by L. Penelope
Dansig, who had not left his son’s side, rubbed the boy’s back as Varten coughed up blood. Alarmed, Kyara met Dansig’s eyes.
“Can you at least tell someone in charge that Varten needs help?” Kyara pleaded. “Something’s very wrong with him.”
The old woman nodded and eyed the ill teen with sympathy. She rapped on the outer door. Just before the guard opened it, Kyara got out one final question.
“What’s your name?”
“I am Asenath,” she said. “I will ask a physician to see about the boy.”
And then she was gone through the thick metal door.
* * *
Ella was swaying on her feet. The beauty shop was busy with the normal Sixthday rush. Everyone wanted to look their best for Seventhday, which for most workers was their day off. She’d been at it since the shop opened without so much as a lunch break and now the late-afternoon crowd was thickening.
Her sleep had not been easy since she and Benn had come across the dead smugglers two days ago. She’d checked the newspapers but there hadn’t been so much as a line about the murders in the crime section. Which meant the constables were helping to sweep it under the rug.
Plus, she hadn’t heard anything more about her request to visit the children with Benn. Sister Moreen said it would take a few days for approval, but now Ella worried that her vendetta against Syllenne Nidos was going to be an issue. Were Syllenne’s spies scuttling her chances? Tana and Ulani should not be made to suffer for things they had no control over. Ella couldn’t get the girls out of her mind.
The door over the shop jangled for the hundredth time, causing her to wince. She looked into the mirror at the newcomer and couldn’t suppress a cringe.
“You didn’t tell me Vera was coming,” she whisper-shouted to Doreen, the hairdresser at the station next to hers.
Doreen glared. “You expect a rundown of my entire schedule on a daily basis?”
Ella tightened her jaw, then pulled the curling iron from her client’s hair just as it began to smoke. “I would appreciate a heads-up when my mother-in-law is expected.”
Doreen merely rolled her eyes and turned to meet her client. Vera Ravel was a steam engine of a woman whose force of will Ella would have admired had she not been the victim of it. Vera’s opposition to her younger son’s marriage to a foreigner had been vociferous and unyielding. There were very few people whom Ella couldn’t manage to soften toward her, but Vera was one.
The woman marched past her, then paused, turning stiffly in her direction. “Ella,” she said, acknowledging her with a nod of her head.
“Good afternoon,” Ella replied, holding herself rigid. Thankfully, the woman continued on her way to settle into Doreen’s chair as if it were the throne in the palace, sparing Ella any more of her civility.
“Mistress Ravel, how are you today?” Doreen said cheerily as she draped a cape around the woman’s shoulders.
“Fair to middling, I’d say. Not looking forward to having to trek all the way to the Northern temple tonight, that’s for certain.” Her voice was all starch and vinegar, even when she was engaging in what for her was pleasant small talk. Ella forced herself to remember that Benn loved his mother, so there must be something about her that was lovable.
“Imagine the gall of bombing a temple,” Doreen said, clucking her tongue. “I’ve never understood how there could be such evil in the world.”
“Aye,” Vera responded. “Too many folk have lost sight of their faith, that’s part of the problem. Instead, they’re taking up with that lot down at the docks. Those Dominionists,” she sneered.
Doreen turned up her nose. “Wish I knew where people’s good sense has gone. The Goddess is right here in front of everyone where they can see all Her wonders in the flesh.”
Vera hummed in agreement. “Though She looks like a grol, there’s a difference between Her miracles and witchcraft. People can’t see that, then they’re dumb as doornails. ‘From the beginning, you heard, and saw, and touched that which was put before you by our Sovereign, and still you did not understand.’ That’s what it says in The Book of Her Reign.”
Ella was unable to keep herself from snorting. Both Doreen and Vera shot hard glances her way. She ducked her head to hide a smirk.
