You should know. She kissed him again before she pressed her forehead to his. I think I can show you.
“I’m not imagining it. How do you do that?”
Later.
He closed his eyes as their lips met over and over again. Raw need gripped him, but he tuned every sense to Meera. Her scent. Her touch. The gentle brush of her thoughts against his.
Without thinking, he touched his talesm prim and felt his magic come to life. It wasn’t a conscious thought, but he knew she needed him to be open.
I can show you.
Show me, reshon.
Rhys felt his magic wake, like the slow stretch of a sunbeam crawling across the floor. Each spell woke with a hum, the oldest first.
Long life.
Understanding.
Perception.
Concentration.
The talesm he’d inked during his training to help him focus.
Meera slid to the floor in front of him, gently guiding Rhys to the small sofa in the corner. She pressed him back into the seat and straddled him, never letting their lips break apart. His magic grew and grew.
Vision.
Strength.
Speed.
His training as a warrior.
The spells had reached his right shoulder when they became more intricate. More personal.
The rising spell of Chamuel’s blood, the spell his mother taught him, woke in him with a jolt. He spread his palms wide, and Meera pressed their hands together, palm to palm. But instead of the murky sense of knowing and glimpses of memory he usually received from this magic, a door broke open in his mind and Rhys stepped through.
This is what I can show you.
A memory. It was one of Meera’s memories.
An old woman sat on a cushioned stool near a trickling fountain as a child with flushed round cheeks chased a pair of peacocks around a flower-strewn garden. The little girl ran after the birds only to turn and let the birds chase her. There were peals of laughter, and the old woman sang a soft song.
Guide them with your mind, the woman sang in the Old Language. Let them play and dance. Teach them to follow you and they won’t stand a chance.
It was a game. Meera’s mind was joined with his. He could feel her utter joy as the birds chased her around the garden. He could also feel a shadow in the magic the little girl didn’t sense.
It was more than a game, it was training.
Let them play and dance.
Teach them to follow you.
They won’t stand a chance.
Rhys didn’t hear the old woman’s thoughts, but he knew she was Anamitra, somasikara of the Eastern Irina, keeper of memories and Sage of Udaipur. And Anamitra was teaching the little girl to control the minds of the birds with her song.
He didn’t just see or hear the memory. He felt like he was there. It was hot, far hotter than his cottage in Havre Hélène. The air wasn’t misty and soft, it was dry and tinged with the earthy smell of baking bread. He could feel the sun toasting his skin. He wasn’t just seeing or hearing the memory. He was living it.
I have brought your mind with me.
What does this mean?
Meera’s lips broke from his and Rhys blinked slowly. The dawn was still breaking and Meera straddled his lap, her soft hands playing with the fine hair at the back of his neck. A gentle smile played across her lips.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
Meera whispered, “This is what I can do. With my magic and your blood—”
“We can be in a memory together.”
“Yes.”
Rhys’s mind went wild with the possibilities. “And after we’re mated?”
Meera’s gaze turned inward. “Anamitra once told me that Firoz walked with her through memories that were too painful for her to bear alone. Perhaps he had Chamuel’s blood too.”
“The Tomir are Uriel’s children.”
“So…” Meera shrugged. “I don’t know, Rhys. We’ll only find out after we mate.”
Would Rhys be able to see the treasury of Irina memory as Meera did? Experiencing that memory with her was like touching the edge of the sea. He knew a vast depth stretched beyond her, but he could only see ripples on the surface.
Meera climbed off Rhys’s lap, straightening the gown he’d shoved up to the juncture of her thighs. Rhys watched with displeasure as her legs were hidden behind the thin cotton fabric.
“I haven’t had you in days,” he said bluntly. “It’s been too long since your taste was in my mouth.”
“You’ll have me tonight,” she said. “And the next night. And the next.”
