Night Spinner (Night Spinner #1) - Addie Thorley Page 0,38

imagine twining my fingers through his cloak and trailing my palm across his stubbled head.

A twig snaps outside my lean-to, jolting me back to reality. I clamber to my knees, listening for the crunch of footsteps.

Most likely it was river rats, scuttling through the bramble, or another refugee seeking shelter, but something inside me—perhaps my rekindling warrior instinct—compels me to check. Carefully, I collect the largest branch I can find, which is no wider than my finger but better than nothing, and I hold it like a saber as I inch out into the open.

I’m so busy scanning the trees, I trip over a small gray parcel sitting directly outside my shelter. My arm thumps to my side. I edge closer to the lump and poke it with my stick. To my relief, it doesn’t move. It appears to be a blanket—a neatly folded square of gray wool with a finely embroidered ram in the corner, head lowered as if to charge.

Who would leave this out in the snow?

They wouldn’t. It’s a trap.

I stare at the blanket for five full minutes. When no one materializes, I cautiously pick it up, waiting for someone to leap from the trees and ambush me. When they don’t, I wrap the wool around my shoulders and trip back inside my lean-to, choking on tears of gratitude. Maybe the Lady of the Sky heard my prayer at the shrine and sent this token. Or, more likely, one of the shepherds took pity on me. These forsaken refugees, who are freezing themselves, are still willing to help a stranger in need.

Their generosity feels like a boot crushing my windpipe.

I need to do something. Need to help. And I’m supposed to send Ghoa a missive anyway.

I rifle through my satchel until I find a quill and parchment, then I compose a letter: short, succinct, and, most important, holding Ghoa and the king blameless.

Dearest Sister,

I have arrived in Sagaan and secured shelter for the night. Though this was far more difficult than anticipated, as the city is horrendously overcrowded. The winter grazing lands are an icy wasteland, and there are scores of homeless shepherds. I’ve been told the Sun Stokers have been detained at the war front, however, I know you would never sanction such an order if you knew how acutely our people are suffering. I urge you to come at once and see the devastation.

Yours in obedience,

En

P.S. How is Serik? Has he weathered the worst of the abba’s wrath?

It takes an hour of coaxing and both remaining strips of goat meat to convince Orbai to deliver my message during the storm, but eventually she launches into the snowy sky, screeching her displeasure.

I burrow back into my nest of leaves and pull the blanket over my head. The cold and night continue to batter me like Zemyan arrows, but I wrap my arms around myself and compulsively rub the moonstone until my muscles grow slack and my eyes grow heavy, and the blessed darkness of sleep pulls me under.

CHAPTER NINE

MORNING DAWNS CRISP AND BRIGHT AND FAR TOO EARLY. Beams of sunlight stab my eyelids, and birdsong scrapes my ears like clashing blades. I sit up, clutching the crick in my neck and cursing the pounding in my skull. I’m soggy and shivering, but alive—thanks to the blanket.

Orbai is back. I can hear her up in the tree, clicking her beak and ruffling her feathers. She clearly hasn’t forgiven me. I unwrap two of the hard, tasteless barley cakes the monks consider a delicacy and choke one down. The other will be my peace offering.

I crawl from the lean-to, stomp down the drift of snow that collected in front of the boards during the night, and squint at the blinding sunlight reflecting off the fresh powder. It looks like piles of sugar and I scoop a handful into my mouth, pretending it tastes like sugar too. Unfortunately, it does little to wash away the sawdust taste of barley cake.

Orbai screeches down at me.

“I’m going to be groveling for days, aren’t I?” I say, holding the other cake aloft.

She lands on my shoulder, devours the disgusting lump as if it’s sweeter than a winterberry pie, and pokes around for more. That’s when I notice the roll of parchment lashed to her leg, the edges embossed in gold.

I untie and unfurl the letter in a rush, swiftly reading Ghoa’s tiny, precise handwriting:

Dearest Enebish,

I’m most pleased to hear you reached Sagaan safely. I understand your concern for the shepherds, especially given