The Seeker

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “I’ll take that as a yes too!” he shouted.

  Meera ignored him and kept walking.

  Impossible man.

  Meera paged through the maps desk in the library of the main house. The afternoon had heated up, and someone had opened the windows and hung damp sheets on the porch, allowing a cool breeze to waft through the house. The overhead lights and lamps were shut off; only the filtered light that trickled through the oaks illuminated the east side of the mansion where the library was situated.

  Blue shadows in the corner coalesced into the shape of a slim, dusky-skinned girl with gold eyes and jet-black hair. “You can’t deny it now. You’re connected to the scribe.”

  Meera glanced up but quickly looked away from the perceptive amber gaze. “What are you doing here, Vasu? You know I don’t like it when you come to the haven.”

  “That’s why I took this form.”

  “You don’t look like a harmless girl no matter how hard you try. If I saw you in a dark alley, I’d still run away.”

  “Don’t you recognize me, Meera Bai?”

  She looked up, and before her eyes, the girl aged until she’d become the mature woman Meera remembered from childhood with deep-set eyes and grooves where her mouth had laughed.

  “Anamitra.”

  Vasu shrugged and the young visage of her great-aunt returned. “You didn’t know her when she looked like this, but I did. You didn’t see into her heart.”

  Meera sensed a trap, so she returned to shuffling through maps.

  “Don’t you want to know what was in her heart?” Vasu asked. He disappeared and reappeared in a blink, hovering over Meera’s shoulder. “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Her heart isn’t my business, Vasu. It wasn’t when I was child, and it isn’t now.”

  “She was your aunt. Your mentor.”

  “She was my teacher.” Meera tried not to react to the now-familiar visage. She could see Anamitra in every line of Vasu’s face now. The angel was doing it on purpose.

  Vasu leaned in. “She would say she never met her reshon—that she wouldn’t even want to—but that would be a lie.”

  Meera’s stomach dropped.

  “She wasn’t mated yet, but he was. He was one of the Tomir warriors, a distant cousin of your father’s. His mating had also been arranged, and he was well-pleased with it. To him, meeting his reshon was a chance event that changed nothing about his life. He was bound and loyal to his woman.”

  She couldn’t not ask. “And my aunt?”

  “She was furious.”

  Meera looked up in surprise. “Furious?”

  The girl with Anamitra’s face gave Meera a very Vasu smile. “Long before she met her mate, when Anamitra was a young singer first come into the fullness of her power, she became drunk upon it. She was the heir of heaven’s wisdom. Kings and queens bowed to her counsel. Gold was placed at her feet. In Udaipur, her word was absolute.”

  “And she had no mate,” Meera said.

  “She had many lovers, as was her right. Men vied to be her beloved, and more than one family offered riches if she would mate with one of their sons. She was beautiful, powerful, and brilliant. She had everything she desired.”

  “Except…”

  “This warrior. He wasn’t hers. He could not be. Not even Anamitra could break the bond between mates. This Tomir warrior was the one thing that had ever been denied her, and because of that, he was the one thing she wanted above all else.”

  “What happened?”

  Vasu shrugged. “Nothing. Maarut’s father, your grandfather, saw that the presence of the scribe disconcerted your aunt and assigned the warrior to another post. Anamitra eventually consulted with her parents and her most trusted counselors to choose Firoz, your great-uncle. He was a scholar two hundred years her senior and considered a wise and mature choice. They mated and were wholly devoted to each other until Firoz was killed. I don’t think Anamitra even considered another lover after Firoz returned to the heavens. She loved him very much.”

  But he was not her reshon.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Meera asked.

  “There is nothing that should keep you from what you want,” Vasu said. “If you want the scribe as yours, take him. Anamitra told you a tale that she used to comfort herself. She once told me that if Firoz had been her reshon, the pain of his death would have destroyed her.”

  “Wouldn’t it have?”

  Vasu cocked his head. “How many scribes and singers live beyond their reshon? Many. The Irin race wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t so. Anamitra told you the lie she made herself believe. There is nothing dangerous about your taking your reshon as your mate. Do you think the Creator makes mistakes?”

  No, but she did think Vasu would manipulate her if it suited his purposes. It was possible the angel wanted what was best for Meera. Sometimes he was oddly benevolent. It was equally possible that distracting Meera by dangling a fond wish in front of her suited one of Vasu’s twisted schemes and everything the angel had just told her was a lie.

  “I’m going to check what you said,” Meera told him. “I’m going to ask my father.”

  “Ask.” Vasu shrugged. “He knows the truth. All the Tomir do.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.” Vasu stretched and turned into his more familiar self, complete with tiger-striped hair and bare skin.

  “Clothes, Vasu.”

  He glanced down. “Oh.” Vasu didn’t rush to accommodate her wishes. “It’s hot.”

  “You still need to wear clothes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She looked to the porch where a shadow passed. Someone was approaching the library. “Vasu, seriously,” she hissed, “put some clothes on.”

  “Don’t you want to—”

  “Meera?” It was her father, standing at the door. “Did you need help finding something?”

