A Sky Beyond the Storm (An Ember in the Ashes #4) - Sabaa Tahir Page 0,60

Only Mask Novius, riding beside me, jerks his head up as she leaves. A muscle pops on his jaw as he strains against the jinn woman’s control.

I watch him surreptitiously. His mask gleams in the dreary winter sunlight, and though he stares straight ahead, I sense he is aware of my every move.

Rehmat will not or cannot help me. I have no magic. I tried to contact Darin—to no avail. We travel at unnatural speeds. If I do not act soon, I will be in Aish—and the Nightbringer’s hands—by nightfall tomorrow. Skies only know what he will do with me. Not kill me, perhaps. But there are things worse than death. My mother’s fate as the Commandant’s slave taught me that.

Far ahead, the jinn is a distant silhouette on the horizon. With utmost care, I rest my left palm where Novius can see it.

Help, I trace slowly. I have a plan.

A minute passes. Then another. You will not set her free or aid in her escape. He cannot break free of the jinn. Perhaps I was a fool to think that any of us could.

After a few minutes, though, I hear a strange sound. Like a roar through a mouth with a hand held over it.

Novius looks at me now, fury etched into every crag of his face. I realize that it is he who has made the sound. That he has broken free, at least a little bit, from the jinn’s control.

Quite suddenly, he drives his horse into mine. If I could, I would cry out. My mount stumbles, throwing its head back in agitation, lifting its front legs. I grab for the pommel, but it slips out of my fingers. My back meets the desert floor with such force that I nearly bite through my tongue.

The Mask might hate being controlled, but he’s a Martial, through and through. I glare at him and he meets my gaze with that same barely quelled rage. He dismounts, grabs me by my bound arms, and shoves me toward my horse.

In the distance, the jinn wheels her steed around and gallops back toward us.

“What is this?” Her beast whinnies in complaint as she yanks him to a halt. “What happened?” She looks at me. “Speak, girl! And you will not deceive me.”

“I—I fell off my horse.”

“Why did you fall off your horse? Was it on purpose? A distraction? Tell the truth!”

“Not on purpose,” I say honestly. “I lost my balance.” Unwillingly, I glance over at the Mask. The jinn narrows her eyes.

“Did Novius speak to you? Are you two planning something?”

“No,” I say, thanking the skies that the Mask’s muffled bellow could hardly be called speech.

The jinn observes me for long moments before turning away. Novius helps me back onto my horse, and the jinn rides ahead again, remaining close enough that I cannot write a message to Novius.

But far enough that I can hide the scroll he slipped me into my sleeve.

* * *

«««

I do not get a chance to read the scroll that night—the jinn watches too closely. The next morning, a powerful, dry gale churns up a dust storm. The jinn urges the horses onward, until visibility is so poor that they groan and snort. She forces them toward an outcropping of rock, where we settle down to wait. An hour later, with the sun a rusty disk overhead, the sandstorm has not abated.

The jinn appears wan, almost sickly as she crouches beside a boulder. The rest of the soldiers stand beside their horses, unnaturally still, like Mariner windup dolls frozen in place.

As the wind blasts us, the jinn’s blazing eyes remain fixed on me. I distract myself by thinking of the last time I traveled this desert. Izzi was still alive. It’s been so long since I thought about my friend—her gentle manner and quiet rebellion. The way she loved Cook like a mother. She was another sister, even if not by blood.

I miss her.

“Girl.” The jinn woman’s voice brings me back to my predicament. “You’ve walked these lands before. How long do these storms last? Speak.”

“A few hours at most.” My voice is a croak. “We’ll need to clean the horses’ eyes before setting off again. Or they’ll go sand-blind.”

The jinn nods, but does not silence me again. Perhaps she is too tired from so many days of using her power on us. Or perhaps, as Novius suggested, she is at her weakest.

To my relief, she stops staring at me and rises to walk among the soldiers.