Fray

by Rowenna Miller

  The other sisters and the one brother who had joined us drew closer and Tantia explained what had happened. “We practice,” she announced.

  I nodded, overwhelmed by their near-accidental discovery. Surely a mother held her daughter’s hand while teaching her to cast. But perhaps the process of learning was so different in adults that we noticed the effects more, realized that they were amplifying and not only teaching or steadying one another. More research. In Kvys. I sighed.

  I fled to my room, the only place I was ever alone in the compound. It was clean and bright and spare, with pale wood furniture carved in woodland animals and starbursts on the posts and rails. White linen and cherry-red wool covered the bed. A Kvys prayer book and hymnal lay on a shelf over the window. I didn’t understand more than a few words of the written language.

  A light scratch on the door, and a dark gray paw shot under the slim crack. Its black claws searched for purchase.

  “Kyshi.” I sighed, and opened the door. The dark gray squirrel scurried into the room. A thin circlet of hammered brass around his neck glinted as he clambered up my bedspread and began to nose around my pillow as though I might have hidden a trove of nuts under the coverlet.

  I opened my trunk and produced my secret larder—a handful of cracked chestnuts. “These are mine, little thief,” I chided him. He burrowed under my hand and swiped a nut. “Don’t take all my good chestnuts. They’re almost fresh.”

  His sharp teeth made quick work of what was left of the shell, his nimble paws turning the nut over and around as he chewed. He had been abandoned in his drey and hand-raised by Sastra Dyrka, who worked in the kitchens, where he had developed an astute palate for nuts of all kinds, as well as pastries, sugared fruits, and ham. Now he was a communal pet and quite nearly a mascot for the order.

  He settled onto my lap after his snack. I stroked his fur, rich and warm as the finest wool. I wanted to bury my fingers in his thick tail, but he chattered disapprovingly every time I tried.

  I felt useless. I thought of a time that felt further ago than a single year, when my brother was staying out late in the taverns and drumming up support for change, before Pyord solidified their plans with money and centralized violence. Before I had realized I couldn’t escape the questions that nagged my brother, before I understood that, for all I had built with long hours and tiring work, it was on a cracked and crumbling foundation. I had resisted participating then, had rebuked my brother for even asking. Now I craved action. Picking berries, petting the squirrel, teaching novice charm casters—it all felt unimportant, artificial and distant.

  My place was with Galitha. My place was fighting for a better country, a better world for my neighbors and my friends and thousands of people I didn’t know.

  Kyshi started as the door opened, darted up my shoulder, and settled against my neck. “Alba.” I acknowledged her as she entered.

  “The Fenians are quite amenable to our terms,” she said. “Ah, I do like having a freshly inked contract in hand.”

  “It’s done!” I sat upright, dislodging Kyshi, who protested with a profane squirrel screech and his claws in my hair.

  “Cannon barrels. Three-, six-, and twelve-pound guns. In the proportions Sianh recommended.”

  “Mostly sixes,” I recalled.

  “He felt they would be more maneuverable than the heavy pieces.” Alba smiled. “And of course we will oversee the process for at least a portion of the run, on site at the Fenian foundry.”

  “Of course,” I said. I chewed my lip. I still had to figure out if I could charm molten metal, and whether or not it was even a wise idea. I wished I had Sianh nearby, to explain the use and limitations of the iron guns, to discover how best magic might exploit them—or curb their shortcomings.

  “We’ll finish talks with the mill owners and the ship builders and then—Fen!” She grinned. “You look less than pleased.”

  “I’m just tired,” I lied. “And I admit, I’m a bit nervous about Fen.” That, at least, was the truth.

  “Fen is dull and they’ll ignore you like they ignore anyone who isn’t in the process of paying them or bilking them.” She shrugged. “Fenians.”

  “But the law.”

  “‘But the law!’” Alba mimicked my hesitation with a good-natured laugh. “What, you’re going to hang out a shingle, ‘Charms Cast for Cheap’?” Kyshi trailed down my arm and settled in my lap again, serving Alba a stern look for the volume of her voice.

