Sky Breaker (Night Spinner Duology) Addie Thorley (best english books to read for beginners .TXT) 📖

have never been so adamant. But then I’ve also never been on the run with a Zemyan prince.

Of course my subconscious is screaming.

I take three deep breaths and crack my neck from side to side. “Fine. Do it.” I hold out my arms and squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to see the color leach from my skin. I don’t want to feel my bones fracture and reform.

Ivandar’s hand passes over me, and I brace for the bone-wrenching pain of the hot-spring water, for fire to ignite in my belly and melt what little of my power has returned. But I feel tingling instead. A slow, steady trickle that seeps into my bones and gently expands. Almost like water transforming into ice.

“Oh!” I gasp as coolness floods me.

“Not what you expected?” Ivandar asks with a bemused chuckle.

Ignoring him, I open my eyes and survey my body. My tanned, muscular arms are thinner and paler. My legs feel withered and wobbly inside scratchy wool tights. In place of my shredded tunic, I’m wearing a brown messenger’s uniform, like Ivandar’s, and platinum hair pokes out from my cap.

“How is this possible?”

Ivandar clutches his chest. “The commander of the Kalima warriors wants to learn about our magic?”

“I want to ensure it isn’t permanent.”

“Why? Zemyan skin suits you.”

I swat at the prince, but he catches my wrist and turns my hand over. His finger traces up the inside of my forearm, following the vivid blue veins beneath this skin. “It’s like a coat,” he explains as the illusion bunches up toward my elbows, revealing my freckled complexion beneath. “I rearrange the weave of the world, bending the colors and textures to conceal what I want to hide and create what I want to be seen instead. Satisfied?” The sleeve of Zemyan skin falls back into place.

I nod numbly, holding my arms away from my body as I follow him around the bend. As if I can somehow keep from touching myself.

“Stop walking like that,” Ivandar barks back at me. “And don’t say anything. Your Zemyan is terrible.”

“I’ve never spoken a word of Zemyan!”

“Exactly.”

I have an overwhelming desire to snatch a rock from the path and throw it at the back of his head. “Not because I couldn’t, but because I have no interest in speaking your barbaric language.”

“You always have to have the final word, don’t you?” He shakes his head as he collects a handful of sticks, which he transforms into scrolls stamped with the royal seal. He shoves a few into my arms, then tucks the rest against his side.

When we reach the sentries guarding the gates, Ivandar says something in a high, pre-pubescent voice and waves a scroll excitedly. The sentries admit us with a bored sweep of their blades.

The inside of the mountainside city is just as impressive as its façade. Colorful drapes hang from the open-air storefronts, connecting one shop to the next, and carts with pretty offerings—from amber resin pendants to sea-salt foot scrubs—trundle past. I sit on a bench in a shadowed corner of a plaza while Ivandar goes to collect supplies for the rest of our journey.

I watch a girl selling fresh goat’s milk and a group of boys playing with a small silver ball and hoops. When one of the boys overshoots the target, the ball lands in the bucket of goat’s milk, drenching the girl. She bursts into tears as the boys laugh and point, but I only hear a single sob before there’s a flash of movement and the girl and bucket vanish. I watch the empty space, skin crawling to think what’s being done to her now, behind the cloak of magic. But when she reappears several minutes later, her tears are dried, a colorful shawl covers her soiled dress, and an old woman offers her a piece of candy before walking off.

While I gape, a man holding a fussy baby crosses the square, conjuring tiny fireworks over the infant’s head and making silly faces.

It seems so ridiculous now, but I have only seen Zemyans at the war front—or in Karekemish, calling for my execution. It never occurred to me that they would live in normal cities and do normal things like sell food and jewelry and chat with friends. That they would calm their babies and console crying children. If I closed my eyes, I’d almost think I was in Sagaan—without the abhorrent magic, of course.

“You look perplexed,” Ivandar says, walking up with a full satchel slung over his shoulder. “Ready to go?”

I say nothing. I don’t remember how to form words. At least not coherent ones. The thoughts jumbling around my brain are disturbing. And ludicrous.

“Let me guess … You’re disappointed to discover we don’t spend our days weaving deception and eating raw meat and sacrificing Ashkarian virgins?” he asks with a goading smile.

“Something like that,” I mumble as we descend from plateau to plateau. A headache is drilling into the center of my forehead and this irritating Zemyan skin is too tight. That’s why I feel like I’m suffocating.

I need it off.

I need out of this godforsaken country.

I need to reach the Kalima as quickly as possible and reclaim my title. Regain my footing. And re-center my mind.

Which means it’s time to speed this deception along.

“I wasn’t completely honest with you about the stone mounds,” I say as soon as we’re alone on a dirt path, cutting through fields that look to be weeds, but who knows—maybe they’re bursting with fruit more abundant than the vineyards of Ashkar and this is all an illusion. The reality the Zemyans want me to see.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to decipher what’s real and what isn’t when nothing feels real. I was abandoned by the Kalima and tortured by Zemyan magic. I am traveling with Danashti’s heir and currently wearing Zemyan skin.

Ivandar slams to a halt and towers over me, somehow still intimidating despite his pig-nosed disguise. “What do you mean you weren’t honest?”

“I didn’t lie,” I quickly explain. “Kartok