Then I was alone with the Guardian Lord. The big man leaned towards me, eyes hard.
“Well done, Ishvandu.”
“Thank you, sal’ah.”
“You’ve delivered on your promise. It is done. You’ve earned your place as a Guardian.”
“Thank you, sal’ah.”
“Now it’s time for honesty.”
I glanced up. “Honesty, sal’ah?”
“Something’s bothering you.”
“Nothing—”
“Don’t lie to me. Never do that again, or I will end you myself.”
My mouth worked in surprised. “Sal’ah, it . . . it’s not easy. Being out in the desert. Being separated from Tala, and the Guardian’s Hall, and—”
The man rapped his knuckle on the table. “Now, ab’Admundi. The truth.”
Had Mani told him about Polityr? What if he knew and was testing me? The Guardian Lord made no idle threats. Then again, if I spoke, would the Circle ever trust me again?
They’re Chosen. Sumadi are Chosen. I imagined myself saying those words, and immediately I knew it would finish me. Most would think I was sun-mad from the desert, or lying just to make something of myself. Those who did believe would shut me up. The truth was dangerous. Ishvandu. We can’t trust him. He knows things he shouldn’t.
But Umaala was looking at me. Expectant. I had to say something.
“Koryn,” I said abruptly. “Akkoryn ab’Kindelthu.”
The Guardian Lord’s brows threatened like a storm wall. “Oh?”
“He’s afraid. He’ll deny it, of course, but he doesn’t want to take the risks of an outrider.” It wasn’t exactly true, but Koryn would leverage to take back the lead, and I couldn’t have that. Not when it was so clear to me what had to happen. Besides, he had tried to discourage the first expedition.
I could do this. I could lead our people into the desert . . . and beyond.
Umaala looked thoughtful. “You think he’ll try to convince us against a second expedition?”
“Maybe, sal’ah. It’s just . . . forgive me. You asked me to speak honestly.”
“I did.”
“I . . . I don’t know if he’s prepared to do what has to be done for this to succeed.”
“And what has to be done?”
“Everything,” I said, drawing myself up. “Anything. If we’re ever to be free of the . . .” I hesitated. I had almost said the Choosing. “If we’re ever to be free of Kaprash.”
Umaala looked at me, eyes glinting. “You mean free of the Avanir.”
I winced. But maybe I could admit that much, at least? I took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, sal’ah.”
“You wish to assert our people’s independence from the Avanir.” His brows were low. “I understand, Ishvandu. But you will never say as much again. Not to Tala. Not to your kiyah. Not to anyone. There are some who would take those words as treason.”
“Of course, sal’ah. Forgive me.” I dropped my head. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Regardless.” His voice was hard. “If we’re going to do this, if we’re going to involve Labourers and Crafters, as you suggest, we must be utterly beyond reproach. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sal’ah.”
“Do you really?”
I looked at him. “I took an oath. I am the Al’kah’s to command.”
“Even if that command was to do nothing?”
I hesitated. Do nothing? Leave the well in the desert to fill up and vanish, unused?
“It would be . . . difficult, sal’ah. But I will trust the Al’kah’s decision.”
Umaala grunted, as if he wasn’t sure he believed me. I wasn’t sure I believed me either.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I will report your suggestion to the Al’kah and the Circle, and we will take council. In the meantime, you will continue to obey Akkoryn as the head of your kiyah. Understood?”
“Yes, sal’ah.”
“Dismissed.”
“Thank you, sal’ah.”
I ducked and hurried from the room.
I swept the curtain aside, grateful for a moment of peace.
Then I stopped. My room was already occupied.
For a moment I just stood there, staring at her. Tala was asleep. Rhythmic breathing filled the room. She was curled on her side, braids like a pool around her head, one hand still clutched at her belly, protective and tender. Aching.
I held my breath. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to disturb her.
No, that wasn’t true.
