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“I promised your safety, and I couldn’t…” Valdus stops himself and clears his throat, the amusement fading from his features. “I’m sorry for whatever happened in that alley before I came. I’m sorry Numair hurt you.”
“I might have hurt him more than he did me. At least, that’s what he seemed to think,” I say, turning the button this way and that, guiding myself back on topic. “My ankle still hurts, but Inara left me a bottle of essential oil, and it helps.”
Valdus doesn’t answer, and I look up to meet his eyes. A few seconds tick by, or maybe minutes.
The chime of the clock on the prayer house makes me jump in place, and Valdus turns toward the window as if drawn to each new ring of the bells.
“I have to go,” he says, getting up from his chair. His hand is on the knob when he turns to me once again. “Why don’t you write back to the Nameless One?”
“I thought it was three questions each,” I say, following his gaze to the nightstand where the letter from Bonar lies folded on the tray. Even if my breath hitches and my heart tugs in my chest, I only shrug. “You must know the answer to that one.” I have to pry my fingers from the button before I pull this one off, too. “I might be a prisoner in this house, but I’m not letting you read my private thoughts.”
“You are not a prisoner.”
“Is that not a lock on the door?”
Valdus opens his mouth, but the last chime seals his lips.
14
No matter where one lives in the desert, no matter their status or privilege, there is one tradition we all carry out. As soon as we finish our meal, we gather the seeds from the spoils of our meals and utter a prayer to the Maker and his bride, to the elemental spirits and their power over the world.
The prayer of life was the first one a priest has taught me, and it’s the only one I remember by heart. Yet as I turn the lemon seed between my fingers, I wonder if our pleas are not as useless as they seem.
The Cataclysm has ravaged the world. The Original Thirteen had emerged after it and tried to help us, but King Anadar, the Bringer of Oblivion massacred them. The elemental spirits have disappeared. After decades of suffering, none of the leaders of the empire have stretched a helping hand toward the ones in need. The word is still nothing but sand, struggling to take its next breath.
The seed in the palm of my hand reminds me of the palace. My father has sacrificed his own energy to bring the splendor of lush greenery into the desert. I hated my life in the royal home back in The Shadow City, but at least I’ve had the gardens to take refuge in. I would give anything to spend a night under the swaying branches of the apricot trees or breathe in a lungful of air that tasted of anything else but coal, dust, and metal.
Turning the seed between my fingers again, an idea blooms in my mind. I’ve always felt the pull of ethera in a way none of my sisters seemed to do. Not that I’ve dared to ask them. Not after the guards had dragged away one of their own when flames burst out of his fingertips. The power of binding elements to one’s will isn’t a welcome trait. Not in the palace, nor anywhere else in the desert. The only exception seems to be the emperor himself. Still, only a chosen few know his secret, and anyone who dares to voice a suspicion doesn’t live long enough to repeat his claim. But I always knew. Not because he had told me, but because I’ve felt it each and every time my father used his life energy to grow the gardens.
The door to my room swings open, and Inara comes in with tea and cookies. Judging by the scent clinging to her clothes, she must have baked them this morning. I wrap my fingers over the seed, my thoughts a prayer, but a different kind. As negligible of a treasure this seed is, I’m not willing to let anyone take it.
“Where is Valdus?” I ask, avoiding Inara’s worried glance.
It’s been yet another week since he last came, and I’ve been bored to my bones in the room with nothing to do. His presence was a welcome distraction, and I’m desperate enough to hope I can trade some of my secrets for an opened window. The thickness in the air makes it unbearably hot. I just want to feel the morning breeze on my face again.
Inara glances toward the town and licks her lips. “He has been working some extra shifts.”
Extra shifts?
Valdus hasn’t been home at all, as if he was not only working at the factory, but even sleeping there.
“Why would he do that? The tales speak of rebels bathing in silver.”
Inara stiffens but doesn’t react in any other way to my jab. By the time she has put the tray down and walked to the door, she seems to have regained her composure. “You and I both know that not all tales are true.”
I’m not hungry, but when she leaves the room, I still limp to the armchair. My ankle is of a violent shade of purple and blue. No matter how much the cypress oil helps to soothe the pain, I can’t bear to put any weight on it.
As I settle down, my gaze falls on the tray where a folded piece of parchment lies next to the freshly-baked cookies.
A silly smile spreads on my lips as I unfold the letter. Bonar’s elegant writing waits for me inside.
I think I found a way. I have to work through all the details, and it’s a stretch, but believe me, I spend every waking hour thinking of a way to get you here. I’ve promised you safety, and I failed you so miserably.
I know you’re mad at me. You have every right to be.
As soon as I get you to this refuge I’m working on, you won’t have to talk to me ever again.
Just let me know you are safe. Breathing. Alive.
