he hasn’t been seen in months. An imperial governor sits on the throne of Verdenet.”
“What?” I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until the men whip around and scowl at me. I try to make my eyes wide and innocent, but the men scrunch their brows and shuffle away.
Later, when I’m peeling shriveled turnips with the other girls my age, I muster up the courage to ask, “Have any of you seen who delivers the rations? I’ve heard it’s a handsome boy with golden eyes.”
“If that’s the case, I wish he would deliver more than rations,” one of the girls blurts. Everyone howls with laughter, save two who exchange a quick glance. The same two who just so happen to have the same tiny ram embroidered on the underside of their shawls.
When one of them volunteers to do the scrubbing after supper, I choke down the rest of my bland stew and follow. We trudge to the river in silence, the pots rattling between us. I know I should try to lull her into a false sense of security and extract my information, but before the dishes can even hit the water I blurt, “The rations are from Temujin, aren’t they?”
“I’m not sure,” the girl says, keeping her eyes on the river. “Every few days the gongs sound and the bags simply appear. As if they rained down from the sky.”
As if they rained down from the sky.
Just like Temujin and his comrades when they rescued me during Qusbegi.
Heart thudding, I lean closer. She smells of sweat and horse manure, but I don’t crinkle my nose. I know for a fact that I don’t smell any better. “He told me to find him. Where should I look?”
“If you’re looking for someone, perhaps you should consult the Bone Reader. I hear she has a knack for uniting people. Her shop is on the southeast corner of Diylar Square.”
I shoot to my feet and squint in the direction of the marketplace. Bone reading is an old outlawed practice from Verdenet. An ancient method of conversing with the First Gods that I haven’t witnessed since my grandmother died when I was six. A tingling sensation courses through my limbs. The same bone-deep rightness I feel when praying to the Lady of the Sky or singing my mother’s old tribal songs.
“Go,” the girl urges. “I can manage the dishes.”
The marketplace at Diylar Square is located between the slums of Sagaan and the winter grazing lands. To say the neighborhood is rough would be akin to calling the great freeze merely cold, and this sector is even dodgier than the rest. As soon as I slip into the maze of tattered tents, the pungent smell of hashish burns my nose and shouts erupt from a gaming hut. Pulling my hood low, I speed past a spice shop that clearly specializes in poisons and an armory offering a large selection of Zemyan blades and spears, all of which are illegal in Ashkar due to their wicked magical properties.
There are a handful of tales of Ashkarian warriors who attempted to wield Zemyan blades in battle, doubting the rumors that the steel was tainted with magic. In the most gruesome story, a warrior swung his sword at a charging Zemyan, but the blade retracted and burst through the opposite end of the hilt, impaling the foolish man through the heart.
I shoot the arms dealer a disapproving look, glad Serik isn’t here to see this reminder of his father, and hurry to the Bone Reader’s stall. It’s a crooked little hut covered with a conglomeration of exotic furs—snow leopard and grizzly and fox. Swells of sage and pinion incense pour through the door flap, tickling my nose.
Orbai settles on a tent across the aisle—she’s never been one for small, dark spaces—and I feel her eyes on my back as I duck inside. Dripping tallow candles balance on tables and crates, and a fire crackles in the center of the space. Behind the fire sits a petite, wrinkled woman with a shock of dark hair. Her legs are crossed beneath her and her hands are busy prodding the coals with a poker. The heat is thick and oppressive.
“Are you the Bone Reader?” For some reason I feel compelled to whisper.
“That depends who’s asking.”
“My name is En—” I mash my lips together at the last second. I cannot blow my cover in case the Bone Reader isn’t in league with Temujin and his Shoniin. “En-Eniira,” I stutter. “My name is Eniira.”
It could