“All this talk of a separate country for the grols though,” Vera said. “It makes sense. Since they can’t abide the country they already have, why not spare some of the land up north for them? That way they can go about their business and we can go about ours. No one’s saying they didn’t suffer under the True Father, but we shouldn’t have to tear ourselves apart to accommodate them.”
Doreen shrugged. “I don’t know. The Goddess wants unification. Don’t see why we can’t all live together. It works here in Portside.”
Ella froze for a moment, comb wavering in her hand. Doreen was often mean-spirited and snobbish. Who could have suspected she would support unification?
Vera waved a hand. “We’ve had our fair share of trouble with the rabble here in Portside over the years, but the Lagrimari are different. Knowing they could let loose a stream of witchcraft any time they want, I’m not sure I could sleep at night if one lived too close to me.” She shuddered.
The bell over the shop’s door rang out again, punctuating Ella’s anger at her mother-in-law’s intolerance. She looked up from force of habit and then did a double take. The woman in the entry was almost certainly not here for a color, cut, or relaxer. Sister Rienne had traded her blue robes for an embroidered, white muslin day dress and her hair was in two braids twined on either side of her head like earphones. She searched the faces of the women in the shop until she found Ella, then her whole body relaxed—a marked contrast to the tension she’d entered with.
They locked gazes in the mirror and Ella motioned down to the woman in her chair, hair half-full of curls. Rienne nodded and took a seat in the waiting area, absently flipping through a magazine while Ella finished up with her client.
Twenty minutes later, Ella hurried over to Rienne. “What’s the matter? Has something happened?”
“I need to speak with you. Privately.” Sister Rienne’s voice trembled, and Ella grew even more worried. She led the woman beyond the washing stations to the storage room, looking behind her to make sure they weren’t being monitored. Once closed in the small room that smelled strongly of pungent chemicals, Rienne took a deep breath.
“Some … information has come into my possession. I wasn’t sure who to go to, but I thought that you—that is, your husband is a Royal Guardsman, is he not?”
“Yes.” Ella nodded slowly.
“Then perhaps … You see I’m not certain I want to be involved.”
“Slow down, Sister Rienne. What information has come into your possession?”
She pulled out a small notebook that had been lodged in her bosom. Ella’s brows rose at her choice of hiding place. “Since the bombing, all of the Sisterhood operations have been moved to the Eastern temple. I was setting up the volunteer management office there when I found this mixed in with our paperwork.”
“What is it?”
“An account registry. It contains records of supplies purchased for the temple: food, linens, cleaning supplies, things like that.” She opened the small book and flipped until she’d found the page she wanted.
“Look there.” A thin finger pointed to a line of cramped handwriting.
“Item: p. salt. Vendor: B.W. Quantity: twenty-five kilos?” Ella looked up, shocked. “This is dated three weeks ago.”
Rienne nodded. Ella peered at the registry again. The entry was in the same slanting script as all the others, buried amidst purchases of flour, potatoes, and heating oil.
“The quantity is far too large for cooking salt,” Rienne said. “I looked through the whole book. We never buy more than a kilo at a time in bulk for the discount. I think it’s palmsalt. And look at this.” She fished a folded square of paper out of her bosom. “It’s a letter from the High Priestess. Every
Sister receives one on the anniversary of her vows.” Rienne snorted. “She’s thanking me for my diligence and service. But you see the signature.”
A slanted, thin script neatly spelled out Syllenne Nidos. The handwriting matched that in the ledger.
“But how would the High Priestess’s private account book make its way to the volunteer office?” Ella asked. “Especially when it contains such damning information, so poorly concealed?”
Rienne shook her head. “There has been a lot of confusion in the move. The Southern temple was home to nearly a hundred Sisters who’ve had to be rehoused along with a dozen offices for various outreach projects. We’ve been in chaos for the past three days.”
Ella hummed in response, her mind racing. Was this the proof that she’d been searching for? A way to take down the High Priestess? But why would Syllenne have bombed her own temple? If she was a member of the Hand of the Reaper, why choose the seat of her own power as a target?