  “No. I wasn’t. But if anyone found out…” I let my fingers tremble on Kyshi’s soft coat. The Fenian penalties for even illusions, for simple trickster’s street magic, included transportation to their cliff colonies, desolate places scoured half-dead by the northern winds. And actual crimes of attempted magical practices—execution, all of them. Galatine gossip pages sometimes carried stories of Fenian women—always women—tried for buying or selling clay tablets, sentenced to drowning in the deep blue waters off Fen’s rocky shores.

  “No one will find out. Remember, they don’t have any idea you can even cast a charm without your needle and thread. And we’ll keep it that way.”

  “Of course. But—” I swallowed. I felt the memory of the cloying heat of West Serafe, the loggias and colonnades full of beautifully dressed people with their ruthless and competing agendas, their secret alliances and barbed gossip. “Isn’t it possible they could invent something?”

  “Why?”

  Why had I been the focus of so much ire from my own country, from nobles to common people? Why had the Serafans piled rumor and ill will on me? “Because I’m a threat,” I answered with surprise at my own confidence. “I have power most of them don’t. Even if some of them do, they don’t like that I can recognize it.”

  “I assure you that the Fenians are not the Serafans. They aren’t hiding centuries-old secret casting methods. And though I cannot guarantee that none of them will realize that my Galatine companion is the rumored witch consort of the Rebel Prince, well. We won’t make it well-known.”

  “You’re sure?” I countered. I buried my fingers in Kyshi’s soft fur, searching for comfort. “If they know that I’m a charm caster, that I can do something they cannot, that scares people.”

  “You’re also bringing them significant investments. And in Fen, nothing speaks louder than gold.” She caught my free hand in hers. “Trust me. The Fenians are a strange people, to be sure, but not indecipherable.”

  if you enjoyed

  FRAY

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  EMPIRE OF SAND

  The Books of Ambha

  by

  Tasha Suri

  A nobleman’s daughter with magic in her blood. An empire built on the dreams of enslaved gods.

  The Amrithi are outcasts; nomads descended from desert spirits, they are coveted and persecuted throughout the Empire for the power in their blood. Mehr is the illegitimate daughter of an imperial governor and an exiled Amrithi mother she can barely remember but whose face and magic she has inherited. Unbeknownst to her, she can manipulate the dreams of the gods to alter the face of the world.

  When Mehr’s power comes to the attention of the Emperor’s most feared mystics, she is coerced into their service, as they are determined to harness her magic for the glory of the Empire. She must use every ounce of will, subtlety, and power she possesses to resist the mystics’ cruel agenda.

  Should she fail, the gods themselves may awaken seeking vengeance…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mehr woke up to a soft voice calling her name. Without thought, she reached a hand beneath her pillow and closed her fingers carefully around the hilt of her dagger. She could feel the smoothness of the large opal embedded in the hilt, and its familiar weight beneath her fingertips calmed her. She sat up and pushed back the layer of gauze surrounding her divan.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  The room was dark apart from one wavering light. As the light approached, Mehr realized it was an oil lantern, held aloft by a maidserva
nt whom Mehr knew by sight but not by name. Through the glare of the lit flame, the maidservant’s features looked distorted, her eyes wide with nervousness.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady,” the maid said. “But your sister is asking for you.”

  Mehr paused for a moment. Then she slid off the divan and wound the sash of her sleep robe tight around her waist.

  “You work in the nursery?” she asked.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Then you should know Lady Maryam won’t be pleased that you’ve come to me,” she said, tucking the dagger into her sash. “If she finds out, you may be punished.”

  The maidservant swallowed.

  “Lady Arwa is asking for you,” she repeated. “She won’t sleep. She’s very distressed, my lady.”

  “Arwa is a child,” Mehr replied. “And children are often distressed. Why risk your position and come to me?”

  The light wavered again as the maidservant adjusted her grip on the lantern.

  “She says there is a daiva watching her,” the maidservant said, her voice trembling. “Who else could I come to?”

  Mehr strode over to the maidservant, who flinched back.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sara, my lady,” said the maidservant.

