The center of the encampment was unusually quiet as I approached it. This was where the Viori tradesmen had built permanent wooden stalls. Butchers, tailors, bakers, tanners, and others kept actual structures here, unlike the flimsy market stalls dismantled each week. Usually, this area bustled with noise and activity, but today, everyone appeared to be at the market. Or celebrating the dead prince.
The stench hit first—a pungent mix of dung, urine, and animal hides from the tanner’s stall. I wrinkled my nose, wishing for the millionth time that they’d built the repository anywhere else. But with so few literate people in our tribe, I was in the minority when it came to frequenting it.
Pushing the tent panel aside, I stepped into the warm, incense-scented space. At least the tent panels masked most of the smell. What lingered, Soroush chased away by burning sandalwood, the rich spice mingling with the old, earthy scent of worn tomes and parchment.
Many tribesmen donated their books to the repository, expanding the shared knowledge available to us all. My mother was one of the few who refused, a choice that had earned Soroush’s repeated scoldings.
I heeled to a stop. Darya stood at Soroush’s desk, a tall stack of books balanced in her arms.
Both cast their glances at me. I flicked my attention to the nearest shelf, running my fingers over the cool spines. The repository was one of the largest tents in the encampment, with alcoves for study and reading, but despite its size, there was no easy way to avoid her.
I focused on a section about medicinal plants, pretending to search for something. Avoiding Darya had become a habit. She’d arrived three years ago from another tribe, the daughter of a high-ranking Vangar general in Emberstone. She’d been sent to assess our Vangar unit.
I’d liked her, as she’d been reserved but kind. Friendly.
But after she married Seth, I hadn’t known how to approach her. She hadn’t set out to come between us, yet my heartbreak cast her in an entirely different light. She’d married the man I’d loved, and her position gained her the respect and affection of my tribe.
My senses tracked her as I perused the bookshelf in front of me. Her silky black hair was coiled in a tight roll atop her head, her creamy white skin a stark contrast to her dark clothing. Beautiful, commanding, smart. As my superior officer and Seth’s wife, she’d had the ability to make my life miserable in the Vangar if she wanted—but she never had.
Maybe I should have accepted her offer of friendship yesterday, but with Seth’s vile behavior, the idea was impossible to stomach. I didn’t relax until she moved away from Soroush. Darya paused at the exit, turning just enough to direct her words at me. “Good news today, isn’t it?” Genuine excitement lit her eyes.
My unease rose. “The best news for us all.” Was she testing me? She seemed sincere enough.
“Your husband seemed unusually recovered today—your mother outdid herself healing him. Will you both be at the celebration tonight?” She dipped her chin, then came closer to me. “This is a good opportunity for you both to cement your loyalty. Seth will be watching.”
“I plan on it.” The smile I mustered felt brittle.
She paused, as though wanting to say more, but Soroush’s watchful gaze seemed to stop her. She bit her lip then said, “Hope you find what you’re looking for. See you at the celebration.”
As she left, I cringed. Of course Seth would use the celebration to test Rykr’s enthusiasm for his king’s death.
A problem for later. Even if Rykr was willing to play along—and he’d made it clear he wasn’t—I couldn’t bring myself to force him into that charade. Not after I’d felt his grief.
I waited a few minutes to ensure Darya wasn’t coming back, then headed toward Soroush’s desk. The old man had always been warm toward me, appreciative of my interest in books. But as he peered over his spectacles now, his usual friendliness had cooled, edged with caution.
Sniffing, he set the glasses aside. “I suppose I should have expected you here, now that you’re free to roam.”
“Don’t worry, Soroush, I won’t taint you by association.” I crossed my arms over the soft leather of my vest.
How quickly things had changed.
Once, Soroush had suggested I appeal to Emberstone to be released from my Vangar duties and train as his apprentice instead—to become a scriptrix, a master of texts. The only way to escape Vangar service was to present a formal letter to Emberstone from a tradesman requesting an apprenticeship.
Exceptions were rare. They passed down mostly from parent to child even if the child hadn’t shown an aptitude for the craft.
Soroush would have written that letter for me, though. I had the memory, the aptitude, but I hadn’t wanted it. I’d wanted to be a Vangar warrior.
If only he’d made the same offer to Esme. Acid rose in my throat. Esme would have accepted. She would have been safe, tucked away in this tent, learning from Soroush instead of preparing for a militia she’d dreaded joining.
She never would have been in that damned tree the night the Liriens came for me.
Would they have taken me, instead? Probably.
Soroush lowered his gaze, meticulously copying a text onto fresh parchment. He’d spent his life ensuring every text in our repository had at least one other copy. “How can I help you, Seren? I’m quite busy.”
Annoyance flared through me. If he was dispensing with politeness, so would I. “I need every text you have on the Skorn.”
Soroush’s grey lips pressed together, and he continued scribbling. “Unfortunately, Seth requested every text we have—on precisely those subjects. Darya just left with them. Perhaps he’d be willing to share while they’re on loan.”