  Since her father hadn’t gone silent in a killing rage, Meera guessed that Vasu had made himself scarce.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Just looking for a topographical map of the Atchafalaya.”

  “You’ll need to speak to Roch,” Maarut said. “I believe he just checked out every map and guide for the basin we have.”

  “Roch?”

  “Yes,” her father said. “Didn’t you hear? Rhys convinced him to act as your guide.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rhys kept his eyes on the road and tried not to notice Meera’s gaze on him as he drove northwest toward the Atchafalaya Bird Research Center and Becki, the very nice avian biologist whom he’d been emailing the day before.

  He tried to ignore her, but he felt her eyes on him, could almost hear her brilliant mind calculating. What? He couldn’t say. He didn’t know what Meera was thinking of him.

  She was attracted to him, or she wouldn’t have kissed him. He was certain of that.

  Rhys was also fairly sure she didn’t want to be attracted to him. It could have been a result of her own reluctance toward Irin men or because of too many interfering guardians. He couldn’t imagine a life as prescribed as hers. She’d been raised for a very specific role, and he could tell her personality bucked against it even as she recognized the value of it.

  You could be her rebellion.

  It was a tempting thought, to be the wild fling of her “vacation” as she referred to her time in Louisiana. To be her rebellion would be to indulge her whims and explore his own. They could be lovers. There could be naked chess. She could tell him more about these scrolls of sacred congress, and he would be her very happy pupil. When they had tired of each other, they could part with burning memories and no regrets.

  You idiot. You’d never be satisfied with that.

  Rhys wasn’t delusional enough to fool himself that way. He didn’t want to be her rebellion. He wanted more. But more was complicated. Very complicated. More meant considering Meera as a potential mate and a move across the world. More meant navigating political spheres he’d left behind in England
. More meant a life as the partner of one of the most prominent—and most targeted—singers in the Irin world.

  If she even wanted that, which she probably didn’t. He was being presumptuous even thinking that far ahead. Maybe she was only looking for a lover.

  She probably didn’t even want that.

  “Am I losing the shine yet?”

  “What?”

  Roch was snoring in the back seat, and Meera’s eyes were hidden behind dark shades, but he could still feel her gaze.

  “This is why I don’t tell people who I am,” she said blithely. “One of the reasons anyway. It’s always too much.”

  Heaven above, she was perceptive. “Nothing about you is too much.”

  Her lips twitched and she turned to face the highway. “That’s kind.”

  “No, it’s a fact.”

  “Rhys, you don’t need to flatter—”

  “I don’t flatter. I don’t flirt. I’m often a cranky arsehole, and I’m too impressed with my own opinion because I’m smarter than the vast majority of the world. That’s a fact too.”

  She gave a sharp laugh. “No false modesty for you.”

  “So believe me when I say nothing about you is too much. You are exactly who you should be. And you’re going to need every bit of stubbornness, caution, and vigilance when you take your place in the Irin world. I didn’t understand it before; I’m starting to now.”

  Her voice was softer. “Thank you.”

  “As a point of curiosity, is that why your parents are trying to arrange a mating for you? To find a suitable candidate for the heir who’ll understand the level of your responsibilities?”

  She glanced into the back seat, but Roch was still sleeping. “Yes,” she said quietly. “That’s one reason.”

  “And they like me for that role?”

  She winced. “I was hoping you hadn’t caught that.”

  “I don’t miss much.”

  “I know.” She crossed her arms. “You came highly recommended as a scholar, which they knew I would prefer. They approve of your family because, while your mother didn’t have the same role as Anamitra did—”

  “She’s still a sage. Elders come to her for council.”

  “Yes. And your father is not known to be a scribe whose ego competes with his mate’s. You would understand my role and the role of my future mate better than most warriors.”

  “Except the Tomir.” He felt a spike of jealousy. “The Tomir warriors are dedicated to you. They would do anything for you according to my research. You could have your pick of hundreds of highly trained scribes, any of whom would worship you.”

  Meera’s lips turned to a hard line. “The Tomir are dedicated to the heir, not to me.”

  “Who wouldn’t listen to the heir of Anamitra?”

  “If the heir of Anamitra speaks, the whole world listens. But I am speaking of my daughter.”

  Rhys understood Maarut’s words far better now. “You need a mate, not another member of your retinue.”

  Meera gave a sharp nod.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “No, you meant to imply that I would want a servant instead of a partner for a mate. Who could possibly be offended by that?”

  He smiled. “Never fear, princess, I speak fluent sarcasm.”

  “Princess?” She curled her lip. “Don’t call me that.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “It’s more than a bit accurate though, don’t you think?”

  “Rhys, I’m not some idle figurehead who—”

  “Who said princesses are idle? Quite narrow-minded of you, Meera.”

  “Don’t turn this around on me. You’re the one trying to minimize—”

  “Nothing.” He saw the turnoff for the research center and moved to the right lane. “I’m making a joke.”

  “Is that what that was? I’ll keep an eye out for them from now on.” She cleared her throat. “And yes, my parents might have been considering you as a potential mate for me. They believe in arranged mating.”