Their mating feast was tonight. After that, Rhys and Meera would be left in solitude to perform their mating ritual, tattoo their magic, and cement their bond while her parents’ guests continued to celebrate without them.
Rhys was profoundly ready to have Meera to himself.
“Is it wise,” she asked, “to continue with this while Bozidar approaches?”
“We’re stronger together.”
“But not at first.”
“That’s the common wisdom. Judging by what I just saw, I’m not certain the common wisdom holds for us.”
She held her hand out. “Come with me. I have a rising song to sing.”
He watched her from the edge of the field as Meera sang facing east, the rising sun just below the horizon. The song that Ata had taught her was simple and beautiful, a quiet melody that blessed the morning and welcomed the Creator’s magic onto the land and into the hearts of those who dwelled in it.
It was completely beside the point of her magic, but Meera’s voice was lovely. It soothed Rhys’s mind and soul.
It wasn’t long before Ata was standing next to him. Gone was the ceremonial dressing. She was the simple, powerful presence he’d come to know in the bayou.
“She remembers.” Ata’s eyes were on Meera.
“She remembers everything.” And he was just beginning to grasp the weight of that burden.
“Why did you call me here?”
Rhys turned to her. Ata was a direct woman, and he’d offended her with his machinations to draw her from her sanctuary. The least he could do was honor her directness with his own. “We needed to be mated to learn the magic used to kill the Fallen, but I didn’t want Meera to miss the blessings of her family so that I could accomplish my goal. Bringing you here—”
“Forcing me here.”
“—blesses our union. We’ll also be able to learn the magic we need. That’s why we brought you here, and I’m sorry I wasn’t more forthright from the beginning. We could have asked you.”
Ata shrugged. “I would have refused.”
“I know. That’s why we didn’t ask.”
The edge of a smile touched her lips. “I don’t want to like either of you.”
“But you do.”
“I like you a little. Her?” Ata motioned to Meera and shook her head. “I cannot. I honor her. I admire her. I need her. I cannot like her.”
Rhys’s heart broke a little, wondering how many times and in how many ways that same sentiment had been expressed to Meera. “I don’t know if I understand that.”
“She is the living embodiment of our victories and our failures,” Ata continued. “Our lives and our deaths. She holds all memories, scribe, not just the good ones. The somasikara exist in a direct line from the first singers. They are our mirrors and our reminders.” Ata turned to him. “No one can be friends with their true reflection. It is too painful.”
Rhys couldn’t take his eyes off her. “The Irin have nothing like this, so I can only understand a little. I just want to protect her. Love her.”
“The scribes have no such thing because you write your memories into stone and onto skin, etching them into strict control. But the Irina?” Ata shook her head. “Our memories live and breathe like our magic. We are our memories.”
“Which is why we need yours. Now more than ever.”
She frowned. “Tell me bluntly. Does it have to do
with the Fallen?”
“Not the one you saw.” Rhys took a deep breath. “Bozidar approaches. Meera and I want to kill him.”
“Bozidar is an archangel.”
“Yes, like Nalu.”
“And he’s in the city?”
“We think so, but he knows where this haven is. We need to draw him here and kill him.”
Ata lifted her chin and pointed it east. “Why not hunt him in the city?”
“Among the humans? We can’t count on a shield of protection around us like we had in the Battle of Vienna. No angel fights with us in New Orleans.”
“What about that one posing as a raven?”
“He’s… unreliable,” Rhys said. “At best.”
“He’s an angel.” Ata said nothing for a long while. “How would you draw Bozidar to the haven?”
Rhys smiled. “We have something he wants.”
Ata’s nostrils flared. “You cannot use the somasikara as bait.”
“I wasn’t thinking about Meera.”
The warrior understood immediately. “Me?” Ata nodded. “Yes, Bozidar has likely wanted me dead for a very long time. He might hope I am dead, but in his heart he knows I am not.”
“Have you fought him before?”
“Yes. He was there when my mate was killed. He didn’t kill him, but he was there.”
