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Leshwi finished her fruit before giving a reply. “He was there,” Leshwi said. “And so was his spren, though she did not appear to me. We fought. No conclusion. Though I fear I might not have a chance to face him again.”
Venli hummed to Craving, to indicate her curiosity.
“He killed Lezian, the Pursuer.”
“I do not know that name,” Venli said. With that title, the creature must be one of the Fused. As beings thousands of years old, each one had a lore and history long enough to fill books. It angered them that no one knew them individually this time around.
Indeed, Leshwi spoke to Derision when she replied, “You will. He is newly reawakened, but always worms his way into the stories and minds of mortals. He takes great pride in it.”
And the rest of you don’t? Venli kept the comment in. Leshwi appreciated Passion—but wry comments were entirely different.
“Is there other business for me?” Leshwi asked.
“One other matter,” Venli said, gesturing as Dul arrived with a very frightened woman in tow. A human woman, thin and somewhat scrawny, with long curling eyebrows. She was dressed in the humble clothing of a worker. “You asked me to find a tailor who could experiment with new designs. This one was of that profession once.”
“A human,” Leshwi said. “Curious.”
“You wished for the best,” Venli said. “Our people are learning to excel in many areas, but mastering some professions requires much longer than the year we’ve had. If you wish for an expert tailor, you will need a human.”
Leshwi stood, then rose into the air, her robes of luxury—gold and stark black—trailing beneath her. She hummed a message to Venli.
“The great lady wishes to know your name,” Venli said.
“Yokska, great one,” said the cowering woman.
“You were a tailor?” Venli said, Voicing for Leshwi.
“Yes, once I dressed princes and lighteyes. I know … I know the most current of fashions.”
“Your fashions and clothing will not suit a Fused,” Venli Voiced. “The designs will be unfamiliar to you.”
“I … I live to serve…” Yokska said.
Venli glanced at Leshwi and knew immediately from the lady’s hummed tone that this servant would be rejected. Was it the woman’s mannerisms? Too cowering? Perhaps she didn’t look presentable enough—though Venli had decided against dressing Yokska well, as that could offend the Fused.
“A human will not do,” Leshwi said. “To elevate this one would be to say our people are not good enough. In any case, tell her to stand up and meet my eyes. So many of these are cremlings.”
“Can they be blamed? Other Fused beat humans who meet their eyes.”
Leshwi hummed to Fury, and Venli met the tone with her own. At this, Leshwi smiled. “It is a problem among my kind,” Leshwi admitted. “The nine brands do not present uniform expectations of the humans. But still, this one cannot be my tailor. Already there are comments and questions about the raising of a human to the title of He Who Quiets. I would not heap up fuel for those seeking to prove we are soft. Save your hidden compassion for your own, Voice. But perhaps allow this one to teach a singer wearing artform, so they may learn her skill.”
Venli bowed her head, humming to Subservience. She would have been pleased regardless of the outcome—this was mostly a test to see what her lady thought of the humans. Leshwi spoke so often of the Windrunners, Venli was curious whether she would sympathize with a human of lower station.
“My tasks are done,” Leshwi said. “I will meditate. Empty the High Chamber and see that the new servant is properly trained.” She rose through a hole in the roof, seeking the clouds.
Venli thumped her scepter against the wooden floor, and the other servants began to disperse down the steps. Several helped the human woman.
Venli made Shumin wait. Once everyone was safely on their way, she led the newcomer down the long winding steps to her own room: the guardhouse that one needed to pass through to reach the steps. Venli’s position was, quite literally, the gate one needed to pass in order to approach Leshwi.
Dul waited beside the hatch that closed off access to the steps above. Shumin made as if to speak, but Venli quieted her, waiting until Dul closed the hatch and the window shades. Mazish returned from checking outside, then closed the door behind her. Dul and Mazish were married. Not once-mates, as the listeners would have called it, but married. They had insisted after having their minds restored; they’d been mates while enslaved by the humans, and had adopted Alethi ways.
Venli had a great deal of work to do. She needed to counteract the indoctrination of the Fused and help the singers cast off the traditions of those who had enslaved them. But a cremling did not shed its shell until it had grown too large for it; she hoped her guidance would eventually encourage them to shed—of their own choice—the burdens of both Fused and human society.
“You may speak now,” Venli said to Shumin. Venli changed her rhythm to that of Confidence—one of the old rhythms. The true rhythms, uncorrupted by the touch of Odium.
“Stormfather!” Shumin said, turning to Dul and Mazish. “That was difficult. You didn’t tell me she was going to practically dangle me off the edge!”
“We warned you it would be hard,” Dul said to Reprimand.
“Well, I think I did pretty well otherwise,” Shumin said, looking to Venli. “Right? Brightness, what did you think?”
The change in the femalen’s attitude made Venli sick. She was so … human. From her curses to her way of gesturing when she spoke. But then, those who were most loyal to the Fused were unlikely to join Venli. She would work with what she had.
“I worry you were overly timid,” Venli said. “The Fused do not want weakness, and neither do I. Our organization is formed from those who are strong enough to resist, and eventually break free of, all chains.”
“I’m ready,” Shumin said. “When do we attack the Fused? Each storm I worry I’ll be next, and that one of the waiting Fused souls will boot my mind out and take over.”
It didn’t work that way. Venli had witnessed the transformation; she’d nearly been taken herself. Accepting the soul of a Fused into your body had an element of agency to it.
Agency, however, was difficult to define. If you took a Regal form, Odium got inside your mind. New forms with their new rhythms altered your mannerisms, your way of seeing the world. Even common singers were carefully indoctrinated, constantly told that sacrificing themselves was a great privilege.
This, in the end, was what made Venli decide she needed to try to rebuild her people. The Fused and the humans … there was an equivalency to them. Both sought to take away the minds of common folk. Both were interested solely in the convenience of a useful body, without the accompanying “burden” of a personality, desires, and dreams.
Venli was determined not to do the same. She would accept those who came to her. If she wanted them to change, she would show them a better way. It was Timbre’s suggestion. Volition. Agency. Cardinal tenets of whatever it was she was becoming.
Strange sentiments for one who had once—with a grin on her face—brought death and enslavement to her people. But so be it. She nodded to her friends, who backed away to watch the doors. Venli gestured for Shumin to sit down with her at the small table by the wall, away from the windows.
