Free Spirit Hunter by Katy Moran Page B

him to nothing.
    He would go to White Swan as soon as he could get away from the temple.
What will she say about this task of mine?
It was hard to know: his sister was good at keeping her true thoughts locked away, showing nothing to the world but her beautiful face.
It’s all anyone cares for, anyhow. No one cares what she actually thinks, save me.
    Swiftarrow sighed and looked down at his prisoner again. Mistress Orchid was right: she was not beautiful, lying there so thin and still. A strand of black hair had slipped across her face. He reached out to move it, but stopped himself, pulling back his hand.
    He whispered a curse.
Never again.
Never again would he carry out such a task, not even on the orders of the Empress herself.

14
Asena
Shaolin temple, Forbidden Garden
    L ast night, I awoke – to the rotting, foul reek of all wall-dwelling places. It was ever the same on the ride into Samarkand, but nothing can truly make you ready for the stench: the belly-churning body-waste of countless men, women and children, all flowing through the streets in a great river, the rotting food, unclean bodies, smoky cook-fires. I must be in a huge trading-place. But where? It isn’t Samarkand, for that city always smells faintly of pepper-oil, and here I understand none of the talk I’ve heard in snatches. Is it Bukhara? Constantinople even? But there is a strange slant to the light, a different taste in the air.
Where am I?
    I’ve been left alone in a small chamber. There are wooden shutters drawn across the window but I can push them open to look out over a courtyard, a sloped rooftop and, beyond that, a mass of trees. The shutters still hold the faint, spicy scent of cedarwood. Whoever holds me captive does not fear that I might escape. I am weaker than a day-old kit, lying here on this pile of soft quilts. My hip bones are sticking out, my legs thin as sticks, fingers nothing but bone. I ache all over, and my hands shake. My right shoulder hurts, and when I reach to touch it, the skin feels different here – rougher. A scar.
    And now I remember: I was wounded. Yet the wound has healed. A chill creeps down my back: when my uncle Taspar was shot in the leg three summers ago, the wound took nearly two moons to heal. Uncle Taspar. And I remember. My uncle is dead, the fault mine. Shemi is gone, and so have all the rest. Have I been captive for two whole moons? I have lost count of the days and nights, addled with herbs, helpless, unable to move. Whenever I close my eyes, I see my captor’s looking back at me – glittering green, almond-shaped. I led him to the Gathering. I thought he was good, my saviour; I was wrong. A wave of sickening anger rolls through me. But I cannot only blame him. I must also bear the burden of guilt for those who died: men, women, children – every last one.
    And all this time, I have been taken further away from Baba, if he is even still alive. Does he seek me along the Roads, asking in every trader-inn? I draw in a long breath. At the back of my mind are snatches of half-forgotten dreams: Mama hunched by the hearth, staring into the flames; Baba gazing into still water. We have been torn from each other but I will find them one day, I swear it now. I will kneel before them to offer my apology. It is worthless, but my duty all the same.
    I may be too weak to climb, but I must get out of this place somehow. There is a heavy wooden door, but these wall-dwellers have some magic that keeps it fast shut. When I first woke, I crouched by it, pushing. No matter how hard I shoved, the door would not move. I shouted, but nobody came.
    Yet I know there are people close by. I hear snatches of muffled talk, the clank of an earthenware pot being put down. This morning, when the chamber was filled with the grey light of dawn, the sound of chanting drifted from across the courtyard.
    Why have I been brought to this place? Do I wait for my death?
    I get to my feet and my whole body shrieks with pain. Leaning against