by Beth Wangler
The pause before Anik’s next words is just barely too long. In his usual nonchalant tone, Anik asks, “Well, what do you two say to breakfast? Tatanda is ready, and the ferry should be here soon.”
Pitka rolls off the bed and is out the door almost before he finishes. “Breakfast! Breakfast! I’m so hungry!”
“You just ate,” I call, trailing after her at a slower pace.
“I’m a growing girl,” Pitka parrots what we’ve said about her many times.
“You’re going to eat the island out of food,” Anik says.
That makes Pitka pause and turn back to him. “You eat even more than me,” she pouts.
Tatanda waits for us at the dining room door. “Hurry inside so that I can enter,” he orders. “We need to be ready to greet Maylani in half an hour.”
Half an hour. In half an hour, Maylani will be home. I can hardly wait for my cousin’s return.
Chapter 2
Iranine custom dictates that, when a resident of a house returns after a journey or when foreign guests visit, someone in the family must meet them at the door to wash their feet and offer water to drink. Uncle Tatanda, Anik, and Pitka were eager to meet Maylani at the docks, so I volunteered for the duty at breakfast.
I await their return at any minute, holding a pitcher of cool water flavored with lemon slices and standing just inside the door. The servants threw the top of the door open this morning, and it will remain so until mosquitoes and other night insects emerge. My eyes eagerly search the calm dirt road through the opening in the door.
When they first appear, I do not realize that I see them. I recognize all of my family, but there are three people who I cannot place are with them. I lean forward in curiosity. All I can tell is that they seem too pale in the bright morning sun to be Iranine, so it cannot be Maylani’s friends Sandat and Nadina.
Something inside me stirs like I am struggling to wake up.
At the front of the group, Maylani takes hold of the stranger’s arm, and he nods to something she says. They are close now, close enough for me to see that Maylani’s stranger is tall with light brown hair—and the sun glints off a charm he wears around his neck. I instinctively know it is a chanavea. He is Maraian, then. The way he holds himself triggers memories.
It has been three years. The last time I saw him, he was only eighteen, but I would know him anywhere. My eyes twitch to the other two strangers, and I recognize them as Nihae and Elesekk, his parents. They took in me and my sister Yori after our parents died.
Maylani is walking arm-in-arm with my Saviayr—my best friend, my promised husband.
The boy I left behind when I ran away.
My hands spasm and grasp at the door frame. The pitcher of water knocks against the door and drenches my dress.
Maylani detaches from Savi and skips up the walkway to the door. “Raiba!” she exclaims. In a daze, I open the bottom half of the door. It barely registers when she throws her arms around me in a magnanimous hug, chattering all the while. “Eck, you’re wet! Oh, Raiba, I missed you so much. This dress looks so well on you! Did you make it yourself? And guess what? I’ve the biggest surprise ever! I’m getting married!”
Saviayr really looks at me for the first time in the middle of Maylani’s hug. He stops so abruptly, Anik runs into him.
“That is,” Maylani continues, “if Tatanda says yes, of course. Let me introduce you to him.”
I must have stopped breathing, because I start again in a gasp that is almost a sob and I have to make an effort to continue breathing. My legs carry me forward a couple steps.
That’s funny. I don’t remember deciding to move.
Everyone stops walking, wondering what is going on. Nihae and Elesekk know, though. They come forward to stand behind their son. Saviayr stares at me.
Maylani is the only one unaware of the quiet. I meet Savi’s eyes. I have to find some way to break this smothering silence.
“Peace to you, Savi.” My ears hardly recognize my voice.
“Rai,” Savi breathes. The blood has left his face.
He’s taller. Muscle has filled out the gangly boyishness of his shoulders and chest. Blond stubble coats his strong chin.
His eyes are the same, though. Their clear green watches me under a lock of golden hair. I start to reach for it, to brush it from his forehead, but curl my fingers back.
“Rai? Child, is that you?” Nihae’s voice breaks the spell.
I force my gaze to Savi’s mother and father. Their faces are as white as his. “Peace to you, Mama Nihae, Papa Elesekk.”
