Those final, terrible moments in the treasury flicker in and out: Varren helping the Sky King onto the buttress. The excruciating slowness of his steps. The chunk of marble careening through the charcoal sky. The haunting sound of his scream.
“Stop!” I shout.
“Cooperate!” Kartok shouts back. “How many Kalima warriors are there in total?”
I say the first number that pops into my head. “Ten thousand.”
“Lies!” Kartok stomps closer, forcing me to retreat until my back is literally against the wall. “There aren’t half so many! You would have ended the war long ago.”
“If you’re so certain of our numbers, why ask me?”
“Do not test me, girl.”
“Or what? What else could you possibly take from me?”
Kartok holds out his arms, palms up, and two forms rise into being, like the plumes of dust created by thousands of marching warriors. The particles shift and gather and slowly form the faces of a man and a woman. He has shiny waxed hair and a pipe clenched between his teeth. She wears soft curls and a proud smile. My parents say my name and reach for me. Unaware of a third form looming behind them. The hooded figure raises a blade—theblade strapped to Kartok’s hip.
“Look out!” I scream. But it’s too late. The steel has already bitten through their necks.
“Your parents live in Sagaan, do they not?” Kartok shouts over my wails. “A city now occupied by Zemya….”
“If you harm a single hair on their heads—”
“Where will the Kalima go?” Kartok roars.
My eyes are still glued to the severed heads of my parents, rolling around my feet. I nearly concede and relay every potential rendezvous point I can think of, but thankfully, my tongue knows better. It sits heavy and thick in my mouth. My teeth clench tighter; Kartok won’t spare them, not even if I cooperate.
Before I can comprehend what’s happening, Kartok’s bony fingers close around my neck and he drags me across the throne room. I don’t even have time to fill my lungs before he shoves my head into the overflowing tub.
He plunges me in and out. Harder and faster. Until I don’t know if the burning in my chest is from the scalding hot-spring water or lack of air.
At last, Kartok flings me to the floor. “Iwillfind a way to defeat you. Iwillsee Zemya exalted. Ashkar’s reign of terror over the continent endsnow.With me.”
When I try to respond, I cough up mouthfuls of putrid water and howl at the horrendous pain. My body heaves and sweats. It was bad enough having the Zemyan poison searing down my throat and gnawing through my organs. But now it assaults me from the outside as well. Drenching me. Overtaking me.
Enebish once told me how they burned their dead in Verdenet—a crass, disrespectful tradition we eradicated as soon as the Southerners joined the Protected Territories—and I imagine this is how that must have felt. Except even worse, since I’m still alive.
“Where can I find the Kalima?” Kartok demands again.
“Finding them will do no good. Our powers cannot be suppressed or taken. You’d have to stop us from receiving power in the first place.”
I expect my declaration to deflate him. Infuriate him. Because it’s impossible. Our Kalima powers are born within us, like a heart or lungs. It’s not something that can be removed. But a slow grin spreads across Kartok’s face, chilling me so completely, for an instant I feel cold. Even with the hot-spring water dripping off my nose.
“Finally, Commander, you’ve said something useful,” he says, his eyes practically sparkling. Then he turns without another word and vanishes into the tunnel.
I lie in the puddle of hot-spring water, groaning and tossing, unsure what hurts most—the agonizing heat or my pride. The Zemyan has bested me at every turn. Made a complete and utter fool of me.
“Pathetic.” The Sky King’s voice pelts me like shrapnel.
“Nobody asked you!” I snap at him, sitting smugly on his throne. If I have to endure another day with his vengeful ghost, I’ll lose my mind.
“Haven’t you lost it already?”
“Get. Out. Of. My. Head.” I say every word like a threat, but that only makes him laugh harder.
“I can’t ‘get out’ of your head. I’m a projection from your own mind. A personification of your guilt. You’re not angry with me; you despise yourself. You failed yourself, Ghoa.”
I try to push up—I have to get out of here; I’ll fight my way out or die trying—but my arms are so weak, I barely manage to roll over. It isn’t far enough, but at least I don’t have to look at the Sky King anymore. Unfortunately, his poison is already in my head, under my skin. Every bit as painful as the hot-spring water.
