Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) by Addie Thorley (best beach reads .txt) 📗

pouts. “But I made it especially for you. I want you to be comfortable.”

“Get your poisonous magic out of my head!” I roar. “Where am I really? What is this place?”

There are no cells. No bars of any kind. No hot pokers or instruments of torture. The lack of anything expected makes my skin prickle with unease.

None of this is possible. None of this is right.

I whirl around and dive behind a cluster of chairs where the Council of Elders usually sits. I know furniture won’t shield me from Kartok’s illusions, since the chairs themselves are an illusion, but I don’t know what else to do, so I let my instincts and training take over. Find cover, make a plan, counterattack.

The manacles make it difficult, but I twist my hands around the side of my body and curl my fingers into a fist. Under normal circumstances, my ice would chisel a saber into existence as soon as I imagined it. But the glacier that usually resides in my chest is still the size of a pebble. Sweat slathers my skin as I extract drop after pitiful drop of cold.

I shouldn’t have bothered.

The dagger that eventually crystalizes in my hand is the size of a paring knife. And so dull it could barely slice through butter. I throw it at Kartok’s head anyway, screaming with frustration.

It flies true—my aim, at least, unaffected by my depleted power—but instead of slamming into his chest, the dagger passes through him. Or maybe it disappeared altogether. I can’t tell. All I know is, it’s gone. Without a sound or trace of blood.

Kartok should be screaming in agony, but the only cry in this eerie replica of the throne room comes from me.

And it sounds like a whimper.

CHAPTER TEN

ENEBISH

ZIVA RETURNS TO THE CARAVAN WEARING A TRIUMPHANT smile. “They’ve agreed to give us shelter!”

The Namagaan woman following her looks considerably less pleased. Though, I don’t know if that’s due to the harsh black makeup she’s wearing across both brows, making her look eternally perturbed, or the explosion of cheers and shouts from the shepherds, who raise their hands and collapse into tearful hugs.

My lips pull into a frown because this is not how a group of people who would make formidable allies should react. The Namagaan woman takes note. She’s clearly a soldier—tall and muscular in her wood-plated armor, topped with an orange cloak covered in jeweled emblems. Her yellow hair falls in long tufted strands that look like cattails—the traditional Namagaan style—and her skin is as rough and lined as the trees they live in. All Namagaans look as craggy as bark, no matter their age. It’s beautiful in a hard, intimidating way.

Her eyes flick over our motley group. “So many of you. How lovely,” she says, but her teeth grind the words. “Follow me.”

Another root pathway rises out of the muck and she leads us to one of the behemoth trees. She presses her palm to the trunk, and a panel slides open, revealing a spiral staircase that twists up to the canopy. The shepherds rush in like floodwater and race to the top, dripping all the way. My bad leg slips and twists painfully on the wet stairs.

By the time I finally reach the platform, the Namagaan warrior has been joined by a sizeable contingent of soldiers, all of whom study us with thinly veiled contempt. They haven’t brandished weapons, but their fingers hover at the ready.

Our group is so large, we fill the entire platform and spill down several of the interconnecting rope bridges. Serik is on the opposite side of the crowd, and when his gaze finds mine, I try to muster an encouraging grin. Though, it’s difficult to look past the squawking shepherds and bleating animals and the soldiers’ deepening scowls. The tension is as thick as the muggy swamp air.

When someone screams, I’m certain the Namagaan soldiers have lost their patience and are tossing us over the rope railings, but then a golden-skinned woman from my own country shoves through the crowd and flies across the platform.

“Zivana?”

“Auntie!” Ziva melts to the boards, reminding me, suddenly, that she’s only thirteen. It makes my insides squirm. Perhaps I’ve been slightly hard on the girl.

The woman throws her arms around Ziva and they collapse into a tangle of limbs, laughing and crying as she smooths the curls away from Ziva’s face. I can’t bear to watch. Because that’s how familial love should look. That is the bond an aunt or mother or sister should share. Unbridled tenderness. Complete trust. They would never betray each other.

“What in the skies happened?” Ziva’s aunt asks. I’d place her somewhere near Ghoa’s age, though it’s hard to tell, as her face has been painted to look as rough as the Namagaans’. It’s strange to see someone from Verdenet dressed in the style of the marsh people—her dark hair bound like reeds, thick black makeup joining her brows, and a vibrant crimson dress that wraps and ties across her middle.

I try to imagine being sent to live in an entirely different country, so foreign from your own. A moment passes before I realize that’s exactly what I did. I learned to live in Ashkar. Learned to dress and speak and fight like them, almost to the point of forgetting my roots. I wonder if it’s the same for Ziva’s aunt. If she considers herself fully Namagaan now. Or if she misses Verdenet and cares what becomes of it. Does she even know her brother’s been removed from the throne? King Minoak has only been a figurehead since relinquishing his sovereignty twenty years ago when Verdenet became a Protected Territory. But he was at least allowed to keep up pretenses and tradition. Until now.

“We were attacked!” Ziva’s voice wobbles and she speaks in fast, gasping breaths. “An assassin tried to kill Papa. We escaped the palace, but he was gravely injured. I tried to dress his wounds and nurse him to health, but we were alone in the desert