CHAPTER TEN
ENEBISH
ZIVA RETURNS TO THE CARAVAN WEARING A TRIUMPHANTsmile. “They’ve agreed to give us shelter!”
The Namagaan woman following her looks considerably less pleased. Though, I don’t know if that’s due to the harsh black makeup she’s wearing across both brows, making her look eternally perturbed, or the explosion of cheers and shouts from the shepherds, who raise their hands and collapse into tearful hugs.
My lips pull into a frown because this is not how a group of people who would make formidable allies should react. The Namagaan woman takes note. She’s clearly a soldier—tall and muscular in her wood-plated armor, topped with an orange cloak covered in jeweled emblems. Her yellow hair falls in long tufted strands that look like cattails—the traditional Namagaan style—and her skin is as rough and lined as the trees they live in. All Namagaans look as craggy as bark, no matter their age. It’s beautiful in a hard, intimidating way.
Her eyes flick over our motley group. “So many of you. How lovely,” she says, but her teeth grind the words. “Follow me.”
Another root pathway rises out of the muck and she leads us to one of the behemoth trees. She presses her palm to the trunk, and a panel slides open, revealing a spiral staircase that twists up to the canopy. The shepherds rush in like floodwater and race to the top, dripping all the way. My bad leg slips and twists painfully on the wet stairs.
By the time I finally reach the platform, the Namagaan warrior has been joined by a sizeable contingent of soldiers, all of whom study us with thinly veiled contempt. They haven’t brandished weapons, but their fingers hover at the ready.
Our group is so large, we fill the entire platform and spill down several of the interconnecting rope bridges. Serik is on the opposite side of the crowd, and when his gaze finds mine, I try to muster an encouraging grin. Though, it’s difficult to look past the squawking shepherds and bleating animals and the soldiers’ deepening scowls. The tension is as thick as the muggy swamp air.
When someone screams, I’m certain the Namagaan soldiers have lost their patience and are tossing us over the rope railings, but then a golden-skinned woman from my own country shoves through the crowd and flies across the platform.
“Zivana?”
“Auntie!” Ziva melts to the boards, reminding me, suddenly, that she’s only thirteen. It makes my insides squirm. Perhaps I’ve beenslightlyhard on the girl.
The woman throws her arms around Ziva and they collapse into a tangle of limbs, laughing and crying as she smooths the curls away from Ziva’s face. I can’t bear to watch. Because that’s how familial love should look.Thatis the bond an aunt or mother or sister should share. Unbridled tenderness. Complete trust. They would never betray each other.
“What in the skies happened?” Ziva’s aunt asks. I’d place her somewhere near Ghoa’s age, though it’s hard to tell, as her face has been painted to look as rough as the Namagaans’. It’s strange to see someone from Verdenet dressed in the style of the marsh people—her dark hair bound like reeds, thick black makeup joining her brows, and a vibrant crimson dress that wraps and ties across her middle.
I try to imagine being sent to live in an entirely different country, so foreign from your own. A moment passes before I realize that’sexactlywhat I did. I learned to live in Ashkar. Learned to dress and speak and fight like them, almost to the point of forgetting my roots. I wonder if it’s the same for Ziva’s aunt. If she considers herself fully Namagaan now. Or if she misses Verdenet and cares what becomes of it. Does she even know her brother’s been removed from the throne? King Minoak has only been a figurehead since relinquishing his sovereignty twenty years ago when Verdenet became a Protected Territory. But he was at least allowed to keep up pretenses and tradition. Until now.
“We were attacked!” Ziva’s voice wobbles and she speaks in fast, gasping breaths. “An assassin tried to kill Papa. We escaped the palace, but he was gravely injured. I tried to dress his wounds and nurse him to health, but we were alone in the desert without food or supplies. That’s why I started stealing them from these people. They’re refugees from Ashkar, and they were kind enough to help us. We couldn’t return to Verdenet because an imperial governor has taken the city.”
Tears are running down the woman’s face, smearing her makeup, and she fans herself with her hand. A long moment passes before she can speak. “My brave girl. And my poor brother. You did the right thing, coming here.”
She stands, makes a vain attempt to smooth her rumpled red dress, and finally addresses the rest of us. “I am Yatindra Yimeni, daughter of Verdenet and wife of Namaag. Thank you for aiding my family. You have my deepest thanks and are welcome to stay for a time to recover from your efforts. May I see my brother?”
The shepherds part. Yatindra passes through our ranks and kneels beside the litter. “It’s about time you came to visit me,” she chokes out, touching Minoak’s face. Her fingers continue down his bloody garments, and she gasps into the back of her hand. He stirs at the sound. Not fully waking, but a subtle change of breath. A tiny sign of life, which makes her cry even harder.
“We must tend these wounds at once.” She directs the shepherds responsible for the litter to follow her down one of the swaying bridges, and Ziva trails behind them. Before they disappear into the dense foliage, Yatindra calls back to us, “I’ll return for the rest of you once he’s settled with the healers.”
I want to object. She can’t just leave us here, surrounded by soldiers in an unfamiliar land. But she does.
The soldier who escorted us into the city steps forward, looking even more imposing with her orange-cloaked brigade behind her. They’re armed with reed-thin spears and small, sleek bows fitted to their wrists. Weapons that can zip easily through the trees.
“Follow us,” she barks.
Serik steps forward, his face tight with a forced smile. “Yatindra instructed—”
“I don’t serve Yatindra. I serve King Ihsan, who will want to meet you.” She jabs her spear at the nearest shepherds. As they wail and stumble down the swaying rope bridge, I want to reach for the night, craving that added protection. But I release the tendrils before they blacken the marsh. If we want to make an alliance with the Namagaans, we cannot present as a threat.
Wealsocan’t present as a pitiful group of yowling refugees, but there’s nothing to be done about that right now.
The soldiers prod us deeper and deeper into the canopy. Chattering voices join the cacophony of birdsong and vibrant colors flash behind the leaves. Curious Namagaans trail us. Watching us. But no one emerges to greet us from the homes and shops crowding every branch. And the common areas they’ve constructed by connecting the platforms of close-standing trees are newly deserted. Meals left half finished. Riderless swings swaying.
King Ihsan’s palace is built around a particularly large tree, each level stacked atop the next, clear to the thinnest branches. I have no idea how they can bear the weight and I have no interest in journeying up there. Just looking at the far-off windows puts me back in the spire salon, crashing against the frozen glass. Leaping from the balcony.
All to save a traitor.
I expect the soldiers to herd us into an extravagant throne room that could rival the Sky King’s, but the commander raps on a humble door made of bark with a quaint apple knob. A scrawny man with thinning hair opens it and squints into the morning.
