by Jodi Meadows
“Come on.” Altan yanked the twisted ends of my hair so hard my eyes watered. “The Pit won’t clean itself.” With a smug look, he let go of my hair, but my head stung just the same. Gerel caught my eye; she looked . . . worried.
A hollow feeling stirred in my stomach. I was exhausted and hungry. How was I supposed to clean? I had no experience, save the few minutes with the mop yesterday.
My face and throat heated, like I was standing too close to an oven. Except this heat came from inside me. The burning spread through me as my heart pounded, harder and harder. My vision tunneled and I staggered, suddenly dizzy. Another attack.
I couldn’t let the panic in this time. I had to stay calm.
But telling myself to stay calm made it worse.
But if I didn’t overcome this, I’d never be able to work, and I’d never survive until Mother and Father saved me, and then—
“Remember your breathing,” Doctor Chilikoba would say. “Always start with your breathing. If you still feel panicked after ten deep breaths, take a pill.” Seven gods, what I wouldn’t give for one of those pills now.
I had nothing, though. Just myself. So I started with breathing.
As I walked after Altan, opposite the way we’d come in the other day, I sucked in the first deep breath, held it for five stumbling heartbeats, and released it through my mouth, like I was exhaling all the bad, anxious feelings.
On the way, I counted cells (twenty-four) and noorestones (eight), and times Altan scratched at the cut on his face (three). Holding the numbers in my head helped; they didn’t leave much room for anything else.
I finished all ten breaths. My head felt clearer, but the danger lurked nonetheless. I had to be careful. Vigilant.
We walked up a set of stairs (thirty steps), and my nemesis watched me from the corner of his eyes. “You look gray, Fancy. Nervous?”
I shook my head. It was the truth. “Nervous” didn’t begin to cover it. Terrified? Panicked?
“Try not to think about your anxiety,” Doctor Chilikoba had suggested. “That will make the cycle worse. Instead, focus on other things.”
That only made me count more.
Altan grunted. “I don’t care if you are nervous. You probably should be. But don’t vomit. You’ll have to clean it up.”
Nice to know.
I’d vomited exactly once in my life. Zara had teased that a meal I’d been enjoying was dragon meat, which had obviously been a lie (it was perch), but my stomach didn’t see it that way. It had been one of my most disgusting experiences and Mother said it would ruin my teeth. I’d vowed never to do it again. Even my panic attacks tended to agree; while I often felt nauseated, I’d never again thrown up.
And I wouldn’t give in to the queasy feeling in my stomach now, either.
We passed through the anteroom. (Five steps across, three narrow shelves with thin blankets and other bedding supplies, and three locked cabinets.) Next, we came to a long hall, with columns and metal sconces around noorestones, all with Khulan’s crossed maces carved into them. The vaulted ceiling bore the same decorative touches, these painted blue and gold and red where Khulan’s figure was twisted back as though preparing to strike down anyone in his path.
We passed thirteen doors (one hundred and five steps) before Altan motioned me down a side hall. “Prisoner meals last ten minutes. Breakfast is at daybreak—as soon as I come to fetch you. Lunch is an hour after noon, and dinner is a few hours before dark. Then you go back to your cell. We used to keep prisoners cleaning longer, but then they started dying from exhaustion.”
“I appreciate the opportunity,” I whispered, tilting my head in the way Mother said made hearts melt. It was a light touch. Without Damina’s gifts, I’d had to learn on my own, just little ways of fooling everyone into believing I was deserving of my rank.
Altan gave me a look, like he couldn’t tell if my comment had been genuine or not.
Well, I was grateful for more food. And getting out of my cell.
We entered a small mess hall, already filled with seventeen people bent over plates of food. My stomach growled at the sight of cheese, fruit, and some kind of red meat that dripped grease. I’d never been allowed to eat that at home—I’d never wanted to—but now I couldn’t wait.