I wanted to run to her, to hold her and make her happy. But what would I see in those eyes? Maybe backing away would be best. Maybe I should leave and find a different corner of the Hall to sleep in.
But she was in my room. She’d chosen to come here. Why? To be close to me? Or had she sought loneliness, knowing we were in the desert?
Her breathing stilled. A new awareness tingled through the room. Too late.
“You did it,” she murmured, still half asleep.
I took a breath, readying myself for this conversation. “I did.” I swallowed. “How could you know?”
“Mmm. Too soon to be . . . anything else.” She smiled through lidded eyes. “Unless you were dragged kicking and screaming by your ankles, about . . . three weeks hence.”
I laughed. She was probably right. I came inside, peeling off my outer wraps and keshu. Then moving slowly, as if afraid to startle her, I stretched on the pallet next to her, propped on my elbows.
She didn’t move. Didn’t even open her eyes. I hesitated, then brushed away a strand of her hair, letting my fingers rest quietly against her cheek.
It was a question, a whole careful conversation of silence and touch. The response was not tension but a sigh, a turning of her face towards me, and a smile.
Her eyes slipped open.
“You’re back,” she said.
I grinned like a green Tasker.
She began to stretch and shift, coming awake. I decided to take a risk. I leaned in and kissed her.
She cleared her throat, a hand pushing ever so gently on my chest.
My heart sank. Yl’avah’s might, when? I resisted my frustration and pulled back, looking at her. A silent question in my eyes.
“Vanya,” she whispered.
“What? Tala, what can I do for you? How . . . ?”
She cleared her throat again, one brow lifted in expectation. “There’s a bucket by the door.”
“What?” I stared.
She rolled her eyes, then leaned forward, close enough I could smell the light perfume of her hair, like jasmine and cedar. “Vanya,” she said with enormous seriousness.
“What?”
“You stink.”
I blinked, shocked and mortified, until I realized I was carrying more than a week’s worth of desert grime. Laughter spilled out of me. I rolled away, apologizing profusely.
“This is no laughing matter,” she declared, pushing herself into a sitting position. “I’ll not have a smelly husband try to take me to bed, victorious hero or not.”
She must have seen the look on my face, the burst of renewed enthusiasm as I stripped off my robes and seized the cloth by the wash bucket. She was struggling to hide her smile.
“Try?” I asked with a grin. A hopeful grin.
She tilted her head. “If he wishes.”
I scrubbed vigorously. It wouldn’t be the cleanest I’d ever been in my life—in the middle of Kaprash, a proper bathe was a luxury not even Guardians were afforded. But I saw what she meant. Dust and sand were everywhere, as was the stink of unwashed robes. I sluiced it off as best I could. I kicked off my sandals. I washed my feet and under my arms and up my back as far as I could reach.
“Victorious hero, huh?” My grin would not go away.
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Oh, I plan to.” A thought struck me. “It’s past midday. You’re not supposed to be on duty now or anything, are you?”
She snorted. “
Ishvandu ab’Admundi, who do you think was watching the walls while you were gone? They can’t trust just anyone with that task.”
I glanced at her. “You? On the walls? But you’re fourth . . .”
“And the third was gone, so we’ve been taking turns. Last night was mine.” She smiled. “Actually, they’ve been putting me up a lot, since it’s easier for me than riding. Light duties, Kulnethar told them.” She sighed. “It’s a little boring.”
“Oh yeah?”
“But I like it. I feel close to . . .” She trailed off, looking suddenly embarrassed. Close to me?
She heard the unspoken question. She looked at me, eyes serious. “Together,” was all she said.
We were one. Together. Forever.
My heart swelled. “So . . . you’re not still angry at me?”
A shadow passed over her face.
Sands, you idiot! Why couldn’t I keep my blasted mouth shut? Now was not the time to remind her of her deepest pain.
“Vanya,” she said slowly.