Meera finished the rising song, lowering her arms and relaxing into a lotus pose, her fingers lightly skimming the drying grass.
“Her parents would be shocked and horrified I’m even bringing this up to you. You’re a guest here.”
“I’m a warrior. I understand using the resources at hand, and I am a resource. Still, I don’t know how you think you’re going to kill him. As far as I know, you don’t have an army wielding black blades, and that’s likely what you’d need.”
“Or just a singer who knows what she’s doing.”
Ata’s face hardened. “I told you. That magic can only be performed by—”
“A mated scribe and singer.” He reached out his hand as Meera walked toward them. “After tonight, we will be.”
Meera smiled and tucked herself under Rhys’s arm. “We are your willing students, Ata. We want to learn.”
Ata cocked her head. “You think the two of you can perform your mating ritual tonight and learn my magic the next morning? That’s not the way this works.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t learn magic that quickly. It needs time. Connection.”
Meera asked, “Even for me?”
Ata nodded deeply. “Even for you. I mean no disrespect. I speak nothing but the truth.”
“I can learn it. I’m telling you. Rhys can learn it too.”
“Eventually.”
“Immediately. Other singers can’t. I can.”
“No.” Ata shook her head. “The other pair perhaps. The warriors from across the sea. The tall blond woman and her mate. I might be able to teach them.”
“Fine.” Rhys put a hand on Meera’s arm when she began to protest. “That’s fine. But you can teach us at the same time.”
“You won’t be able to learn.”
Rhys said, “Maybe not, but we are willing to try.”
Ata’s expression was blank for a long time. “Fine,” she said. “I will teach you. Then you will take these memories from me, Somasikara, so that I may die.”
“Ata—”
“You have already agreed to this.” Ata turned and started to walk away. “I expect you to honor our agreement.”
“It’s time.” Maarut and Damien held the veil in front of Rhys’s face as they stepped barefoot across the flower-strewn path leading to the banquet.
The unveiling was last of the formal rituals he had to perform before he could claim his mate. The linen veil represented division between singer and scribe. Letting it fall when his mate stood before him was not only symbolic of union between male and female but led to many a foolish-looking scribe. Everyone loved taking pictures of the tongue-tied man in awe of a beautiful woman.
Rhys refused to be that scribe.
He had seen Meera looking sultry in a jazz club, sweaty and bug-covered in the middle of the bayou, and just plain naked more than once. As beautiful as he found the woman, he wasn’t mating with her for her looks. He wasn’t a scribe to be struck dumb by beauty.
They came to stop on the gold-petaled path. He could hear whispers and laughter beyond the veil.
“Brother, are you ready to behold heaven’s beauty?” Damien asked quietly.
“Of course.” Rhys smiled indulgently as the veil Maarut and Damien held before his face fell away.
And he froze.
Heaven above, I am not worthy.
Rhys ignored the chuckles and whispers. They no longer existed in his world. Meera did, and she had rendered him speechless.
She was adorned in rich red silk that hugged her curves and fell to her toes. Her hair was twisted in an intricate halo and threaded with gold. Gold dusted the lids of her eyes and painted intricate patterns over her hands, arms, and shoulders.
And her eyes.
Heaven above, he was not worthy of the emotion he saw in them. She watched him with dark, kohl-lined eyes, a soft smile on her lips.
She loves me. She loves me.
“Reshon.” Meera reached up and touched the corner of his eye. “There is only joy tonight.”
Rhys blinked away the tears, too happy to be embarrassed. “I am in awe, sha ne’ev reshon.”
“Take my hand, Rhys,” she whispered. “We have a banquet to attend.”
“And then you’re mine,” he said. “For three days, you are mine alone.”
A dark blush touched Meera’s cheeks. “For three days, you are mine.”
He bent down and whispered, “But there are at least forty more scrolls. We have our research cut out for us.”
