doors open. The roar swells even louder. Ghoa appears first, her ponytail perfectly smooth and her leathers shining. She is followed by Varren, who holds the chains attached to Temujin’s wrists and ankles.
He tugs Temujin down the steps, faster than his shackles allow. I cringe as his knees hit the marble. From up here, I can’t tell how badly he’s been beaten in Gazar, but it must be horrendous if his stooped posture and drooping head are any indication. That isn’t how Temujin would choose to carry himself. Not even to his death.
I heave and jerk, even though it’s useless. I scream Temujin’s name even though he can’t hear. He cannot die like this. Because of me.
The rest of the Kalima emerge behind Temujin, followed by the Sky King and his personal guard. They pour into the already packed square, blocking every entrance and filling every crack. There are fewer guards than ordinarily patrol the city, but still more than I expected, given the situation at the war front. Far too many for the Shoniin to reach Temujin.
Sweat beads down my face and I let out a shuddering moan. I hadn’t realized how desperately I’d been praying for that—counting on it—until the impossibility swims before my eyes.
Will they still try? Will Chanar and Inkar die alongside Temujin? Will I be forced to witness their slaughter and know I am responsible for it? I swallow a mouthful of bile and blink back tears. If they perish, who will be left to lead the Shoniin? Oyunna and Kartok might be able to carry on for a while, but even they defer to Temujin in all things.
I buck against my ropes as Ghoa hauls Temujin into position. I choke on my wails as they slather him with the greasy sheep fat and bind him with cords and felt.
“I’m sorry, I should have listened,” I whisper as Ghoa loops the noose over his head. “I should have committed fully to the Shoniin.”
Varren and several others take up the rope. I look away before they heave him off the ground. I have no desire to watch Temujin wriggle like a worm on a hook, his cheeks purple and his eyes bursting. That’s not how I wish to remember the whip-smart leader who evaded the Kalima, the amber-eyed boy from my homeland, the only person, other than Serik, who knew I wasn’t a monster before I knew it myself.
The drums crash like thunder. The crowd howls and roars.
“Forgive me,” I whimper, but the words are garbled and halting.
How long will it take?
They didn’t drop Temujin from any sort of height—his suffering would have ended too quickly—which means his neck will not break. He will dangle until he asphyxiates.
“I’m sorry!” I cry again, shouting my agony to the heavens.
But my screams of anguish quickly morph into screams of shock.
A loud thump rattles the roof, and pieces of golden tile pelt me like hailstones.
Just like they did when the Shoniin rescued me at Qusbegi.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AFIGURE CLAD IN GRAY DROPS ONTO THE BALCONY ANDlands in a crouch by my face. Another gray blur follows, thudding down on my other side.
“Don’t be sorry, be angry,” Chanar says as he severs my ropes with two efficient swings of his saber. My arms drop free and I moan with relief. It felt like someone was slowly sawing through my shoulders. When I push up to my knees and see Inkar and Chanar truly standing there, I moan for a different reason and my eyes glaze with tears. They came for me. On purpose. Which would make me happy if the wrongness of their choice wasn’t choking me like a gag. I immediately start shaking my head and pointing to the square below.
“What are you doing here? You should be down there, freeing Temujin!”
“We can’t reach him without your help.” Inkar leans over and ties a length of black cord around my waist with an intricate series of knots. Then she attaches it to herself and Chanar. The other end extends across the square, anchored to the bluestone treasury building. “We need darkness, Enebish, and starfire.Now.”
“I can’t,” I say in a panic. “Ghoa forced me to drink a tincture laced with moonstone.”
“Bleeding skies!” Chanar smashes his palm to his forehead. “I knew we couldn’t count on her. It’s over. We’re finished.”
Inkar rounds on him. “We have to try. Temujin wouldn’t give up if we were down there.”