I paused in my scrubbing and looked at her. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
My face went blank with confusion. “For . . . ?”
“For being patient with me. For trying to understand, even a little. Even though you couldn’t. You still . . . tried.”
“You’re welcome?” It came out sounding like a question, and I winced. I tried again. “Tala, I would do anything for you.”
“Even admit when you were wrong?”
“Well, I don’t know about that.” I grinned, then turned serious. I came and knelt beside her, taking her hand and staring at the loveliness of it: the cracks of dry skin, the calluses, the cuts she still bore from defending the Temple. Then I glanced up, and her eyes were close, and her face was even more lovely.
“Tala, I love you. And I will love you forever, even if it’s not perfect, even if it’s not everything I am or could ever be. And that includes all of you. All of . . . us.” I touched her stomach, gently, protectively. “I’ll do better next time, Tala. I promise. I want to see new life here again. I want to make life with you.”
Her eyes shone with new purpose, banishing the shadows—not gone, but momentarily forgotten. She gripped my arms. She looked at me, and I felt the kindled quickness of her breath. My hand brushed down the side of her leg. Her skin was dark and smooth beneath her shift. The fabric slipped over her head, pulled free, and I felt like I was looking at her anew. A woman in truth, a little harder, a little softer: battle-scarred and beautiful. Then carefully, deliberately, she pushed me back and settled against me, legs circling me, all the while holding me with her gaze.
This was not about me. The thought struck me. A sense of otherness and oneness as we hovered in that space before union. As I touched her lips. As she spread a hand over my chest. Small movements of rediscovery. There was purpose here, an act of creation. Joy as well as sacrifice. And yes, pleasure and desire, and all those things I’d been aching for. But something more, so much more.
Then everything vanished into the quiet, glorious place of sighs and sensations, familiar and ever-new. Of lips and breath and spreading warmth. It was for me, and not for me; it was giving, and it was taking. It was for Tala.
It was for everything we were and longed to be. Together.
Chapter Seventeen
Kulnethar ab’Ethanir
“I can’t believe we’re doing this!” Alis grinned as she slipped alongside me through the Library stacks.
It was the second quarter of night. I had always thought the Library was too quiet, even with the slow dance of scribes scratching at their tables, mixing ink, fetching scrolls. But now, in the dead of night, the stillness was uncanny, as if you could lean in and hear the silent parchments whispering their secrets.
I motioned for Alis to keep her voice down. She had insisted on coming. No way she was going to let me sneak around without her, she’d said.
I had explained the danger. We could both get in trouble. A lot of trouble.
She had brightened. “How much is a lot?”
Truthfully, I was glad to have a co-conspirator. I wasn’t very good at this sort of subterfuge, and I was relieved to be able to talk to someone. It had meant telling her everything, of course: E’tuah, the ytyri stone, even my doubts about Ishvandu and his desert-spring. But instead of attacking him, she just nodded thoughtfully, unsurprised, and agreed we had to get to the bottom of it.
We waited for the middle of the night. No one in their right mind would be up working at this time. Nevertheless, we went carefully, splitting up and circling the outer perimeter of the Library, checking for any late-night scribes.
There were none. The Library was empty. So we availed ourselves of the lanterns and crept into the stacks.
I decided to retrace my steps from the night before. Maybe if I found where I had gone wrong? Alis followed closely, though I noticed her scanning the shelves, stopping to read labels. Every turn we made, I saw her mind working. She would look around her, not in bewilderment or wonder, but with a sharp practicality. She was mapping it, I realized—not just memorizing a random set of turns and passages, but fixing the layout in her brain.
I smiled. I had chosen a worthy partner for this adventure.
Following her example, I paused every now and then to orient myself.
Remedies of the Old World, said one scroll label. Uses of Cautery, stated another. Yes, we were in medicine, a section to which I’d gone many times before. We moved deeper in. The scrolls shifted to historical accounts. The Chronicles of Shyandar, from the year 235 after the fall of Kayr to the year 270. I hesitated.
