Night Spinner (Night Spinner #1) - Addie Thorley Page 0,35

buds of spring, breaking through the frosty soil.

My body knew what to do. I was ready to defend myself.

“Don’t you see? It was a sign!” I call to Orbai. “Sent from the Goddess Herself. Proof that I can do this.”

I retrieve my staff, grip it like a saber, and swing it through the air in patterns I practiced so many times, I could repeat them in my sleep. My motions are slower than before, and I make a mess of the footwork, but it feels so good and right, my elation overshadows the pain.

“I am still a warrior.” My voice is barely a whisper, and the statement sounds more like a question, but I repeat it again and again, hoping if I say it enough, it will somehow be true.

The sun warms my cheeks, making the hairs prickle down my arms, and my foolish, hopeful heart can’t help but take it as a sign: the Lady of the Sky agrees.

Latching onto that flicker of confidence, I continue down the trail toward the serrated skyline of Sagaan. The colorful rooftops flash silver and rose and cobalt in the sun, like a chest of jewels splayed open along the riverbank. A glittering oasis surrounded by an endless expanse of prairie. Ashkar has always been a nation of nomadic herders, making cities largely unnecessary. Sagaan was the first settlement, founded by Miigrath to defend against the Zemyans, and it has remained the beating heart of the empire for nearly two hundred years. Even at the farthest reaches of the Protected Territories, orders and customs and instructions pump first through Sagaan. Making it the ideal location for criminals like Temujin to wreak havoc.

“Where are you hiding?” I whisper to the distant smear of smoke.

By the time I reach the outskirts of the city, I’m even more exhausted than the time the Kalima marched twenty miles through thigh-deep snow to secure the fort at Golyn. My muscles howl as if I’m dragging a fully loaded oxcart, and because I had to stop to rest my leg so many times, the last traces of daylight are swiftly vanishing into twilight mist.

The tendrils of night swoop and dive at me like hunting bats. They pulse against my skin with the steady pressure of a beating heart.

You need us. You want us. Reach out.

I slit my eyes, clutch my bad arm to my chest, and trudge down the mud-ravaged streets. Most people are already indoors, taking their evening meal, and only a few stragglers bustle down the road, hoods drawn against the cold. The inns and taverns lining the main thoroughfare belch inviting chimney smoke and laughter, but Ghoa’s right: I cannot show my scarred face anywhere so public. And the braziers that light the entryways to mark vacancy are darkened anyway. After a quick glance around, I make my way over to Salkhi, a poor residential district comprised of single-story row houses.

The tiny brown buildings are smashed together like a mouthful of crooked teeth, and herds of sheep crowd the muddy roads. Goats and oxen are tied to nearly every fence post, ripping up what’s left of the dying grass. A large portion of Ashkarians still make their living herding sheep and cattle across the grasslands and must constantly chase the fertile fields. Which means they depend heavily on the hospitality of city-dwellers to survive the lean winter months. The arrangement benefits the city-dwellers, too, as they need the wool and meat the shepherds provide. As such, it’s an unspoken agreement that every household welcomes travelers with open arms, feeding them their finest cut of meat and sharing in a shot of vorkhi.

“I’m not so different from a merchant or a shepherd,” I say to Orbai. “A simple servant of the empire.” Orbai shifts nervously on my shoulder. She’s right. I’m far more threatening than the average traveler. If the night wriggled in through a crack in the window, I could endanger my hosts. Or they could easily notice my traitor’s mark. Unfortunately, it’s so cold, shelves of ice float down the Amereti and frostbite nibbles my nose. Not a night to sleep outdoors.

The hour is late and the majority of the houses are dark, but I take a breath for courage, arrange my hood and scarf over my scars, and call out a greeting to the first door I come upon.

A candle flickers to life behind the waxed-paper windows and hushed whispers argue back and forth behind the thin walls. At last, footsteps pad to the