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I’m working on a more permanent solution, and, I must confess, I’m not sure when, or even if, I will be able to work out all the details. Despite all that, I made a promise to you, and I won’t stop trying. Not while your father is scouring the desert for you. While his guards are everywhere.
The word is, he wants to get the marriage back on track, even though no one has heard from Ajaia since the attack.
The only thing I know for sure is that the people you are with, they are men of their word. They promised to keep you safe. And to them, promises are worth much more than silver.
The next lines of text are impossible to decipher, scratched with ink until no word is recognizable. And then,
They took Tylea back to the palace as soon as the train was ready to roll. I think she’s safe.
Just keep breathing,
Nameless One.
I reread the letter a few times, torn between relief for Tylea’s well-being and confusion over Bonar’s words. Clutching the letter close to my chest, I walk toward the window, only one question circling through my mind.
Where, in the Maker’s name, am I?
12
The first rays of sun kiss my face, but I’m already fully awake. I’ve been for at least two hours.
No matter how hard Inara tries, but, after seven days, this room feels like a prison. Locked door, fissured walls, and not enough space to burn the overflowing energy of my recovering body. I suffer through each moment. The heat is unbearable during the day while the cold is biting in the deep hours of the night.
My captors, or my saviors, I’m not sure which yet, bring me food and fresh clothes. Inara inquired if I needed anything, but what could these people offer me that would compensate for the lack of freedom? Inara even asked me if I wanted to write back to the Nameless One, but it’s bad enough they must have read Bonar’s letter. I’m not sure I want them to read mine.
While I wait for my breakfast, the house wakes up. Cupboards open and close, dishes clank, and the kettle lets out a solemn whistle. It won’t be long before Inara will bring me my breakfast and Valdus will leave for the day. He usually comes back when the sun is already down, but no sooner than the first hours of the evening. It gives me plenty of time to sneak out the half-open window and explore the city. Maybe there is someone out there looking for me, or if not, someone who could get me to Bonar. After all, the rebels attacked the train mere days away from The Veiled Rock, and, with enough luck, I might be in the same town as Bonar.
I rush to snuggle deeper into the blanket as soon as I hear footsteps on the stairs. Inara walks in moments later, her kaftan shifting between her legs with a muted rustling of fabric. A heavy sigh echoes through the room. I’m far from fooling her with my theatrics, but she doesn’t stop the performance.
As soon as the door closes, I’m out of bed, stuffing toast and jam in my mouth and washing it down with burning-hot tea. My tongue is numb with pain by the time I put the glass down, but I don’t pay any heed to it and rush to the bathroom. Plaiting my hair and wrapping it in a tight coil, I pick the dullest of the kaftans Inara left for me.
By the time I step to the window, Valdus’s figure grows smaller. I wait for the crowd to sweep him in its flow before I push myself through the window. The sill grazes the skin of my hips. The fabric creaks awfully close to a tear. I find the first grip and push myself out, but a nail has snagged the fabric of my kaftan.
I should have worn trousers.
My fingers burn from effort and the heat of stones, but no matter how hard I tug on the hem of my kaftan the loose nail won’t release it. A rip, and my skirt comes free. I let out a string of curses when I see a tear. As sure as Maker’s breath Inara will notice that.
The wind carries a humming to my ears, and I stop moving. I dare to look down and curse myself again.
Inara walks toward the lines under my window with a basket full of laundry on her hip.
Muttering a prayer to Livith to cloak me in his darkness, I press against the wall. I don’t dare to move in case even a whisper of fabric might catch Inara’s attention.
The back of my kaftan is slick with sweat by the time she has pinned the last shirt. Her humming echoes through the backyard as she picks up the basket, but fades as she walks back into the house.
I climb down the wall, my fingers growing stiffer with each hold, the scratches on my skin add a fresh layer to the faded-red paint on the stones. As my boots sink into the sand, I lean on the wall, huffing and rubbing my aching arm. Inara had taken the stitches out the previous night, but my muscles are still too tender for such feats as climbing down a two-story building.
With not a moment to lose, I snatch a dull gray scarf from the line and wrap it over my head until my eyes peeking through are my only visible feature.
The sweet smell of roasted vegetables and mint tea wafts to my nose. My stomach growls in response, my mouth waters. I glance toward the tavern brimming with guards, wealthy guests of the governor, and enough food to fill them to a bursting.
I’ve dared only a few peeks since the crowd welcomed me in its hustling wave of restless workers, squabbling children, and guards towering over all of us. Yawning until their jaws crack and scratching their heads, the number of soldiers defending my father’s empire in this town are far from what I was used to seeing behind the palace walls. Yet people still lower their heads and cross the street whenever a patrol comes into sight. Everyone knows that even if not polished to a shine, the soldier’s blades are sharp enough to carve their hearts out.
I’ve wandered the streets for less than a day, but I’ve already spotted a railway station with a glass dome and a train dumping charred smoke into a bright blue sky. High above it, the household of the governor swarms with guards, from its gates and down the only road leading up the hill. I’ve dashed into shadowed alleys before anyone could spot me, ambling down streets with no purpose or destination, merging with crowds and splitting as soon as anything caught my interest.
“You, there.” A soldier has his finger pointing at me. Righteous and accusatory.
Merry laughter spills onto the street as the guard pulls away from the door of the tavern and takes his first step in my direction. A group of workers in clothes with stains of rust and coal bar his passage, but like an incessant storm, the guard pushes through the throng. A man with a neat beard and a pronounced limp falls to the ground, but I don’t wait to see what happens next.
