Night Spinner (Night Spinner #1) - Addie Thorley Page 0,26

over and over again.

Temujin. Temujin. Temujin.

Clearly, the boy is someone famous—or infamous, judging by the curses flying from the king’s lips—but I raise a feeble cheer because he freed me from the zurig. And his hands were so gentle, his words so kind. I haven’t a clue why he and his friends risked their lives to help me, but they did, and it must mean something.

I need it to mean something.

I’m still smiling dazedly at the rooftop when Varren grips my bad arm—on purpose—and tugs me to my feet. He’s glaring with so much loathing, like this is somehow my fault.

Like he thinks I’m in league with the strangers.

A boulder of ice settles in my gut. My breath comes out in a wheeze. “It isn’t what you think!” But he wrenches my arms behind my back and drags me across the landing.

Toward Ghoa and the king.

CHAPTER SIX

“P-PLEASE!” I STAMMER. “I DON’T KNOW THEM. I DIDN’T ask—”

“Swallow your lies. I saw your traitorous smile.” Varren tries to force me to the ground at the king’s feet, but the king grabs my bicep and flings me backward.

“Get her out of my sight!”

With a shriek, I tumble halfway down the flight of stairs and land splayed up to the heavens.

“Take her back to Ikh Zuree and question her!” the king roars. He shoves a slack-jawed Varren aside and cuts across the landing. Ghoa trails him like a whipped dog.

Choking on grateful tears, I let my head fall back and thank the Lady of the Sky for this second miracle, even as Varren and several other members of the Kalima bind my wrists and ankles and stuff me into the eagle cart.

We are a somber, silent bunch, trekking across the grasslands in the violet-stained twilight. Our retinue has more than doubled since our journey into Sagaan. Instead of Serik and me, the eagles and the open road, Ghoa now escorts us along with Varren and three members of the king’s personal guard, who watch Ghoa with narrowed eyes. She, of course, pretends not to be bothered by their presence, but tiny icicles drip from her horse’s reins. The king’s guards never accompany the Kalima—they’ve never needed to. Ghoa has always been beyond reproach.

My stomach churns with sickness. My sister values her position and honor above all else, and I have put both in jeopardy.

I stare down at the beautiful feather bracelet and memories bombard me: Ghoa’s encouraging face leaning over the railing of the wrestling pits, urging me to duck lower and punch harder; the magnanimous way she allowed me to take credit when we raided a Zemyan supply caravan and returned with a wagonload of dried meat; and the furious speed with which she careened across the battlefield and carried me to safety when an arrow pierced my thigh in the Battle of the Swirling Sands.

How many times has she lifted me, protected me?

How many times have I failed her in return?

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but it’s lost in the rattle of the cart. I clear my throat to try again, but a rush of frigid air sets fire to my lungs.

Ghoa clearly isn’t ready to talk. Her hair is as white as fresh snow and her lips glow blue in the rising moonlight. But worst of all are her vacant, downcast eyes.

The ache in my chest sharpens to a point. I will never disobey again. I will never leave the monastery—or even ask for such a favor. There’s nothing out there for me. I know that now. The people of Ashkar fear and loathe me. Their terrible insults still wriggle beneath my skin, pricking and biting:

Monster. Beast. Murderer.

That’s all they’ll ever think of me.

Except for my saviors in gray.

Who were they? The warriors clearly know. They whisper and exchange furtive looks. I press my ear against the side of the cart, but their voices are muffled by the horses’ hooves, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I am going to hide in the monastery, tend to the eagles, and fade into the background until the people of Ashkar, and more important, the king, have no recollection of the dangerous girl who ruined the Qusbegi Festival.

Which means I will never know the truth about my mysterious heroes.

As we rumble down the path, the sky grows ever darker—a midnight bruise overtaking the fuchsia clouds. Right on cue, the whorls of night skitter down from overhanging branches. They slither through the tall grass and curl around my dangling ankles, but for once, I kick them away