“This way.” Altan motioned me around the edge of the room, toward an ancient-looking woman standing over a pile of buckets, rags, and other unidentifiable items. She frowned as Altan and I approached, which just made her craggy, weathered face seem even older. Her skin looked as tough as the leather uniform she wore, which was decorated with gold and silver stitching along the flap that wrapped around her body. Knives and cuffs filled her belt, like she was just waiting for someone to give her an excuse to use them.
“Don’t speak to her,” Altan muttered.
I looked at him sharply. Was that a warning?
But his face was neutral. “Just nod or shake your head. Don’t stand out.”
Was he trying to help me? Gerel might be right about Altan’s intentions. He wanted something from me.
I pulled myself straight, even though I could feel every crack in the floor through my thin slippers, and my dress was filthy and sagged to one side of my body.
“Mistress Sarannai.” Altan bowed to the old woman, who just eyed him like he was muck on her shoe. “I’ve brought you a new worker.”
Before I could even register what was happening, Sarannai grabbed my right hand and turned it over, palm up. Her skin was rough and callused as she stretched out my fingers and wrinkled her face. “Pathetic.” She spit on my hand and released me.
A pale whine gathered in my throat as her saliva dripped off my fingers. I suddenly didn’t know what to do with my hand. Hold it there? Wipe it on my dress? Shake off her spit? None of those things seemed appropriate, especially wiping, because she was glaring at me with almost an amused tilt to her shriveled mouth.
I opted for not moving, but already I could feel my heart speeding and my chest aching and numbers fluttering through my head. Twenty buckets. Thirty seals or awards on Sarannai’s jacket. Seventeen other prisoners gulping down their food. They looked stronger, healthier than the inmates I’d seen in my cellblock.
“This one doesn’t know anything about cleaning,” Sarannai said. “I don’t want her.”
Cold splintered through my stomach. What was I supposed to do if she didn’t want me? How was I supposed to stay strong and fed?
“She doesn’t know much about anything,” Altan agreed.
My face burned.
“I thought you might consider her an empty vessel,” Altan went on. “Fill her up with whatever you want.”
It was only a miracle that prevented me from shuddering. My hand still hung between Sarannai and me, damp and cold. A thread of saliva dripped from my small finger.
Gerel had said I’d regret agreeing to take on a job. I hadn’t realized she’d meant right away.
Sarannai narrowed her eyes at me. “This is the kind of criminal the other islands are sending us now? Soft little girls who’ve never worked a moment in their lives?”
A strange, almost angry sensation welled up inside of me. What right did she have to say any of those things? She didn’t know me at all. She’d just looked at me, spit on my hand, and decided I wasn’t worth the time it would take to tell me where to clean.
I stamped down those feelings. Mother would say—
Well, I didn’t know what Mother would say. I shouldn’t be cleaning, of course, but was that because I was too good for it? Or not good enough?
“This is what they gave us.” Altan threw a dismissive look at me. “There are a few others in the first level, but they’re not ready yet.”
The first level. That was what my cellblock was called. The first stop for prisoners, the place to make us so miserable we broke and agreed to work for them in trade for better accommodations.
I wasn’t broken, though. I wasn’t.
Hristo would remind me to be strong. He�
��d come for me soon, once the Luminary Council realized they needed me. I just had to survive until then.
“We must work with what we have.” Sarannai grabbed my wrist and yanked me toward her. The calluses on her hand scraped my skin. “Put on something more appropriate for cleaning. Then you can eat.”
Fear and hunger rolled through me as she shoved and I stumbled toward a pile of clothes. Quickly, afraid of what she might do if I was too slow, I picked out trousers and a shirt that might fit me. Both were made of rough, cheap cotton that might have been blended with nettles or sea urchins before the weaving and sewing began. There weren’t undergarments, but even if there had been, I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to wear them. All these things looked secondhand. Maybe fifth.
At least I was able to wipe the spit off my hand without drawing notice. But what I wouldn’t give for soap.
