With a nod of agreement, the shepherds fall in behind Serik, splashing frantically through the muck. I follow, my steps slow and stumbling, made worse by the hot tears pulsing in my eyes.
Why would Yatindra and Ziva do this now? When we were finally unified?
“Did you hear that?” Serik slams to a halt, causing the shepherds behind him to collide.
“The only thing I hear is my brain rattling around in my skull,” Lalyne grumbles.
Serik holds up his hand. “Shhhh!”
I have a hard time believing he can hear anything over the shepherds’ hysterical moans, but then he turns and plunges into the nearest thicket. We follow, stopping every few minutes while he listens and readjusts course. To my astonishment, the sound of far-off bleating grows steadily louder until we reach a small clearing. Unlike the saw-grass clearing, where the flocks graze, this field is made of mud, and long, twisting plants undulate on top of the water like snakes. Shadows move on the far side of the meadow. Most of the group freezes or scrambles backward, but Serik snatches a bucket of feed from the nearest shepherd and shakes it while clucking his tongue.
A tiny black lamb stumbles into view through the murk and trots happily toward the feed bucket. The shepherds weep and hug as they call for the rest of the herd. But as more sheep emerge from the trees, the threads of darkness resting in my fist pull taut, flailing and lashing like a banner in a windstorm.
A second later blackness engulfs the marshlands.
“Enebish!” Serik roars, trying, and failing, to summon an orb of light.
“It isn’t me!” I insist.
“What do you mean it isn’t you?”
“I didn’t blacken the sky!” My fingers tremble as I attempt to reel in the darkness, but the threads pull back, more stubborn than an ornery camel.
Ziva isn’t strong enough to hold the night with such a firm grip, which can only mean one thing: It isn’t Ziva’s darkness. It’s mine—the darkness Kartok stole in thexanav.
I wind the smoky shadows around my palm faster. Faster. Heart pulsing in my throat as my vision sharpens, revealing a hunter far deadlier than a reed panther or an alligator. A wolf, hidden among the sheep.
Temujin strides into the clearing, flanked by a pack of Shoniin, wearing a predatory smile on his lips.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GHOA
WHENKARTOK RETURNS TO THE THRONE ROOM THE FOLLOWINGday, I’m ready—crouched at the far end of the hall, barricaded behind the pile of smashed chairs like a frightened animal.
He methodically scans the room, and when his eyes alight on me, my teeth automatically clench. I cower lower and gag on the putrid taste of hot-spring water rising up my throat like vomit—my body reminding me to stay as far from him as possible. I’d be disgusted with myself if the response weren’t useful. And calculated.
When a dog sees a frightened cat, they can’t help but chase it. They’re too gripped by the scent of fear, and the thrill of the hunt, to consider where the cat might lead them.
And whether it has claws.
“Retreating so soon, Commander?” Kartok laughs. It’s exactly what I would do if our roles were reversed and I had him trapped in an Ashkarian prison cell, cowering and pissing himself in the corner. We’re alike, the generál and I. A fact that would rattle me—if I let it. But I choose to lean into it. To sink into his mind like a thief and steal the upper hand.
He weaves through the mess of broken wood, gliding toward me like the specters he conjures. The little copper discs sewn into the hem of his cobalt robe tinkle as he stalks nearer. My nerves jangle with them.
“Surely you can put up a better fight than this?” he jeers.
I say nothing and hunker lower. Vibrating with readiness. Gathering up the cold and channeling it into my fists.
Thanks to Hadassah’s ministrations, I feel better than I have since leaving Sagaan. Which is a boon—it would have taken months for my body to recover on its own. But when I let myself think too much about her magic swirling around inside me, defiling me, my skin pinches like ill-fitting armor.
I don’t like it, but my body must be strong to wield my power.
That’s why the ice dagger I threw at Kartok that first day vanished. And why the bursts of frost I’ve managed to summon melt so quickly. My power has been slowly rebuilding, but my body has been too weak to wield it properly. It’s the only logical explanation. The Zemyan would never be able to manipulate my ice at its full strength. Or even half strength—which I’m inching toward now. Last night I jolted from the depths of sleep to a glorious crackling in my joints—like the song of a slow-moving glacier.
And Kartok is completely unaware.
He stops directly in front of me and peers through the barricade of broken chairs like a fox staring into a rabbit warren. I want to pounce immediately and unleash my fury. Punish him for every gasp of pain he’s caused. But I must wait for the perfect moment. When I’m in a position to inflict the most damage.