“In only three days? Are you sure you’re up for the task?”
“I am. Uncomfortably so.”
Meera threw back her head, and her joyful laughter led them into the banqueting tent.
“You’re staring at me again.”
“Yes.” He would stare at her forever. Nothing in the pageantry before them even remotely competed with a single fold of his beloved’s dress.
Meera’s cheeks warmed with color. “You have to watch, Rhys. They went to so much trouble for this.”
A line of a dozen singers danced lightly over a carpet of bright yellow flower petals as Patiala sang a soaring anthem praising Uriel for long and blessed life. Patiala’s own mating marks glowed with power as she sang the traditional song woven with personal touches only a mother would add for her daughter. A few moments were funny. A few were sad. All were unique, and Rhys couldn’t help but be thankful that Meera had pressed him to wait for this.
He would remember this night for eternity.
They sat on a platform covered with flowers while singers played beautiful music and scribes danced. The contingent of Tomir warriors Maarut had called bowed to them before performing a dangerously beautiful spear dance that set Rhys’s warrior heart racing.
There were speeches and songs, toasts and dances. The meal started with delicate bites that Meera and Rhys fed each other while guests came up to the platform to visit and bring gifts.
Damien draped around their shoulders a long silk scarf embroidered with blessings from the scribes at Rěkaves. Sari brought an intricately carved wood and mother-of-pearl chest from Istanbul filled with a dozen different teas and another similar chest filled with spices.
Rhys’s parents, clearly anticipating future grandchildren, brought a richly illuminated copy of the Hokman Abat, the Irin manual for fatherhood.
“Read it before you need it,” his father advised. “There are many wisdoms about caring for a mate in the Hokman Abat. It’s not only about children.”
“Is this the Salman translation?” Rhys asked.
“It is.”
He frowned. “Do you think it’s more accur
ate than the Gen’ez? I’ve never asked, but I’ve read varying opinions on which holds most closely to the—”
“Rhys.” His father smiled. “Not the time.”
Rhys glanced at Meera. “I imagine she’s curious too.”
“The Gen’ez version is what’s used most widely in Udaipur,” Meera said, reaching for the book. “So I’m curious to compare the two for discrepancies.”
“Heaven above.” Angharad sighed. “She really is perfect for him.”
“I told you,” Edmund said. “The Creator makes no mistakes, my love.”
Meera slid the book over to a silk-covered table with other gifts. “Thank you. We’ll enjoy examining it later.”
Gift after gift. Song after song. Eventually Rhys wanted all of them to just go.
And then Ata came forward.
As the honored guest, she wasn’t required to give a gift. Her presence was deemed to be more than enough. But dressed in her finery, Ata reached into a beaded leather bag and withdrew a small, leather-wrapped package.
“Open it later,” she said. “When you are alone. Rhys will understand what it is.”
“Not me?” Meera asked.
“No.”
Then she turned and walked away.
Ata’s departure was like a bell being struck. The singers making music walked toward Rhys and Meera to sing and lead them to the tent that had been prepared. Rhys rose and held his hand out for his mate. She took it and followed him.
They walked down a torch-lit path strewn with purple and red flower petals, then turned at the door and watched as the singers walked back, extinguishing the torches as they went.
And at last they were alone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rhys let out a long breath. “I thought this day would never come.”
Meera turned to him with a smile. “I told you the formal feast was a marathon. And that wasn’t even the long feast, that was the short—”
“No.” Rhys took her hand in both of his and brought her knuckles to his lips. “I’m not talking about this week.”
He led her inside the tent, which had been outfitted like something out of a fantasy novel. Rugs and pillows covered the grass, tapestries hung on the walls, and banners covered the ceiling. A bed was raised on a platform near the center of the tent, and a washroom and bath had been built and partitioned off the back. There was no electric light, but skylights would illuminate the interior during the day and lamps glowed at night.
The Seeker Page 28