“May it also return to you,” they automatically reply.
Then Nihae breaks out of her shock and closes the distance between us, wrapping me in a hug. Her long hair, which used to be dull blonde, is mostly white. She smells just like she used to, fresh and clean with a hint of sweetness, like a wildflower. I squeeze her, suddenly fighting tears, and find that she is crying. Nihae doesn’t say anything, but she does not need to. In a heartbeat, three long years wash away, and I am a fifteen-year-old back in the arms of my only remaining mother figure.
“Where’s Yorchan?” I ask after my sister. My head rests on Nihae’s shoulder. My heart constricts. Aia, may nothing evil have happened to little Yori.
“She couldn’t come.” Elesekk takes a step toward Nihae and me. “Saviayr hasn’t earned her freedom yet.”
“Wait,” Maylani opens her mouth wide in amazement, finally catching up. “You know each other? Saviayr, you never told me! You should have said that you knew Raiba.” Mayli sticks her lip out in a pout.
Nihae steps back, but she keeps a hand on my shoulder.
“I…” Savi blinks and looks away from me. I feel…I do not know what I feel. I feel too much, and nothing at all, and I can hardly breathe, and surely I am still asleep because how can he be here? My Savi. “I didn’t know you were talking about her,” he replies.
“I talked about her all the time,” Maylani protests.
Saviayr glances at me, and his eyes stay on mine for a moment. Despite the years we’ve been apart, I see that he is not going to tell Maylani the real reason for his astonishment. I just wish I could read that answer in his face, too. “‘Raiba’ is a very Iranine name.” He looks back to Maylani. “She was Maraian when I knew her.”
Maylani tilts her head with her face twisted like she cannot understand what language Saviayr’s speaking. “You’re teasing. Raiba is our cousin from the mainland. She’s not Maraian.” The name slips out of twisted lips, as if it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. Mayli gives an uncertain chuckle and pastes a smile over her confusion. “See, Anik, I told you Saviayr is funny.”
Anik lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, he’s hilarious,” he drawls. “He’s going to replace me as family jester.”
I look to Tatanda, wondering if he will tell them the truth. I find him staring at me like he has never seen me before. When he found me hiding under a bush and took me in, I told no one, not even him, of my heritage. Revulsion and betrayal slowly slide over his expression as he begins to understand the truth. All these years, I’ve lied to the man who took me in and made me part of his family. Guilt joins the other emotions swirling through me. He had no idea I am from the most hated of slave peoples.
Meanwhile, Maylani switches to a different subject. “I’m so excited for you to get to know my friends this week, Saviayr!” She impulsively jumps on her tiptoes and kisses him.
A knife in my stomach knocks the air out of me. Air hisses through my clenched teeth. A memory flashes through my mind’s eye:
“Rai, why are you mad?” my best friend begged, jogging to keep up with me.
“As if you don’t know!”
“I don’t, though.”
“Why don’t you go ask Lanathais?!”
“What?”
I spun around to face him. “They told me you kissed her,” I accused. I’d seen Savi talking to Lanathais more often. I believed the rumor. “Just go and be with your new best friend and leave me alone!
”
Savi looked at me like I was missing something obvious. “I didn’t.”
“You want me to believe you didn’t kiss her? Why not? Everyone knows Lanathais is the prettiest girl in the village. Marry her and forget all about me. She’s not a freak who was raised by embodied spirits for a decade. She’s normal and neat and smart,” I challenged.
“I wouldn’t waste my first kiss on her,” Saviayr answered. “I want it to be special.”
“It’s a first kiss,” I said. “It’s naturally special.” At least, that was my theory, having never kissed anyone myself.
“Yeah, but the person matters.”
“Well, forgive me for not knowing your impossibly high standards,” I shot at him, whirling to storm away.
“Rai, wait.” He grabbed my arm.
“Why? Don’t you want to get rid of the town’s biggest embarrassment? After all, if Lanathais isn’t good enough for you, why would you want to be friends with me,” I spat out.
Savi shook his head but kept holding my arm. “It’s you, Rai. I’m saving my first kiss for you.”
