The Shoniin fall back to give him space. Everyone except Oyunna, who weeps into her hands, and Kartok, who slowly rises, his face a mask of brutal resolve.
The Shoniin return with the Loridium a few minutes later, but their pace slows when they survey the somber scene. With a nod of thanks, Kartok takes the small leather chest and steps gravely around Inkar. He kneels at Temujin’s side, mixes the elixir with nimble fingers, and flicks it over his form. Then Kartok bows his head and mumbles a prayer.
After a few silent minutes, Kartok gains his feet and addresses the gathered warriors. “By the grace of the Goddess, Temujin will survive! Which means our plans live on.”
The Bone Reader and Oyunna share a sniffling hug, and the warriors cheer and pump their fists—none more loudly than our newest recruits. I lift my hands, but I can’t bring myself to clap. Not because I’m ungrateful Temujin lives, but because our plan is useless until Ghoa and the Sky King agree to unite with us. Nothing has changed.
I tap Oyunna, but she shushes me and points to Kartok, who resumes talking.
“We will win this war for our fallen brothers and sisters!” He gestures reverently at Inkar. “To claim what’s rightfully ours!”
The cheers become deafening and the throng stomps their feet, making the ground shake even harder. The healers bring forward a sled, and Kartok ceremoniously lowers Temujin into the bed. Temujin winces but manages to raise a hand in salute.
The Shoniin go wild for it. Their cries quite literally split the sky. Tiny, dark fractures splinter the unearthly blue like lightning.
What in the skies?
I scrunch my eyes shut, and count to three. When I look back up, the sky is as pristine as a freshly lacquered bowl.
Unease whooshes down my spine like winter wind.
“Oyunna,” I whisper again, but her hands are splayed heavenward and her head is tilted back in communion with the Lady of the Sky. Her hair sways across her shoulders, and as it does, the rich black waves bend and shift. For a moment, certain strands appear almost white.
“Ready yourselves for battle. We march in two days!” Kartok shouts.
I stare at the back of his pockmarked head in disbelief. That’s impossible. Even if Ghoa just sent word, we have yet to meet with the Imperial Army to organize an attack. And we can’t engage the Zemyans on our own. Our numbers are impressive, but notthatimpressive.
“Kartok!” I grab his sleeve and tug until he looks back at me. “How can you make such proclamations? We’re unprepared. We need to coordinate—”
“No, Enebish.Theyare unprepared.”
I point at our leader, sprawled in the healers’ sled. “Temujin can barely sit upright. Even with Loridium, he’ll be in no condition to lead a march to the war front in two days.”
“Which is why he won’t be leading us.”
“Who will be?”
Kartok places a hand on my arm. During the dark, frigid nights we sat together in the snow, I always drew strength from his touch, but now it’s uncomfortably tight. “Our Night Spinner, of course.”
“What are you talking about?” I try to pry him off, but my hands pause. His fingers are so pale next to mine. So long and spindly. I glance up at his face, and my vision swims again—as it did with the globeflowers and the sky and Oyunna’s hair. For a split second, I see not my friend, Maggot, but a stranger with a sharp nose, cheeks covered with white-blond stubble, and pale blue eyes the color of frost. A color wholly unnatural to Ashkar. A color common only in the lands near the sea.
In less time than it takes to blink, Kartok’s usual visage returns, but now I see it for the mask it is. His other face, histrueface, burns like a lamp beneath his skin.
“Y-you … you’re—” My lips won’t form the word.
Because it’s too horrible.
Because I should have seen it sooner.
Kartok is Zemyan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
IGAPE AT HIS TOWERING HEIGHT,REPLAY HIS SLURREDspeech, which has nothing to do with a mangled tongue and everything to do with a Zemyan accent. I recall how he dispatched the guards who spotted us at the fort with such lethal ease. How my darkness shied away from him that first night in the Boneyard. I’d thought it was due to my own exhaustion, but the night knew better. It had recoiled from his Zemyanmagic.
Suppressing a scream, I swing around to rouse the rest of the Shoniin. “We’ve been infiltrated!” I point at Kartok. “Other Zemyans could be hidden among us.”
The warriors gaze at me from the bottom of the hill—an expanse of familiar faces and gray uniforms—and the longer we stare at one another, the more dread tiptoes across my skin like a spider. Not one of them gasps or points or rushes toward Kartok with their sabers raised.
