My ribs expand, as if a suffocating cord has been severed, and the gasp of air that fills my lungs feels almost like relief. Except that’s absurd. In order to feel relief, I would have to care about Enebish. And I don’t. I stopped caring when she chose that deserter over me. Again and again and again.
While my mind grapples for footing in this new, unsteady terrain, Kartok returns to his chair and flips through the ancient book, humming to himself.
Humming!
“Whose book is that?” I demand, eyeing it with growing unease.
Kartok grins. “Zemya had so many thoughts after she was unjustly banished from the Lady and Father’s presence. So many interesting theories and strategies. Plans to make her parents and brother pay for the harm they’d caused. She was quite brilliant, you know. And she could be quite vengeful, too.” He licks his finger and turns another page. “With good reason. But the timing wasn’t right, then, to wage war against the Lady and Father.”
“But it is now?” I shout.
“Careful, Commander. It almost sounds as if you’re scared. As if you believe …”
“I believe that you’re wicked and depraved.”
“For wanting to right centuries of persecution and injustice? For mistrusting powerful people who consider themselves gods? For wanting to restore the balance of power so all have an equal opportunity? Yes, that’s the height of depravity.”
I clench my hair, which would be hard with frost if a morsel of my power remained. “Stop twisting the truth to make yourself out to be a hero!”
“Stopdenyingthe truth and accept that you’re not a hero either. You never have been.”
I need to stay calm. If I let him drive me to hysterics, he wins. But my head has never ached this badly. My brain feels seconds away from exploding. “I never asked for power!” I finally erupt. “It was given to me. For a reason. And you’re jealous. Your people have always been jealous. That’s the entire genesis of this war.”
“No. The genesis of the war is fear. Zemya discovered something unexpected and powerful, but instead of embracing her innovation and achievement, the foolish Ashkarian gods despised it because they couldn’t control it. They tried to squash it rather than understand it.”
“So you plan to repay us by instilling fear? By striking back cut for cut?”
Kartok shakes his head and turns another page of the book. “You’re so narrow-minded. I couldn’t care less about Ashkar. I plan to exalt my goddess and promote the reign of my empress, both of which will be much easier once … Ah, here we are. I knew Zemya would provide another way. Tell me, Commander, how many disparate powers do the Kalima warriors possess?”
My brows crumple. Why in the sacred name of the Sky King would he care about the distribution of power within the Kalima? “Shouldn’t you know? If you’ve spent your whole life fighting us?”
“How many?” he demands. “And how are they distributed throughout the battalion?”
“There isn’t a weak link among us, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Your warriorsarethe link!” Kartok roars, slamming the book. “I’ve never met anyone so infuriating. Your comrades’ decision to abandon you makes more sense every minute.” He pulls the long, curved blade from his robes and advances toward me.
I stiffen—I don’t know if the weapon is real or an illusion—but I don’t retreat. I refuse to retreat. “You’re finally going to kill me?”
“If you’re not going to be helpful, I see no reason not to.”
In less time than it takes to draw breath, Kartok is on top of me—the sleeves of his blue robe swirling, his knife flashing. It skims across my throat, the line so thin and delicate that I think he only nicked me. Then I feel the warm curtain of blood pour down my chest. I gargle and gag as pain consumes me. My eyes bulge beyond their limit, turning everything white. It’s oddly peaceful. Like an untouched field of snow.
Death.I pluck the word from my gasping, oxygen-starved brain, and for half a second I wonder if this might be preferable. I won’t have to live in a world without the Sky King. I won’t have to bear the disappointment and ridicule. Or be subject to Zemyans.
The pain ratchets higher. The whiteness blares brighter. But as I swallow my last, rasping breath, the agony abruptly vanishes. So does the glaring whiteness. I’m enfolded in a gentle embrace, like the soft, restful swaying of a hammock. Free from even the remembrance of pain. I feel lighter than I have in years. Since my childhood. Before my Kalima power presented.
My lashes part and I peer through the bleariness, trying to make out the details of my final resting place—this next phase of my existence. But I can’t see anything through a cloud of swirling purple smoke. When I try to speak, I choke on a metallic, bitter tang—like corroding steel and wet earth.
My pulse flutters faster, and I wave my hands to clear the haze. I never gave much thought to the afterlife, but I always assumed it would be better than this. I was the highest-ranking commander in the Imperial Army, for skies’ sake!
Until they rejected you.
I wave my arms more frantically, and my fingertips brush something warm. Something smooth and soft—like flesh. I scream as Kartok’s grizzled face materializes through the smoke, less than a hand’s breadth from mine.
“Welcome back, Commander,” he says.
I scream again. “What happened? I don’t understand…. Am I dead?”