It’s bad enough that Maylani is kissing him. That would hurt even if he wasn’t kissing her back. It would hurt even if they hadn’t clearly kissed before. I whirl away, hiding my eyes.
My love for Savi started the day I first saw him and has only grown as the years passed. I was ten. The kaites, who raised me, had just sent me toward the slave village where I would find my birth parents. I was lonely, crying, and drenched from falling into the creek. Savi came tramping down the bank, smiled at me, and helped me find my parents.
The day of our fight, the day I realized he returned my love, we swore the first of many vows to each other. We swore that we would save our first kiss for our wedding, and we swore that we would lead Maraiah out of slavery.
When my treacherous eyes glance to see if the kiss is still happening, my cousin and her fiancé are joined only by their hands.
Savi will not look at me.
Tatanda orders, “Raiballeon, why don’t you welcome our daughter and guests into our house.” I dip my head in acquiescence and hurry back to the door. My cheeks burn. Tears sting my eyes. I have dishonored my uncle by neglecting my duty. I have wasted water by spilling it on myself. I am revealed as a traitor to Maraiah here in front of Elesekk, Nihae, and Saviayr. Everything is wrong.
And Saviayr still will not look at me.
Under the watchful eyes of my uncle, I go through the motions of offering a drink and washing the feet of Maylani, Nihae, Elesekk, and Saviayr. Maylani chatters on about her trip as I work. Nihae thanks me. She looks like she wants to say more, but Maylani is looking on with a frown. I don’t want to upset my cousin, so I turn to Elesekk. He lays his hand on my shoulder and searches my eyes. After a life of toil under the blinding Izyphorn sun, deep wrinkles from squinting line his eyes. Elesekk’s short body, thick with weary muscles, contrasts sharply with Tatanda’s tall stature and slightly-bulging waist. “We will talk,” Elesekk promises before following Tatanda out of the room.
Saviayr walks right past me.
We convene in the parlor, where the servants place refreshments. Today and most days, the fireplace is unlit, so a window and a dozen candles illuminate the boxy furniture and small mosaics, all imported from Izyphor.
Pitka hovers beside Maylani. The older girl exclaims over things she missed and babbles comparisons to what she saw in Izyphor. Mayli keeps glancing at Tatanda, who glowers at Saviayr. I recognize her rambling as a strategy to put off hearing Tatanda’s displeasure. I wait by the door, hoping no one takes my usual seat, a rocking chair beside an upholstered couch, the furthest seat from the fireplace. No one sits there, but Saviayr takes a seat on the couch right next to my chair.
He still does not look at me.
It’s too much. My heart twists. I can’t breathe. I have to get away from him. “Tatanda,” I ask, before he starts interrogating Saviayr about his situation and about why the son of slaves considers himself worthy of a leading Iranine’s daughter, “may I dry off?” Spilling water on myself has one benefit: It is a perfect excuse to leave.
Tatanda just barely nods, but that is permission enough. In a second, I am on the other side of the thick door curtain. I press my back against the wall and cradle my head in my hands. Breathe. Inhale, exhale. Nothing makes sense anymore. The smallest breeze could blow me apart and scatter the pieces all over Orrock, all over the world. I just have to shut everything else out and focus on breathing. In, out.
I jump when a motion beside me breaks my rhythm. Saviayr leaves the parlor, moving quickly. He stops abruptly when he sees me.
Savi is looking at me now, but under the intensity of his gaze, I almost wish he would ignore me again.
“I—I should go,” I blurt out.
He jumps forward and grabs my arm to stop my flight. “Wait!” Savi’s voice is urgent.
My breath catches in my throat. I freeze, waiting for him to continue.
Savi slowly lets out a deep breath. “Wait. I—I just wanted to say…happy birthday.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He is right. It is my birthday. How did he remember when even I forgot what day it is?
“We’re making a habit of meeting like this,” I joke in a strangled voice. “Me drenched on my birthday.”
Savi gives a funny chuckle that sounds like pain. Silence grows. I have to get away. My nightmare flashes before me, fueling the panic that grips my lungs. He should not be here with me. He is my past, and I can never get him back.