  “Give me the lantern, Sara,” said Mehr. “I don’t need you to light the way.”

  Mehr found Arwa curled up in her nurse Nahira’s lap outside the nursery, surrounded by a gaggle of frightened maid-servants. There was a Haran guardswoman standing by, looking on helplessly with her hand tight on the hilt of her blade. Mehr had some sympathy for her. Steel was no good against daiva, and equally useless in the comforting of distressed women.

  “Mehr!” Arwa cried out, coming to life in the woman’s arms. “You came!”

  The nurse holding on to her had to tighten her grip to keep Arwa in place, now that she was squirming like a landed fish. Mehr kneeled down to meet Arwa at eye level.

  “Of course I’ve come,” said Mehr. “Sara says you saw a daiva?”

  “It won’t leave my room,” Arwa said, sniffling. Her face was red with tears.

  “How old are you now, Arwa?”

  “Nine years,” said Arwa, frowning. “You know that.”

  “Much too old to be crying then, little sister.” Mehr brushed a tear from Arwa’s cheek with her thumb. “Calm yourself.”

  Arwa sucked in a deep breath and nodded. Mehr looked up at Arwa’s nurse. She knew her well. Nahira had been her nurse once too.

  “Did you see it?”

  Nahira snorted.

  “My eyes aren’t what they once were, but I’m still Irin. I could smell it.” She tapped her nose.

  “It has sharp claws,” Arwa said suddenly. “And big eyes like fire, and it wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

  Arwa was growing agitated again, so Mehr cupped her sister’s face in her hands and made a low soothing sound, like the desert winds at moonrise.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” she said finally, when Arwa had gone still again.

  “There’s not?”

  “No,” Mehr said firmly. “I’m going to make it go away.”

  “Forever?”

  “For a long while, yes.”

  “How?”

  “It isn’t important.”

  “I need to know,” Arwa insisted. “What if another one comes and you’re not here? How will I make it go away then?”

  I’ll always be here, thought Mehr. But of course that was a lie. She could promise no such thing. She looked into her sister’s teary eyes and came, abruptly, to a decision. “Come with me now, Arwa. I’ll show you.”

  One of the maidservants made a sound of protest, quickly hushed. Nahira gave her a narrow look, her grip on Arwa still deathly tight.

  “She won’t approve,” warned Nahira.

  “If my stepmother asks, say I forced you,” Mehr told her. She touched light fingers to Arwa’s shoulders. “Please, Nahira.”

  “I imagine Lady Maryam will draw her own conclusions,” Nahira said dryly. She let Arwa go. “She doesn’t think highly of you, my lady.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Mehr. “Come on now, Arwa. You can carry the lamp.”

  The nursery was undisturbed. The living room was lit, candlelight flickering on the bright cushions and throws strewn across the marble floor. Arwa’s bedroom, in the next room along, was dark.

  The guardswoman trailed in reluctantly behind them. Her hand was fixed firmly on her scabbard.

  “There’s no need for this, my lady,” the guardswoman said. “Lady Arwa simply had a nightmare. I’m sure of it.”

  “Are you?” Mehr replied mildly.

  The guardswoman hesitated, then said, “I told Lady Arwa’s nursemaid and the maidservants that daiva don’t exist, that they should tell her so, but…” She paused, glancing uneasily at Mehr’s face. “The Irin are superstitious.”

  Mehr returned her look.

  This one, she thought, has not been in Irinah long.

  “I ran into the room as soon as she screamed,” said the guard, pressing on despite Mehr’s pointed silence. “I saw nothing.”

  Ignoring her, Mehr nudged Arwa gently with her foot.

  “Go on, love. Show me where it is.”

  Arwa took in another deep breath and stood straight, mustering up her courage. Then she went into her bedroom. Mehr followed close behind her, the guardswoman still hovering at her back.

  “There,” Arwa said, pointing. “It’s moved. On the window ledge.”

  Mehr looked up and found the daiva already watching her.