She couldn’t put anything past the woman. Ella was certain that if Syllenne felt she could gain more power by destroying the Sisterhood whole cloth, she would do so. Still, something about this evidence of Rienne’s felt very convenient.
According to Nir, no one would stock or sell such a large quantity of palmsalt. One stray spark and an entire city block could be filled with poison gas. And if the vendor initials B.W. stood for Bor Wintersail, then he hadn’t even been in Elsira three weeks ago to make such a sale. After the murder of the smugglers, Benn had investigated the other potential palmsalt lead. Wintersail’s ship had departed from Elsira two months earlier, port reports stating he was headed for the Southern Seas. Something wasn’t adding up here.
“You could go directly to the constables with this,” Ella said.
Rienne dropped her eyes. “And what if nothing comes of it? What if she’s too powerful to take down or the government officials cover for her? I can’t take the chance of being the one to turn this in—look at what she’s already done to me and mine.”
Rienne had no idea of the tragedy Syllenne had brought down on Ella’s own family, but she at least had the courage to stand up to her openly. Sucking in a breath, Ella squared her shoulders. “All right. I’ll make sure this gets to the authorities. Your anonymity will be preserved.”
Rienne murmured her thanks. “By the way, you should receive approval for the adoption visit later today. Sister Moreen is sending out couriers with the information. There are several steps before you can take the children home, but the process has been started.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Ella gripped the woman’s thin hands. “And thank you for bringing me this.” She held up the tiny journal.
“You are a good soul, Mistress Farmafield. I know you won’t rest until justice is served.”
As they made their way back into the beauty parlor’s main area, her words echoed in Ella’s head. She was starting to fear that justice would be far more complicated than she’d thought.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Woman-With-Eyes-Like-Fire took Ayal back to her family, a rowdy group of nomads who roamed the coast weaving nets and catching what sea creatures they could. “We make pilgrimage to Nikora the Weaver year after year,” they explained, “and She blesses us.”
Ayal felt their many years of homage cast a shadow over the bright day.
—THE AYALYA
Lizvette threaded her fingers together and clasped them tightly in her lap as the motor coach rumbled along the streets of Melbain City. Captain Jord Zivel of the Elsiran Foreign Service sat in the driver’s seat, nimbly steering the enormous vehicle through the heavy morning traffic. Another of his men, a lieutenant whose name Lizvette couldn’t recall as it had been rattled out so quickly, sat in one of the more functional than comfortable bench seats, along with Tai and Darvyn.
Zivel had arrived at breakfast to introduce himself and offer his men’s assistance in any way required. The vague plan forming in Lizvette’s mind had solidified. Though the men wore no uniforms, their closely shorn heads and exacting demeanors practically screamed military. Exactly the types to escort a recently exiled Elsiran citizen on a visit to the ambassador’s home.
“I really don’t know why you two felt the need to accompany us,” she said to Darvyn, waving her hand to include Tai, as well. “It isn’t as though you can come in.” Bringing a Lagrimari and a Raunian along when she met with Uncle Rodriq was too strange to contemplate. Even the Foreign Service agents were merely to accompany her as part of her cover story. They would not be privy to her conversation with Rodriq.
Tai opened his mouth, no doubt ready to argue, but Darvyn cut him off with his calm, even tone. “We’ll need to stay close in case something goes wrong.” He winced and rubbed his head. She’d noticed him doing that a lot since they’d arrived in Yaly.
“Are you all right?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“Lagrimar is a small country. Even Sayya, our capital, does not have as many people as one of these city blocks. Rosira is busier, but still so much smaller than here. I feel the presence of millions.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “They’re like a sandstorm beating against me constantly, even with my shield.”
Lizvette frowned, studying his pained expression. What must it be like to have magic? To feel the energy of every living thing around you? She caught Tai staring at Darvyn, looking like his thoughts were running along the same lines as hers. Their gazes glanced off each other, and for once, his held no mischief or accusation, only concern for Darvyn.