With my new clothes bundled under my arm, I scanned the mess hall for a place to change. Altan and Sarannai were still discussing my uselessness, offering no instructions as to where I should go, and the other prisoners were finishing their meals. A few were up, sliding wooden trays onto a rack at the kitchen window. Three of them leered at me—young men with ashy skin and ragged hair; they must have been here for a long time to look so washed-out.
There didn’t seem to be anywhere private, and I was hesitant to leave the room, lest Sarannai think I was trying to escape.
After a moment, she glanced back at me. “Not dressed yet? Don’t you know how to do it?” She turned back to Altan. “Where’d you get this one?”
Oh. She expected me to change right here. In front of everyone.
I wanted to sink into the floor. I wasn’t shy about my body. That was the one thing I knew was acceptable. But to strip in front of all these strangers? I’d never imagined such a degrading situation. I united crowds. I inspired them. I did not bare myself.
And while there’d been no direct threats against my person, there’d been mention of what a girl might be useful for here. I didn’t want to encourage that line of thought. Gerel’s assurance about the warriors was one thing, but she hadn’t said anything about the prisoners. A few were still watching. Grinning.
Instead of stripping down, I turned my back to the room and pulled up the trousers underneath my dress. They didn’t fit well, but I pressed all five buttons into their holes. The shirt was trickier, but I managed a complicated maneuver that involved putting clothes on top of clothes and then removing what had been deemed inappropriate.
Before they could take the ruined dress from me, I shoved it deep into the pile of clothes so I could get it back later. The dress was mine. It was one of the only things I owned in this whole place. They couldn’t have it.
“Go eat.” Altan jerked his head toward the nearest table. “You have two minutes left.”
I wanted to argue that I’d been here on time and I was only delayed because they’d made me change clothes, but that seemed like a good way to get in more trouble. So as the other prisoners made their way toward Sarannai to collect buckets, I pushed past until I found a window with a tray of food already prepared.
A girl my age peeked out from the kitchen beyond. Seven flat braids held her hair in place, the ends reaching past her shoulders. It was long, which meant she wasn’t a warrior trainee. She might be a prisoner, too.
I risked a smile as I took my tray and headed to a table.
Two minutes. Less now. I’d never been a fast eater, so I went for the meat first, hoping it would fill me up. It was cool, greasy, and not very good, but I forced it down. No way was I throwing away food again, no matter how terrible it tasted.
The mess hall was almost empty, all the others heading out with their buckets.
I tore through the bread as fast as possible. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, but it was filled with raisins and bits of almonds.
“Soft girl!” Sarannai snapped, and pointed at the buckets. “Enough eating. Get to work.”
Altan strode out of the room, sparing only a second to throw a smirk over his shoulder, as if to say he didn’t expect me to last long.
I downed the mug of lukewarm tea as I stood, then hurried toward the buckets. “I’m ready,” I said.
Sarannai slapped me. Red flared across my vision, followed by a burst of sharp, hot pain in my cheek. I’d forgotten I wasn’t supposed to speak.
But that was all it took: one mistake.
My fingers curled over my face. The skin felt hot already.
The old woman watched me, waiting to see if I’d make a sound. She ran her tongue over her teeth, sucking at something stuck in there.
I swallowed back a whimper and forced my hand back to my side. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. In the back of my mind, I counted the tables (thirteen), chairs (fifty-one), columns (ten), and noorestones (thirty).
“Fine. A trial run, I suppose. Clean this mess hall. I’ll come back before lunch and look it over. If you’ve done a good job, you can stay on. If not, you’ll never leave first level.” With that, she headed out of the room, straight backed and hands at her sides curled like claws.
I watched the door for a moment longer, wondering if I could rush out and get lost in the Pit.
But I would get lost. I didn’t know the layout, or have access to food, or even have a plan. The other prisoners working throughout the Pit might give me away, too.