“You said you already read those up,” Alis interrupted. “Up to a hundred years in the past. This E’tuah fellow can’t be older than that.”
“There could still be clues.”
She frowned. “What’s our ultimate goal here?”
“Figure out E’tuah. Where does he come from? What is he planning? Why is he talking with Ishvandu? See if there’s any mention of him in the Library.”
“Or of the ytyri stone he gave Ishvandu—right?”
“Right.”
“So there might be mention of a mysterious exile in the official chronicles, or there might be mention of a forbidden stone of the ancients . . . but somehow I doubt it. We want secret knowledge, Kulni, not public records. Deeper in.”
She made a shooing motion with her hands, and I obeyed. It was wonderful, actually. Alis had taken quickly to her work in the healing rooms, sorting and preparing medicine, taking charge of patients with admirable efficiency. But she often fluctuated between angry defensiveness and withdrawn passivity, even towards me. Now that I was opening up to her, those walls seemed to be cracking. It felt good.
We travelled deeper in.
“Rations records, year 138 after the fall of Kayr,” Alis read. “Light and all, we keep such old records? Whatever for?”
I shrugged.
Another few turns.
“The Memoirs of the Undying,” I read.
“Really?” Alis bounded over to my side, eyes wide. “Really? No one told me you had first-hand accounts from before the Wars of Rending!”
“We don’t.” I leaned closer. “Everyone perished in those wars. Everyone except Shatayeth.”
“The Deathless King,” she nodded. “I remember those stories. Yl’avah’s might, he must have had some serious insecurity issues to go and murder the rest of his own people.”
“Insecurity?”
“Well, yeah. Why else would you go to war against your entire race, anyone with even a smidge of your power? I mean, if you’re really confident in your abilities, you don’t have to prove it. You just know.”
“Good point,” I said. I’d never really thought of Shatayeth as a person with ideas and fears and vulnerabilities. He was always just there, a figure of the past, the one who had destroyed Kyrada and warred against our people. “Accounts say he went mad with the wars and the killings,” I said. “He b
ecame obsessed with being the last.”
“Well, he succeeded. So what—are these his writings?”
I snorted. “If they were, they’d be locked up in the inner sanctum—or burned. No, look.” I held up the label. There was a subtitle in fine script: A Dramatic Retelling of the Pre-War Days, by Kladyan ab’Dalaka.
“Oh.” Alis looked disappointed. Then frowned. “What is dramatic?”
“Live reenactments of imagined events. It was quite popular in the days before the fall of Kayr.”
“Imagined events?”
“Right. The events didn’t really happen, people just pretend they did.”
“But . . . why?”
“Fun?” I suggested as we continued to move through the stacks. “And also insight. People were able to empathize with the characters, and so learn from them.”
“But . . . but . . . if events never happened that way, what’s the point? Why put so much effort into something that’s not true?”
“But they were true, weren’t they? I mean stories can tell us about true things. Like hope, and . . . and love.”
I took her hand, gazing at her.
She pulled away. Romance was an either-or state for Alis. Either she was working, or she wasn’t. Either she was willing to touch, or . . .
Actually, she was almost never willing to touch. I tried not to take it personally. Instead, we walked on in silence, a few more turns.
“Do you ever wonder what happened to him?” Alis asked suddenly.
“Who?”
“Shatayeth. There were the Wars, of course. But what happened to him after that? Was he ever . . . defeated?”
I shrugged. “He’s Undying.”
“So? The other Undying died, didn’t they?”
“Killed by him. Only Undying can kill each other.”
She snorted. “I doubt it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Undying means immortality, not invincibility. If someone can be killed by one person, they can be killed by another. I highly doubt Shatayeth himself hunted down every Undying person. He probably had others doing it for him.”
“Yes, other Undying. Whom he then killed. He was very good at manipulating people.”
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