Gemeri gives an unhappy nod. We pick our second-best location and formulate several additional petty requests, knowing Zomah will argue every point. This way we can pretend to capitulate when he wants a new location or more warriors. Once we send it off to the Eye, we share a grim, satisfied look.
“Well done,” he says quietly, and the praise sinks into my skin like oil, feeding my courage.
I trust him, I realize. His counsel, his kindness over the past decade. They aren’t a mask for an ulterior motive. “I would be lost without your wisdom, Gemeri. I know I ask much of you—”
“I am honored to serve Usuri,” he says quickly, flashes of green in his cheeks and jowls.
“I am honored to call you a friend.” It’s an uncomfortable word in my mouth, and if his yellow lips are any indication, he’s surprised to hear it, too. But his skin shows no dismay or fear, so I barrel on. “I wish to know more of your life. If you are willing to share,” I add, suddenly nervous.
He nods. “Of course. I would have sooner, but I did not want to overstep. What do you wish to know?”
“Why did you come to Usuri?” He is one of the handful who have stayed more than a few years, and I’ve always been curious about what brought him here.
“My mate died, and my greenlings were grown. I wanted a new challenge and being the only comm scholar in a new settlement seemed like a worthy one. I got to set up the system exactly how I like it, and nobody can ruin it for me!” He chuckles. “I suppose only a scholar could fully appreciate what a privilege that is.”
“Why did you become a scholar?”
He laughs again. “Because I did not want to be a warrior!”
“Surely there was another choice. Braxa herder. Market vendor. Basket weaver,” I joke.
His cheerful expression fades a bit. “Not back then. The Frathik War demanded every able Irran. It was warrior, weapons-maker, or comm scholar. I like to read more than I like to fight.” He shrugs.
“I like to read, too.” I feel light admitting it. Like some invisible weight has lifted. Was it really such a heavy secret?
“But not more than you like to fight,” he says wryly.
It strikes me that I don’t know. “I was never given the chance to do anything else. My father apprenticed all his sons to warriors before we were seven summers.”
Gemeri’s eyes widen, though he keeps his pigment in check. “My sons did not apprentice to warriors until they were nearly a decade older, and even then, I thought them young. I cautioned them not to feel burdened by the choice. That they could change course if they had another interest. Being a warrior, wielding the power of death, is a heavy burden that not all are suited to bear.”
I can’t imagine Chanísh ever saying something like that. If he did, it would be a trap. A test. What kind of male would I be if he’d given me choices? What if he’d let me listen to my own heart instead of forcing me to gamble which was the least painful path? What if he hadn’t made death my occupation?
“I wish I’d had a male like you as a father.”
Gemeri’s skin storms, and he seems to be struggling with his words, too. When his pigment clears, so does his throat. He rises from the comm chair and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Even if you were a pit-sweeper, I would be proud to call you my son. I do not presume to know the mind of an Emperor, so I will not speak for him. I speak only for myself. You walk in Alioth’s light, and I’m proud to follow behind you. If you ever want to share lastmeal, I welcome your company, Jara.”
I am speechless. Eating from the same dish is an honor bestowed only on closest family and dearest friends. My fingers tingle, and when I look down at my hands, I’m shocked to seethem tinged a deep, contented brown. I did not even know I could make that pigment.
When I look up at Gemeri, the same color is reflected in his skin. He pats my shoulder again. “I will count you among my sons when my ghost greets the goddess.”
He moves to resume his comm duties. Too overwhelmed to respond, I watch the pigment slowly drain from my fingertips. I can feel my channels protest, but theygive.Maybe Cidro is right, and it’s not too late for the system to heal.
I visit him in his lab, where he’s concocting an herbal tincture, his long sleeves tied out of the way and a sash tied over his mouth and nose. The filtering gills on his neck flutter. He waves me back. “Don’t breathe the steam! One minute and I’ll be done.”
I switch to gill-breathing until he indicates it’s safe to approach by untying the sash from his face.
“It’s for your Alara, to combat the aftereffects of her hypothermia,” he explains, gesturing to the green liquid dripping from a long glass tube into a vial. “Did she wake yet?”
I nod, and then he peppers me with questions about her physical and mental state. After I assure him that her circulation and cognition are normal and a headache seems like the worst of it, he launches into his report. A group of apprentices who suffered more minor injuries in the explosion has been cleared for sparring, so I make a mental note to set up a remedial training for them.
“There are two who may need transport to Olethia,” Cidro says, brow creasing. “Their bodies are healing, but their minds are not.”
Delphie warned me this might happen. “We must help them however we can,” I say gruffly. “You can send them to Olethia, but I’d like to bring a mind-healer here to create a program of our own for the future.”
Surprise shades his features, but he nods. “I will make inquiries. Many here would benefit.”
I suspect he includes me in that group, but I don’t disagree. “Whoever you choose to lead the program, you have my support in recruiting them to Usuri. My Alara has ideas, if you are willing to listen. She is knowledgeable about terrakin mind-healing, and I think it is much the same.”
