Night Spinner (Night Spinner #1) - Addie Thorley Page 0,80

But their wounds are even more grotesque in the light—the stench of infection and rot from the imperial encampment has followed us across the realms—and most are not Ashkarian. They are pale-skinned and red-haired Chotgori. Or dark and angular Southerners, like myself and Temujin. Or stalky marsh-dwellers with hair as yellow and coarse as cattails.

Once again, everything aligns with Temujin’s horrific claims.

“Can you help me with them?” Inkar asks. “I think they’ll find comfort in your continued presence. You know how intimidating this place is at first.”

I glance across the encampment toward the prison shack. I want to go straight to Serik. I upheld my end of the bargain. But Temujin has the key and he’s been swallowed up by the crowd. One of the new recruits stumbles into me while trying to lace her boots and lands hard on her injured leg.

“Are you okay?” I offer her a hand up.

She bites down hard on her lip and nods, but she clearly isn’t okay. None of them are.

I’m weary to my bones and hollowed out from using every morsel of my power, but I take half of the linens and help guide the recruits to the infirmary tent. I want to help. And I want answers even more.

We spend the next several hours cleansing wounds and fashioning bandages, learning the warriors’ names and listening to their stories.

Chuva, a girl my age, was sent with her battalion to cut off the Zemyans at the Usinsk Pass, armed with only slings and spears against their mounted soldiers and enchanted blades. “They cut us down in seconds. I only survived by falling to the ground and pretending to be dead. I smeared the blood of my best friend across my face,” she says, her eyes clouded and faraway.

“We haven’t had proper rations or clean water in months,” a boy named Hutu laments. “There are too many troops, too many mouths to feed. My brother was so weak, he could hardly stand, and when he went to the sick bay for help, they told him he’d been reassigned to a bloody battlefront. It wasn’t worth the resources to nurse him back to health, apparently.”

I try to listen to these tales with an air of skepticism; they are obviously deserters, so their memories could be biased. Perhaps the loyal warriors don’t feel the same?

But it’s hard to deny a truth that’s staring you in the face.

“I was ripped from my bed in the dead of night,” a Chotgori boy named Shai recalls with a shudder. “All of the children from my village were. The imperial warriors said it was our obligation and honor as new members of the Unified Empire, so they rounded us up and forced us to march thirty miles through blinding snow. Upon arrival, we were expected to go straight to battle. Without food or rest. They slapped a saber in my hand, even though I had never even seen one.”

“What about training camp?” I demand. “No warrior should see the battlefield for at least two years.”

Three boys across the tent laugh so hard that they cough, and Chuva purses her lips as if she feels sorry for me. “There isn’t time for training camp,” she says. “The Zemyans are advancing too swiftly. We were thrown at the battlefront like chaff, in the hopes that it would be enough to slow the Zemyans until the actual warriors arrive.”

My hands tremble as I wrap the last few bandages, and my head throbs as I amble out into the blinding light. How can the same king who saved an entire nation from drought send legions of children to be slaughtered? And how can Ghoa and the rest of the Kalima stand by and allow it?

I want to claw these thoughts from my head, but, like parasites, they’ve already burrowed too deep.

I’m desperate for the soft embrace of my bedroll, for time to think and rest and process, but I drag myself to Temujin’s tent to demand Serik’s freedom.

“I upheld my end of the bargain,” I say as I stoop through the door.

Temujin sits behind his desk with Chanar, Oyunna, and several others perched over his shoulder. They all stare down at a large, curling map, their faces grave, all traces of giddiness over the successful mission vanished. No one responds to my statement. They don’t even bother glancing up.

I step cautiously toward them, my mind prickling with panic. Did imperial scouts follow us back to the Ram’s Head? Did my starfire lash out after