“You should get started.” The voice came from the window where my food had appeared. It was husky for a girl’s. She was really pretty: a lot like my sister, with her delicate, pointed features, smooth brown skin, and dark eyes. How she maintained herself on this . . . food . . . I could only guess. “She means what she says.”
I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t sure how to get started, so I asked, “What’s your name?”
“Tirta.”
That was a Hartan name. How had she ended up in the Pit? Harta hates harm. It seemed impossible she could have done something that would warrant this kind of punishment. But Hristo had become my protector, and I was possibly the least charming person on Damina.
Being born somewhere didn’t mean we were going to fit in.
So I didn’t ask. Aaru had gotten angry with me. Gerel had never offered. I certainly didn’t want anyone to know why I was here. So I just said, “I’m Mira.”
“I know who you are.” She smiled and motioned toward the buckets. “But even Mira Minkoba has to follow orders in the Pit.”
Mira Minkoba. She knew my surname, not just that I was one of the thousands of girls in the Fallen Isles named Mira. The Luminary Council meant to keep my incarceration quiet, though I didn’t know how they were explaining my absence.
Still, none of the prisoners should have even guessed I was the Mira Treaty Mira. A burst of fear fluttered through me. “How do you know?”
“Just rumors,” Tirta said. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want.”
That was a relief. “Thank you.”
“When I heard you were here, I hoped I’d get to meet you.” She smiled.
Conversations that began like this usually required Hristo to loom a little extra. I proceeded with a neutral and noncommittal, “Oh?”
“I was born about six months after the treaty—in Sarai. I always felt sort of connected to you.”
“Oh.” How I wished for Hristo and his looming.
Tirta blushed furiously. “Sorry. I know I’m being awkward. It’s just that without you—without the treaty—my life would have been very different. I wouldn’t have belonged. I don’t have much of a gift, you know. Working on one of the farms would have been a nightmare, but thanks to you and the treaty, I don’t have to.”
My heart twisted. Mother had always told me to just gracefully accept praise and thanks when people started talking like this, but I’d never felt right about it. “I didn’t have anything to do with the treaty. I just happened to be born the same day, so my father named it after me.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean y
ou aren’t the Hopebearer.” She smiled, relentlessly friendly. “Sorry. I can see it makes you uncomfortable. I just always liked you. That’s all.”
I didn’t know whether to thank her or run away.
Ilina would tell me to make friends, and this girl clearly wanted to be my friend. I needed to let her. Besides, who was I to judge awkward attempts at closeness? Especially after what I’d done to Aaru. Maybe Tirta was a little like me.
So I smiled. “Please don’t tell anyone who I am.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
I headed toward the buckets and rags.
“Do you know how to clean?” A note of amusement filled her tone.
“I managed cell-cleaning day.” Barely.
Tirta stuck her head through the window. “I can’t help you. I have a lot of food to cook. But I can give you instructions if you need. Start at the top. Use that pole to get the walls. And don’t forget the underside of the tables. Sarannai will check there first.”
This had seemed impossible before. But under the tables, too? And probably the legs and chairs and everything else, as well. How was I going to finish all of this by lunchtime?
Ilina would tell me to do what I must to survive. Zara would tell me to stop being a baby. Father would remind me that I was Mira Minkoba, and that I was a brilliant star. It was my duty to shine.
I grabbed a bucket. There was no time to waste.
BEFORE
One Year Ago
“IT’S TIME TO GIVE UP THE DRAGON, MIRA.”
It was my sixteenth birthday and I was reasonably certain Mother was trying to ruin my life.
The upstairs parlor was usually a happy place, even in my family. Once a decan, my parents, Zara, and I met here an hour before dusk. We’d play cards, eat tiny pastries with honey drizzled on top, and watch the sun set over the mountains. I loved twilight, where sunlight glowed just behind the jagged peaks. I loved the glorious silhouettes. Those hints of majesty.