“I’ve known Rodriq since I was a baby,” she said. “Don’t worry. There won’t be any danger. Stay outside and nearby if you must, but everything will be fine. I’m certain of it.”
Her confidence faded as she was led through the dim townhome by a stony-faced maid. A solemn quiet enveloped the house, making their footsteps sound like the clattering of hooves. Zivel and his man stayed in the hallway. Lizvette stepped into Uncle Rodriq’s office.
She swallowed her astonishment at the sight of him. His once full, rosy cheeks were now gaunt. What little hair he had left held far more gray than red. Worry for his health peppered her. He sat behind a great mahogany desk that overwhelmed the small room. The maid notwithstanding, the place smelled dusty, like it could use a deep cleaning. The shades were drawn, and only the small desk light illuminated the space.
“Uncle,” she said, throwing her arms open, expecting her usual hug from him. Instead, he looked up at her, annoyance in his gaze.
“Lizvette, what a surprise.” He did not sound like it was a pleasant one. He stood stiffly and rounded his desk to greet her, giving her a very weak hug and tapping her on the head absently. “I’d heard you were on house arrest in the palace. How is it that you are here now? Why did you not tell me you were visiting?”
She tamped down her disappointment at the tepid greeting and launched into her story. “The king and queen have passed down their sentence on me. I am exiled.” Tears would be too much, even in such a situation, but she did allow her lower lip to quiver as if she were overtaken by emotion.
“I did not receive a dispatch on this,” Rodriq said, affronted. He shuffled through the papers on his desk as if searching for a memo. “I should have been notified.”
“It happened just yesterday, after the wedding,” she said quickly. “I suppose the new queen felt … jealous of me.” The words burned coming out of her mouth.
She glanced toward the doorway and drew closer, lowering her voice. “The Foreign Service insisted on escorting me here as if I’m a common criminal.” Her eyebrows drew up dramatically, and Rodriq sighed.
“That’s the procedure. A sitting ambassador may only have limited contact with exiles.” He glanced toward the door then shook his head and lowered himself into a high-backed chair next to his radiophonic. His office was decorated in a heavy, masculine style that felt oppressive. It was all leather and dark wood and thick brocaded drapery.
“I need your help,” Lizvette said, approaching him and kneeli
ng by his feet. She took his hand in hers. “I need you to help me find Father. At least get a message to him about my situation. He is all I have left now. If anyone has been in contact with him, it’s you.”
Uncle Rodriq had always been far kinder than her own father. His mild voice and gentle words were at odds with her parents’ pernicious disappointment. It was no secret they had wanted a boy. Having failed at being born the proper sex, and committed the unforgivable sin of being an only child, Lizvette could do little else right in their eyes. But Rodriq could be counted on for a kind word. He used to ply her with the books she adored, toys that Father said were useless, and candy Mother feared would affect her weight.
“Don’t you think if I knew where he was I would have turned him over to the authorities? As should you.” Rodriq’s voice was cautious.
“He’s being charged with treason,” she whispered. “The punishment is death.” A true shiver racked her form. Though it was likely what he deserved, he was still her father. She took a deep breath, gathering the real emotion to help sell her performance. “How could I ever subject my own father to such a fate? After all he’s done for Elsira?”
As a child, Lizvette would pray to the Queen Who Sleeps that some scandal would erupt and reveal that Rodriq was her father and not Meeqal Nirall. But now he pulled his hand away and scratched at his beard.
“You always were a loyal girl,” he muttered. “Almost to a fault. Meeqal used to say that you were lacking in the brains department, but I never agreed. A sweet child always trying to please. Even now.”
She was taken aback by his words. “Isn’t it a child’s duty to be loyal to her parents? Her family?”
“You are not a child any longer, Lizvette. And your father doesn’t deserve the loyalty. Meeqal was right about one thing: if you had been a boy you would have gone far in this life. A son would not accept such treatment.” He stroked his chin again.