  “Might have been? I think I’m still in the running.” He tapped the steering wheel and muttered, “Fairly sure your mum approves of me.” He couldn’t stop the smug smile.

  Meera continued speaking as if he’d said nothing. “Which of course means nothing to me. I make up my own mind about these matters, and right now our focus should be on finding Atawakabiche and healing Sabine, not my mating status.”

  “But you did kiss me.”

  Her lips twitched.

  Rhys smiled. “And you’re thinking about doing it again.”

  “Can we focus on this biologist, please?” She sounded flustered. “You said she had information that might narrow the search zone.”

  Rhys could live with flustered for a while.

  “She tracks bird populations in the basin,” he said, “so they have monitoring stations set up throughout the swamp. They’re remotely operated, and all the recordings are stored here. I have a theory.”

  “Which is?”

  He spotted a small brown sign for the center nearly hidden behind Spanish moss. “I’ll explain after we see a map of the stations. I don’t want my theory to influence your observations. We’re almost there.”

  “Very well.” She opened a small backpack and checked several notebooks she’d tucked inside. “I’ll bring my notes if you don’t mind. This is an avenue I hadn’t considered before.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” He drove slowly down the narrowing road, watching for rough spots as Meera fussed with her backpack and checked the points on her pencils. “I think I might keep calling you princess.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I make no promises.” He reached over to the back seat and slapped Roch’s knee. “Wake up, Cajun. We need you to speak to your people so they don’t feed us to the alligators.”

  Roch didn’t open his eyes, but he was awake enough to flip Rhys off.

  Becki the bird biologist was, in a word, delightful. It was clear she didn’t often come in contact with people as excited about bird population tracking as she was. Of course, she thought Rhys and Meera were visiting researchers from England and Roch was acting as their guide.

  “As far as whooping cranes go, the wild population hasn’t rebounded in the Atchafalaya.” The petite Caucasian woman with a slight Cajun accent ushered Rhys, Meera, and Roch down a hall framed by pictures of researchers in various habitats. Becki was in a few of them, but there were also three men who appeared in many, along with large groups of what looked like community or volunteer groups.

  “Where has it rebounded?” Rhys asked.

  “Southwest Louisiana right now,” Becki said. “The flock that’s there is a result of a federal reintroduction program. Some success, but it’s been limited. So while we occasionally get excited by a call that might be a whooping crane, for right now we’re focused on monitoring other species.”

  Meera was looking at a picture of a large group in narrow boats and kayaks. “You do a lot of work with the local communities about cleaning the swamps?”

  “The bayous are where there are more cleanup operations,” Becki said. “Bayous and rivers have more open water, so they get more traffic from people. People equal trash.”

  “Indeed.” Rhys stopped to examine one male researcher posing with a metallic-and-plastic contraption with antenna sticking up. “Is this one of the listening stations you utilize?”

  Becki walked back to Rhys and nodded. “Sure is. We have these scattered all over the basin. They take weather readings, record birdcalls, and we’re gradually setting all of them up with camera traps.”

  “How many?”

  Becki blew out a measured breath. “We put a new one out every time we get funding. I’m not sure what the exact number currently is, but I can show you a map.”

  Rhys smiled. “That would be helpful. We’re considering setting up a similar program in Yorkshire, and I’m specifically looking at what kind of coverage would be necessary.”
>
  She waved them toward a set of double doors. “Then come on back. I’ll pull up a map.”

  Meera walked over to Rhys as Roch chatted with Becki about local news.

  “I thought you’d identified the call you heard as a whooping crane,” she said quietly.

  “I did, but how sure are you that the Wolf is in the Atchafalaya?”

  “Very sure.”

  “Then whooping cranes won’t help. But seeing a map of their listening stations might.”

  “Why?”

  Rhys lifted his chin toward the large computer monitor mounted on one wall. “Because we don’t want to find things that exist. We want to look for things that don’t.”

  “Come on over,” Becki said. “Pull up a stool and I’ll bring the map up.” She pointed to the large television on the wall. “We just got this set up. I was working on my laptop for this kind of stuff a year ago. This makes the school kids much more excited.”

  Becki’s desktop suddenly appeared on the monitor. She clicked on an icon in the bottom right corner and immediately a map popped up. Rhys only got a quick glance before the biologist clicked on one of the small yellow dots scattered over the satellite image.

  “So this is a very active monitoring station. Woodpeckers love this area of the basin. We get lots of activity.” She pointed at the screen. “Weather recordings are down on the left. Do you see?”

  “Yes,” Meera said. “How far back to they go?”

  “The individual stations rewrite every forty-eight hours, but they back up to the server here every four unless we manually program them otherwise. So we have records of all these stations from the time they were put in. Temperature readings, humidity, rainfall. And then the birdcall recordings, which are all time-stamped.”

  “Fascinating,” Rhys said. It was fascinating, but he didn’t want to see how many downy woodpeckers made their home in Louisiana; he wanted to see that map again. “Can you pull it back to the larger map? Maybe give us an idea about the coverage? Ratio of land to listening stations, so to speak.”