It’s exactly what I did to the Sky King all those years ago, when I was lobbying to be named commander of the Kalima warriors. The choice that set so much of this madness into motion. Those same feelings of urgency and need twine through me now, tingeing my voice as I whisper into the darkness.
I sing fragments of old desert songs, relay my plans to free the Protected Territories and unite against the Sky King. I spare no detail about the war front and Temujin and the Zemyans. Anything I can think of to combat the inevitable barrage of opinions he’ll be faced with when he does wake.
“Please, let it be soon,” I pray as I send the ebony tendrils back through the window. I watch them wash over Minoak’s face and settle around him like smoke. Then I ease out of the tree and slowly make my way back to our barracks. Turning everything over in my mind. Begging the First Gods to show me the truth. And the path forward.
“You were gone for an eternity,” Serik says when I finally hobble through the door. “I was beginning to think you fell into the swamp. We were just about to send a search party.” His tone is playful, but he eyes me expectantly. Waiting for me to tell him where I went. Why it took so long.
For half a second I consider spewing everything. What would he think of Yatindra’s coldness—despite my efforts to be kind—and the guards’ refusal to let me see Minoak? But, as always, our cabin is crowded to the point of suffocation; anything I tell Serik, the entire caravan will hear. And if I tell him about Yatindra, he’ll think I followed her to pick a fight. He’ll be frustrated that I angered the guards in the infirmary, who could report the incident to Ihsan.
Nothing good will come from Serik knowing the truth. Not until I figure out if the reasons behind Yatindra’s hostility are cause for suspicion, or if I’m just reading into everything because I’m broken. Ruined by the past. Unfit to be trusted because I can’t trust in return—not even my allies.
A painful scowl twists my face as I ease onto the floor and painstakingly untie my boots. “I walked farther than I should have, so it was difficult to get back. I ended up going down to water level for a while to soak my leg,” I lie.
“I’m sorry again … about what I said earlier,” Serik says quietly. “I shouldn’t have pushed you about Ziva.”
“It had nothing to do with that,” I assure him, but he still insists on helping me with my boots and lifts me onto my bed. He rubs my feet and brings the food he set aside for me, since I missed our midday meal.
“I’ll do better,” he promises. Making me feel like the most despicable creature on the continent. Even worse than the bloodsucking mosquitos.
But I paint a smile on my face and murmur, “So will I.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
GHOA
ISPEND THE REST OF THE NIGHT INSPECTING THE WALL THATopens into a passageway. If that mousy little servant has the power and intellect to access it, I should certainly be able to manage it. But no matter how I scrape and claw, no matter how much thick blue paint jams painfully beneath my fingernails, I find nothing. And now my hands are slick with blood, my wrists rubbed raw from the manacles, making the search even more impossible.
“I’m not surprised,” the Sky King’s voice drawls from everywhere and nowhere. “You have always been lacking, incompetent.”
I shred every window curtain in response. Not that it does any good—the king isn’t real and neither are the curtains—but it passes the time and helps to block out the specters hell-bent on driving me mad.
Once I’ve destroyed everything within reach and yelled myself hoarse at the unrelenting illusions, I crouch beside the invisible door to wait. I don’t care who comes through the tunnel next. I’m going to incapacitate them with ice, or the sheer force of my desperation, and get myself out of here. Then I’ll assassinate the empress and generál supreme and send this hideous palace crashing into the sea. After which the people of Ashkar will gladly welcome me back—the savior of the empire—and the Kalima warriors will spend the rest of their lives wishing they hadn’t betrayed me.
After what feels like years, but is probably no more than the length of a night, the door slides into existence. My mind snaps to attention and I lift my hands, practically crowing with relief when Hadassah, rather than Kartok, shuffles into the room.
I launch myself at her like a snow panther at the end of the great freeze—wild and half mad with hunger. My fingers sink into her flesh and I shove every morsel of cold from my core into her body. But her skin only cools a fraction. Her lips part with a scream as she hits the floor. The bowl of sludge she’s carrying falls and a lumpy spatter coats the wall, not frozen in the least.
It’s hardly the ambush I imagined, but it’s good enough. I scramble over her as if she’s a bloodied corpse on the battlefield, and lunge for the tunnel.
“Stop!” she shouts.
I run faster, flinging myself through the door as it begins to slide shut. I almost think I’ve made it, when Hadassah’s fingers close around my ankle. She yanks me back with surprising strength and I slam into the ground, unable to catch myself due to the blasted manacles. She tugs me swiftly back into the room, as if I’m the scrawny maid and she’s the seasoned warrior.
“Let go!” I kick at her face.
“I’m trying to help you!” she snaps as she dodges my strikes. “He’s coming. He’ll recapture you immediately. And kill me.”
Her warning knocks me so off balance, she’s able to snatch the bowl of muck, vault over me, and disappear down the passageway before I can recover.
The door clicks shut behind her, and Kartok appears less than a minute later. “Good morning, Commander. How are you feeling this fine day?” he asks, even though the answer is clear.
I look like death. And worse, Ifeellike death. But I bare my teeth and say, “These accommodations are most restful. I feel stronger than ever.” I wag my fingers and a flurry of frost spirals between us. Just a trace, and it melts immediately, but enough to prove I’m not powerless. That his goddess wasn’t strong enough to rip the ice from me. Not even when it’s already depleted.
Kartok’s expression darkens. Before I can blink, he’s on top of me, knees jabbing into my shoulders, hands forcing another waterskin between my lips, tipping more of the scalding hot-spring water down my throat. He pours until the vessel is empty and water dribbles down my chin. Then he looms over me, breathing hard. “How do you feelnow?”
The burning sensation invades my body faster and hotter and stronger than before. I feel like I’m spitting flames. But I can still feel the ice nestled deep within my chest. It’s shrunken—a tiny stone that used to be a boulder—but it’s there. Proof that Zemyans have never been and will never be as strong as Ashkarians. Not even their goddess.
“Well?” Kartok digs his pointy knees into my shoulders.
