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My heart is thumping in my chest. I haven’t expected him to reveal my secret to others, but maybe I’ve done it myself already by healing Numair.
Inara and Numair walk into the kitchen. The plant is so out of place in this tormenting desert, and their gazes land on it in a second.
“Maker’s breath,” Numair says echoed by Inara’s, “Evanae’s grace.”
Inara is the first one who dares to step close and brush the leaves with her fingers, as if checking that the plant is not a conjured-up illusion.
“Neylan wants to grow a garden,” Valdus states in a flat voice, like he’s talking about what’s for breakfast instead of something forbidden.
“A garden?” Numair repeats.
“It wouldn’t be flowers and greenery,” I try to explain. “Food producing shrubs and plants were what I was thinking.”
“That’s a lot of resources,” Numair adds, still ogling the plant.
“We could grow our own food,” I rush to add, desperate for everyone to get past my binding, and consider what it could bring to the table.
Numair narrows his eyes on me. “If you only allowed me to finish.”
My gaze darts between everyone present, desperate to see if they want to help me or take me to the guards.
Inara is the first to break the silence. “So? What do we do?”
“It could be a way to break the dependence from The Carrier of Quotas we’ve been seeking,” Valdus says.
Numair grins. “Wouldn’t it be nice to rub this in Magnar’s face?” I choke on my breath, and Numair turns to me with a lopsided smirk. “I’m sorry, your Highness, I meant Our Sun and Light and The Beloved Protector of the Empire of Usmad.”
“You all seem to take it very well that I can bind ethera,” I say, and start chewing on my lip again.
Numair sighs. He glances at Valdus, whose only answer is a shrug. Without another word, he walks to the wall and pulls his hand away as if to punch it. I would have imagined his bones cracking and Numair howling in pain. Instead, his hand goes through the stones as he binds them to his will. He turns his arm this way and that before taking it out without a wound.
“I can’t do anything that spectacular,” Inara says from behind my back. “I’m a paper binder. Not as fancy as these two, but the end of the noose is no farther.” She is yet to look away from the plant as she adds, “Are you sure you can do it?”
I could lie, assure them that I’ve learned all the secrets of my binding, but I’ve never been one to weave intrigue only to gain what I desire. “I’m not,” I answer flatly. “But if you let me, I won’t stop until I’ll see it through.”
It’ll be another hour or two until the heat of the day will make even a moment under the sun unbearable, but for now, I can let the morning breeze play with my hair as I draw in the sketchbook Valdus has offered me. I’ve only decorated a few pages, guarding each one like a costly treasure.
Monsters that haunt my nightmares stare back at me with their eyes of charcoal. A fireskull with a halo of flames, a frostfoot devouring the last of ethera from a frozen body, and even my father’s portrait with that sharp look he always has.
The only exception in my drawings is the lemon tree worthy of the palace’s gardens. Lush foliage dotted with countless flowers forms a canopy of charcoal leaves. Ever since the talk about the garden started ten days ago, my mind won’t stop conjuring ludicrous images where my lemon tree is blooming among shrubs and plants. As I draw every detail so stark in my mind, I can’t help myself from adding Valdus and myself sitting under the tree the way we did when he showed me The Broken Sands. It’s so ridiculous, I have to press my lips closed, to reign in the nervous chuckle. I tear the drawing out of the sketchbook and stuff it in my pocket in hope Inara can turn this piece of paper white again.
The original tree is nothing but a sprout of three branches, twirling around one another, pulling themselves higher. I should focus on it instead of my imagination.
After healing Numair, it’s been easier to let go of my ethera. As if some part of me got unlocked, but each time sharp headaches follow soon after.
Before I channel any energy into it, I stroll into the kitchen and rummage through cabinets in search of a snack. I find a jar of oatmeal cookies and nibble on one as I wait for water to boil. A current of air ambles through the backyard, gathering ridges of sand over slabs of stones. The door to the backyard bangs shut and makes me jump in place. As I glance around the empty kitchen, I realize that for the first time since I’ve arrived, I’m alone. Valdus hasn’t been home for more than a few hours the past week, and Inara left to get their rations for the week from The Carrier of Quotas.
I wipe the crumbs on the fabric of my trousers and cross the kitchen. A staircase matching the one that leads to my room goes up to the second floor.
The whistle of the boiling kettle startles me. I trudge back to the stove and make myself a glass of rich-brown tea.
A peek wouldn’t hurt, would it?
I’m at the foot of the stairs before I know it, climbing them in twos. I try the knob on my right, and the door opens into a room with neatly folded clothes, a bed made without even a wrinkle on the thick blanket, a cupboard where everything has its own place, and a pile of papers on a small desk. I ruffle through torn maps in the middle of mending and insignificant notes yet to be sent, but find nothing that piques my curiosity. Putting everything back in place, I pull the door closed to what I imagine must be Inara’s room shut behind me. Only one other door is left.
It opens with a squeak into a room where heavy curtains on a window bar the sunlight and flood every corner with shadows. At the far end, a cupboard sags against the wall next to an unmade bed. A brass handle on one of doors is missing, leaving the other hanging by itself. Shallow scrapes on the floor next to a faded brown armchair suggest there were two once. It must be the one that’s sitting in my room. I tiptoe closer to a simple metal table used as a desk. Oily canisters and greasy rags lie next to metal parts of all sizes and forms. Eight revolvers have their cylinders propped open. Valdus must be working on them. Binder of metal, he seems to be good with all kinds of machines and mechanical parts.
My gaze slides over the wall to an empty picture frame. Looking more closely, I realize it’s actually a large and very narrow cabinet with two sliding doors. Each of my steps is a measured move, as if whatever I will uncover might change the course of time.