If I do, it will be the death of him and the rest of our people.
I can hardly breathe. “I…” My voice fizzles out when he steps still closer to me.
“Rai.” Savi searches my eyes.
I glance at the curtain. Can everyone in the parlor hear us? No, the curtain is thick. If I can hardly hear Maylani’s chatter, they can’t hear our hushed voices.
Instead of saying whatever’s on his mind, Savi fishes for the chain around his neck. There are two there, I see now: One holds his chanavea, the other is tucked into his tunic. Savi tugs the latter over his head and holds it out to me. “Here,” he offers.
I hold out my hand, and he drops it gently. Metal, warm from being near his body, clinks into my open palm. My breath catches. My lips quiver. A tear trails down my cheek. It is my chanavea. I thought it was lost, but now here— “You kept it?” I whisper. “All this time?”
Savi tilts his head to the side and smiles sadly. “I would have kept it forever.”
With one last, sorrowful look, Saviayr disappears back through the curtain between us and the parlor.
I run my fingers over my chanavea. It is made of fordue, the strongest and rarest metal on Orrock. Fordue mines provide Ira’s wealth, but only the kaites have the skill to work the metal with such delicate artistry. The silver-blue metal combines the leaf symbol of trees and the droplet symbol of water. I press the ridges on the horizontal leaves: “Mar” is engraved on the left, “Aia” on the right— “Maraiah,” the People of the One.
My stone sits in the charm’s center, flecks of brown scattered through translucent white stone. The kaites spun the stone out of my first cry the day I was born. “It is the hues of ierah and Orrock combined,” Faialine the kaite used to tell me, “because your life is mixed between the two worlds, the heavens and the ground.”
With trembling hands, I unclasp the empty chain around my neck and slip the chanavea onto it. The charm’s weight settles over my chemise, just above the neckline of the vest. For years, I have missed its pressure. Now, with the chanavea again over my heart, I reclaim part of myself that I had to abandon when I fled from the slavemaster.
I am Maraian.
Chapter 3
After slowly changing into dry clothes, I select some yellow thread. Yellow dye, the most difficult to make, is reserved for the most special occasions, such as weddings or births. Armed with thread and a crochet hook, I slip back into the parlor and settle into my
rocking chair. Thankfully, I do not catch Tatanda’s attention. He hates it when his children or I disturb his conversation with guests.
I missed the first part of Saviayr’s interrogation but am in time to hear Tatanda ask, “What precisely is your task in the employ of the royals?”
I loop a crochet hook through the yellow thread. The first stitch is hard to make, not because of inexperience. I have crocheted long enough that even making lace will not encroach on my listening. The difficulty comes from what I am making: Maylani’s bridal shawl. I don’t want to do this, but there is no one else. Her mother is dead, so the task falls to me. Straightening my shoulders, I pull thread through the loop, completing the first stitch.
“I am a specialist for the royal Yrin,” Saviayr answers.
He works for an Izyphorn royal? How did the son of two slave laborers become attached to such a powerful man? How did it happen in just three years?
“Usually I provide him with historical information concerning Maraiah and the nations she has encountered. He considers me as a sort of personal historian.” Saviayr squirms slightly. “I also work as a mediator between him and the Maraian elders.”
Tatanda crosses his arms and leans back. “And how well are you compensated for your knowledge and skills?”
“Well enough to buy freedom for myself and my parents after two years of work,” Saviayr answers. “And I should be able to buy my sister’s freedom in a couple months.”
My pulse quickens at his casual reference to my sister. My parents adopted Yorchan after they had to give me to the river. When I returned on my tenth birthday, Yori was hesitant to trust me. That changed when she became ill and I fed her my portion of our meager rations. We were inseparable after that. Saviayr’s parents took both of us in when our parents died.
My throat tightens. I miss her.
“And what will you do with this money once that happens?”
None of us hear his answer. A breeze wafts through the open window. My lungs expand, and my eyes fly wide open. “A storm is coming,” I blurt out.
