Moving in front of me, she gave me a long assessment. “I like it. An equally beautiful version of yourself. When you return, I’ll mist it with all the water necessary to get the version you prefer back.”
Her understanding meant the world. It wasn’t just about hair but what it represented in a world that wanted to tell me that my thick coarse coils weren’t right or were a source of shame.
Sayier removed her hand from my back and cuffed her palm over my wrist. Moments later, the dizziness settled and my vision cleared enough from the travel to take in the ecru stone building in front of us. Its compact silhouette wasn’t as grand as the Laytherium but commanded attention. Peculiar amber light ebbed from the series of arched black wrought-iron windows, touting the strong magic and power that waited inside. The copper-tone cupola crowning the roof contrasted with a projecting central bay constructed of layered inverted stone arches. Whereas arches and bowed architectural features typically invited entry, here they served as a warning. Nothing about this place promised mercy—only judgment.
My heart pounded and warmth seeped from my body. I was unable to draw from the strength of Sayier and Nahela, who flanked me. Shoulders back, their faces were devoid of expression except for the apprehension in their weary eyes. Sayier closed her eyes briefly as if she’d sent up a silent wish.
The doors opened for us, presenting a stretch of stone hallway in varying shades of taupe and weathered gray. Stone pillars were the only features in the vacant space, making the vastness feel unwelcoming. Each footstep echoed in the emptiness. Despite the muted glow of light from chandeliers in the ribbed arches of the ceiling, it was like being ushered into a deceptive cave. Everything about the hall suggested purpose, but not compassion.
In desperate need of a distraction and a place to pin my hope, I asked, “Cirrian’s decision will be made by fifteen people?”
“Fifteen emissaries,” Sayier corrected, punctuating their roles as representatives of the five continents that they called spires.
Fifteen decisions. That was significantly better than only that of Lord Zyran, who was Lead of Cirrian’s spire. Sayier and Nahela were miserly with information about their judgment system, leading me to believe that Umbryth citizens’ staunch devotion to their hierarchical system and the protection of magic didn’t extend to their judicial system.
My pragmatism was overwhelming any sense of hope. The guards who followed us into the room closed the heavy door behind us, making hope falter more. I wasn’t convinced that superficial things like a lovely gown, straightened hair, and carefully done makeup would have any bearing on their decision. Clinging to the hope that whatever decision was rendered, Cirrian would keep his promise and release me from my oath. But that wasn’t much of a consolation; I didn’t want him to die.
We halted in the center of the room. Before us sat a semicircle of officials in matching uniforms, each bearing sleeve ornamentations, chest emblems, and distinct collar markings that likely identified their spire. They perched on high-back chairs behind a narrow table built in a series of curves that created individual alcoves while placing a small distance between them and whoever stood in the center, giving a calculated illusion of benevolence and approachability. There was nothing about their sharp-eyed stares and rigid postures that revealed it was solely for appearance, not reality.
Sequestered as I was, several feet from the emissaries and behind a wall of guards, I had a partially obscured view. A few feet away, Cirrian, cuffed in runed manacles, was escorted in by guards who formed a half circle around him. His lips twisted into a self-satisfied grin as he positioned himself before thecentral emissary. The others received a cursory dismissal as his eyes quickly skated over them. The change in their expressions showed they had registered the intended disrespect.
“Lord Zyran,” Cirrian said, his voice booming in an exaggerated deference as he kneeled before him, arms stretching out toward Lord Zyran.
Quiet authority settled in the lord’s intense hazel eyes. Steadily and with intent, he regarded Cirrian. The slow roving frown hardened the angles of his jaw, drawing my eye to the intense sharp curves of his face. Acorn-brown wavy hair looked as aggressively precise as his movements as he tilted his head, keeping his intense scrutiny on Cirrian.
“Cirrian, drop the deception. It doesn’t suit you. You’ve never shown the slightest display of reverence for the Bavelon, and I doubt you’ve developed any respect for us now.” His glare landed hard on Cirrian, who lifted his head, his lips tugged into a grin.
“Is this what you are searching for?” Lord Zyran asked, standing to reveal unexpectedly tall height and a slim, lithe physique built for power and speed. His unsettling fluid movement put me on edge. Holding up several silver strings, his fingers tapped at them like he was playing an instrument. The strings sparked to life, rocketing toward Cirrian before Zyran grabbed them. Bringing them close to his lips, he whispered something that made them wither into little speckles into the air.
“Your mastery of your magic is a virtue and a vice. I admire it and abhor it equally. The same feelings I tend to have for you.”
Damn. Tact is a missing art in Umbryth.
Cirrian’s eyes scanned the room until he found me between the wall of bodies. He shifted enough to hold my gaze.
“Release me.” A threat threaded through his request.
Cirrian stood taller, the room quieter than before. Even the guards around Cirrian’s back were ramrod straight, a shadowof concern creeping over their faces before being marshaled away. The expressions of the Bavelon members tightened as they exchanged looks.
Lord Zyran looked the most defiant. Eyes leveled on Cirrian, he said, “I trust that you will behave. If we must subdue you, your right to defend your actions will be revoked and you’ll be sentenced without your defense. Do you understand, Cirrian?” His name was voiced with the same lamentation as when they referred to ephemerals.
The moment the manacles were removed, Cirrian was in front of me. Hesitating, he took a strand of my hair in his hand and wound it around his fingers. He studied me.
“Who did this to you?” He sounded like I was missing a limb.
“Me.” I stole a glance in Sayier’s direction. “I needed to be presentable for this.” I attempted to add humor to my voice, but the sting of it remained.
He glared at Sayier, who lifted her chin and returned the glower. Her expression aptly showed she didn’t care about his dissatisfaction with her. There was also concern, which conveyed her willingness to do whatever was necessary to give him an advantage. He appeared to have missed the caring part.
“Do you want to change?” he whispered.
“My hair is the least of our worries,” I hissed through clenched teeth. He was infuriating. “Why didn’t you want to see me yesterday?”
“It’s not that I didn’t want to, I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Let’s discuss it later.”
