Iknowhe isn’t here, but I whip around to check because it sounds so real. So close—wild, unhinged laughter that borders on crying. It seems to be coming from the gilded throne, and as I creep toward it, the Sky King slowly materializes, fading into existence as if through thick fog. Those eyes that miss nothing. The merciless slash of his brows. That thin, unforgiving mouth.
“You.” He stands and moves toward me, and that’s when I notice the bright strip of gore staining the side of his robe. How his fox fur crown sits askew on his head—the back half of his skull crushed. Blood bubbles from his lips, thick as tar, when he speaks. “You failed me. You failed Ashkar.”
I close my eyes and chant, “It isn’t real, it isn’t real, it isn’t real.” But itfeelsso real, my body refuses to believe the logic from my brain. I can smell the king’s expensive cologne. I can even hear the imperceptible hitch of his step from an old war wound that only I know about.
“How does it feel to be responsible for the fall of an empire?” he prods. “To be the biggest disappointment Ashkar has ever known? What will your parents think?”
I try to fight it off, but the woody scent of Papá’s pipe smoke and the citrusy punch of Mamá’s orange water perfume drift past my nose. And then they’re there, standing before me. Sobbing.
I cough so hard, I vomit.
“Their fall from society will be catastrophic,” the Sky King continues. “Not only did I perish under your watch, you were captured during the Zemyan siege—when commanders arenevercaptured—because your own soldiers saw your weakness and ineptitude and turned against you. Your parents will be shunned. Humiliated. They’ll regret ever having a daughter—ifthey survive the siege, that is….”
His laughter resumes, boring into my brain like a spear tip. I feel my throat closing. My eyes stinging. I have to get away. I throw myself against the walls, pounding and poking, desperate to find the invisible knobs.
After what feels like days, I retreat to the farthest corner of the hall and huddle into a ball. Teeth clenched. Palms over my ears. But that only provides partial relief, because I’m surrounded by eyes. All of those damnable eyes, peering down at me from the dangling masks. Only now they’re no longer the eyes of Ashkar’s greatest warriors. They’re eyes I stared into every day for over a decade. The eyes of my Kalima warriors—stripped of their humanity and every shred of respect, leaving only a reflection of those final, terrible moments on the ice bridge. Varren’s regretful but rigid gaze. Weroneka not even bothering to look back. Eshwar’s sneer and Karwani’s disgust. Even little Reza, my page, who wasn’t trapped in Papá’s office and who has never looked on me with anything but adoration, blinks round, wet eyes. Bright with betrayal. As if I ran my saber through his gut.
I’ve never seen magic like this. Not in all my years on the battlefront. I knew the Zemyans could disguise their faces and manipulate their weapons, but I didn’t know they could create the illusion of entirely different worlds. And trap me within them.
The painted walls press closer; the king’s laughter peals louder. I rock in the corner. Spewing profanities. Praying Kartok’s magic will eventually fade. Power always has a limit. But the onslaught continues, and the images filling my head are more horrifying than any amount of bodily torture he could have inflicted.
My anguish is so heavy, it feels like I’m sinking through the floor. Like I couldn’t possibly descend any lower. Which is when the specter of Enebish arrives to haunt me. She drags herself toward me through red-stained snow, her right arm nearly severed and her leg flopping bonelessly. “Are you happy?” she croaks, blood burbling from her lips. “You destroyed me—and yourself—for nothing.”
“Youare to blame!” I scream back at her. “You were trying to usurp me, humiliate me. No matter that I saved you and trained you and gave you everything. None of this would have happened if I’d left you to die in Verdenet.”
As my mother counseled me to do.
“I’m not certain this is the best idea,” she said when I returned with Enebish from the war front. She paced the halls and picked at her nails while our maids scrubbed the soot and dirt from Enebish’s skin and scrounged for clothes small enough to fit her emaciated frame. Finally Mamá pulled me into Papá’s study and lowered her voice. “We know nothing about this Southerner. Or her family. And we’ve already endured so many rumors by taking in your cousin. She’s not even from Ashkar….”
But I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Because I couldn’t forget the way Enebish looked at me when I lifted her from the ashes and onto Tabana. How her dark eyes memorized my face, full of wonder and admiration. How her small fingers traced the grooves in my armor. It was nearly as intoxicating as my parents’ praise. I wanted everyone in the empire to look at me like that. To need me like that.
But they were all fooling me. Using me. Taking, taking, taking until they bled me dry.
I stagger to my feet and run at the Sky King’s throne. I can’t bear to look at it any longer. I can’t standanyof this for another second. With a scream, I thrust my palms forward and a thin layer of frost varnishes the velvet cushion and goldwork of the throne. Not enough to shatter it, but enough to prove Zemya’s vile magic didn’t taint me. Not fully, anyway. I try again, but the sputter of cold vanishes the moment it leaves my hands. Growling with frustration, I pick up one of the small wooden chairs that line the wall and dash it against the throne. Fragments of wood spray into the air and scrape my face, harming me more than the throne, but it feels good to dosomething.So I grab chair after chair and continue smashing them.
Once they’re all obliterated, I take up a fragment of wood, step onto the seat of the throne—grinning savagely at the smudges my boots leave on the indigo cushion—and swing at the hanging masks.
The translucent strings may look flimsy, but they slice my hands like razor wire. Blood falls in bright crimson spots across the floor and the golden arms of the throne. It’s horrific. And glorious. I scream louder. Strike harder. Smashing face after face of warriors I once looked up to. Warriors I was certain I would eclipse in greatness.
It isn’t until the final mask falls, and the symphony of shattering plaster fades, that I hear a throat clear behind me.
I whip around, fully expecting to find Kartok smirking in the corner, but it’s a Zemyan girl with silvery hair bundled into a topknot, a filthy apron strapped around her waist. Her mouth hangs open and her pale eyes gape at me. As ifI’mthe barbarian.
I would be mortified if I had any dignity left. Since I don’t, I plunk down on the throne, kick my legs over one armrest, and tilt my head back against the other, face up to the muraled ceiling. Hoping she’ll go away if I don’t respond. Like the mangy opossums in Namaag that pretend to be dead as a method of self-preservation.
The girl shifts from foot to foot and holds up a steaming tin cup. “I’m Hadassah. I’ve brought you food.” Her Ashkarian is slow and her accent is thick, but she seems proud of her effort.
“You can’t possibly think I’d eat or drink anything else,” I snap back.
“I’ll just leave it here, then. In case you change your mind.” With trembling hands, she sets the mug down and steps back. But then she stops and says, “Let me know if you need anything else.” As if I’m a guest rather than a prisoner.
“Are you mocking me?” I swing my legs around and lean forward, perched on the edge of the throne like a coiled snake. “Because I definitelyneedseveral things. Ineedto get out of this prison. Ineedto prove my warriors made the biggest mistake of their lives when they betrayed me, and Ineedto conquer this repellant country to salvage my reputation, but you can’t help me with any of that, can you, Hadassah?”
She flinches and looks down at her feet. “No. But if you answer a few questions, I can unlock your manacles.”
I make a show of looking her up and down. “Youhave the key?”
She reaches into her apron pocket and procures an old brass key, which she swings back and forth.