  Pale dawn was coming in through the window lattice at its back. Silhouetted against it, the daiva was a wisp of taloned shadows, its wings bristling darkly against a backdrop of gray-gold light. It was small for a daiva, no larger than Arwa, with nothing human in the shape of its face or in the lidless glare of its golden eyes.

  “Stay where you are, Arwa,” Mehr said. “Just lift the lamp higher.”

  Mehr walked toward it—slowly, so as not to startle it from its perch. The daiva’s eyes followed her with the constancy of prayer flames.

  Three floors above the ground, behind heavily guarded walls, nothing should have been able to reach Arwa’s chambers. But daiva didn’t obey the rules of human courtesy, and there were no walls in Jah Irinah that could keep them out of a place they wanted to be. Still, Mehr’s gut told her this daiva was not dangerous. Curious, perhaps. But not dangerous.

  Just to be sure, she held her hands in front of her, arms crossed, her fingers curled in a sigil to ward against evil. The daiva didn’t so much as flinch. Good.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Arwa.

  “Speaking,” said Mehr. “Hush now.”

  She drew her hands close together, thumbs interlocked, fanning out her fingers in the old sigil for bird. The daiva rustled its wings in recognition. It knew its name when it saw it.

  “Ah,” breathed Mehr. Her heart was beating fast in her chest. “You can move now, love. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “It still looks like it wants to bite me,” Arwa said warily.

  “It’s a bird-spirit,” Mehr said. “That’s what birds do. But there’s nothing evil inside it. It’s a simple creature. It won’t hurt you.”

  She took another step closer. The daiva cocked its head.

  She could smell the air around it, all humid sweetness like incense mingled with water. She sucked in a deep breath and resisted the urge to set her fingers against the soft shadows of its skin.

  She held one palm out. Go.

  But there was no compulsion behind the movement, and the daiva did not look at all inclined to move. It watched her expectantly. Its nostrils, tucked in the shadows of its face, flared wide. It knew what she was. It was waiting.

  Mehr drew the dagger from her sash. Arwa gave a squeak, and behind them the guardswoman startled into life, drawing the first inch of her sword out with a hiss of steel.

  “Calm, calm,” sa
id Mehr soothingly. “I’m just giving it what it wants.”

  She pressed the sharp edge of her dagger to her left thumb. The skin gave way easily, a bead of blood rising to the surface. She held her thumb up for the daiva.

  The daiva lowered its head, smelling her blood.

  For a long moment it held still, its eyes never leaving hers. Then the shadows of its flesh broke apart, thin wisps escaping through the lattice. She saw it coalesce back into life beyond the window, dark wings sweeping through the cloudless, brightening air.

  Mehr let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. There was no fear in her. Just the racing, aching joy of a small adventure. She pressed her thumb carefully against the window lattice, leaving her mark behind.

  “All gone,” she said.

  “Is it really?” Arwa asked.

  “Yes.” Mehr wiped the remaining blood from the dagger with her sash. She tucked the blade away again. “If I’m not here and a daiva comes, Arwa, you must offer it a little of your own blood. Then it will leave you alone.”

  “Why would it want my blood?” Arwa asked, frightened. Her eyes were wide. “Mehr?”

  Mehr felt a pang. There was so much Arwa didn’t know about her heritage, so much that Mehr was forbidden from teaching her.

  To Arwa, daiva were simply monsters, and Irinah’s desert was just endless sand stretching off into the horizon, as distant and commonplace as sky or soil. She had never stared out at it, yearning, as Mehr had. She had never known that there was anything to yearn for. She knew nothing of sigils or rites, or the rich inheritance that lived within their shared blood. She only knew what it meant to be an Ambhan nobleman’s daughter. She knew what her stepmother wanted her to know, and no more.

  Mehr knew it would be foolish to answer her. She bit her lip, lightly, and tasted the faint shadow of iron on her tongue. The pain grounded her, and reminded her of the risks of speaking too freely. There were consequences to disobedience. Mehr knew that. She did not want to face her stepmother’s displeasure. She did not want isolation, or pain, or the reminder of her own powerlessness.