It took two days for Meira to give in. She’d barred the door to keep the battalion of attendants out and continued her search for anything useful; as with her first search, nothing had materialized, save for a sharpened quill. Somehow she didn’t think laying waste with her words would be quite enough to get out of the silken tower. Though her stomach objected thoroughly, she continued to ignore the mounds of food out of a mixture of spite and caution. Military warnings about poison and serums repeated in her mind. The grapes slowly lost their luster, and the floor became sticky from the rotanda juices that dripped from the softening fruit. Still, she wouldn’t give in.

Exhaustion, however, could not be fought. Her dreams were scattered, each flowing into the next before she could react. Faces of her friends, the Vadek, wielders, and strangers all flashed in a disconcerting fervor that always ended with them lying in the snow, blood on her hands. When Dorian looked at her, blood coming from between his pale lips, she awoke, shaking.

Icy blue eyes stared at her. She jumped slightly, letting the purrs of her bedmate return her to the present. With a yawn of teeth and fur, Ujo, the resident mouser, began his preparations for the day, face buried in his long black fur. Meira watched his calm ministrations, appreciating the limited companionship she’d enjoyed from him over the past few days. I should also follow his lead, she thought to herself, noticing the dark marks of dirt under her nails. The rest of her was likely not much better. Pushing off the amaranth silk covers, she let her feet fall to the tiles, cool in the morning air. The room remained silent, her peace undisturbed in the early hours. Though she reached for the pile where she had dropped her uniform the night before, her hands came away with empty air. She growled low in her throat as she saw the barrier at the door had been moved. The attendants were not to be messed with.

Meira discovered that they’d at least had the courtesy to arrange items around the deep tub in the center of the attached bathing room. She smelled each of the perfumed bags of salt deeply, settling on one that hinted of Jasmine and something spicy she couldn’t name. A spout folded delicately over the tub, shaped like an elegant bird; but she saw no familiar knobs or dials. It was then Meira wished for the barrage of attendants. Though they may have stolen her clothes in the night, they also had the ability to wield water and fill tub before her.

Her fingers drummed against her cheek as she stared at the cistern before her. She may as well try it. Meira held both arms out in front of her loosely and stared at the metal bird. She repeated water over and over in her head, trying to recreate the feeling that she’d experienced when the water had rushed at Kirsi in the forest. The spout remained dry. Screwing her eyes closed, she began to move her hands in slow motions, as if pulling water from the spout itself. She felt something in her, some feeling that she recognized from the woods, but it remained just out of reach.

“What are you doing?”

Meira squeaked in surprise, turning to cover her naked body with the nearby robe as Kirsi stood in the doorway to the bathing room. Her hammering heart muddled her words as the embarrassment crawled to her hairline. The healer hummed noncommittally as she moved around Meira and began moving her hands above the tub. Meira buried her jealousy as a steady stream of water cascaded gracefully into the tub, light steam rolling off the rising water.

“So what are you doing here,” Meira finally inquired, letting out a sigh of contentment as she eased into the warm, fragrant water.

“I am to help you,” she replied, eventually sitting at the dressing table after Meira waved her away from the tub. A noise from the bedroom made Meira start, the water jumping over the edge as she moved.

“They bring new food,” Kirsi reassured, standing up to greet an attendant who walked in with a tray laden with more fruits, pastries, and aromatic meats that made Meira salivate at the sight. She spoke warmly to the attendant in Juri’a before taking the tray from her and bringing it over to Meira. The latter looked greedily at the fare, but still did not touch. Kirsi watched her for a moment before grabbing a golden pear, taking a large bite while staring at the Khaantul wavering in the water. As Kirsi’s hand reached for the meat, Meira’s slithered in, resistance worn. Meira knew the sounds she was making as she ate were likely obscene, but the redhead just smirked and continued enjoying the pear in her hand.

***

My Dearest Dorian,

The page beneath the greeting remained blank, and Meira could not understand why. She had an ocean within her; the need to talk to Dorian was all-consuming. Somehow, when the nib went to paper, the emotions left her unable to add more than ink spots. It had been the same when trying to write to Caelum. She’d hoped writing to her brother would be easier. That perhaps scratching to him of her capture and the fear she had in the face of the full moon might help; but to do that, she would have to explain why the Juri’a were keeping her and what they thought she could do. Caelum’s and Dorian’s opinion frightened her more than any moon or brooding General could.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

She looked up from the empty page to see Kirsi taunting Ujo with a string. The Juri’a woman beamed at the animal leaping after the tendril she moved across the nearby furniture, stifled giggles drawing a small smile from Meira. She was loath to admit it, but the Verena’s appointment of the redhead had been wise. Kirsi had persuaded the attendants to give Meira space, their overwhelming wave of blue and white reduced to three women who helped quickly and silently. After the three days of solitude Meira had forced, Kirsi and the attendants had been present daily, interrupting the Khaantul’s ability to plan an escape. It was undoubted that the woman enjoying the luxury of her apartment and the purrs of the cat on her lap was also reporting back on Meira to the Verena and her General. Meira had stayed in the ornate room, giving her observers nothing but disinterested quiet and scribbles on parchment that seemed to have moved in the night.

With one last tap of the quill, Meira stood up from the desk, moving to cross the room under Kirsi’s casual gaze.

“I’ve had enough of the room. It’s been a week. Let’s explore.”

Kirsi nearly fell over her heather skirt in her haste to get up at Meira’s command. The folds billowed behind her as she moved to meet Meira at the enormous wardrobe where the latter was pulling at the prism of fabrics it contained. Settling on a deep raspberry, the women spent a few minutes wrapping the complicated silk tunic over Meira’s deep indigo dress. Though Kirsi tried to add other adornments, including a uniquely embroidered belt and a hair piece Meira was sure was worth more than a year’s salary, the other woman waved her off.

“Actually, will you go get the belt for me?” Meira asked as they stood at the door, smiling at the healer for the first time. The answering grin shone, and Kirsi sprung around the corner for the accessory. Meira opened the lantern on the table quickly, taking her prize. She ensured the lamp—and her smile—appeared undisturbed as Kirsi bounded back.

“You look like Saint,” Kirsi said with pride after adding the piece she had retrieved. Meira ducked her head bashfully, then took a deep breath, opening the door to the palace for the first time.

***

Sunlight danced into the hallways through the openings in the decorated stone. Meira’s fingers traced along the smooth stone as she followed Kirsi, who explained that the palace was built around a central courtyard, allowing as much open air and sunlight as possible. With their connection to the elements and the belief that the powers were blessings from the gods and goddesses of nature, the Juri’a built everything with the elements in mind.

Meira had been placed in a lofty tower on the western part of the building. As they traveled down the halls and staircases, she noticed the grand dome of the central hall visible at nearly any turn. It was the same brilliant blue of the guard’s uniforms, and several smaller domes in varying shades burst from the white of the palace complex.

“The color is for the god who blesses,” Kirsi explained, pointing out the deep green of the tunics of some passing Juri’a that matched one of the domes they had observed, “They are blessed by goddess of healing. They heal others.”

Meira saw her youthful hope as the woman watched the healers pass by them, looking nearly awestruck by their presence.

“But you’re a healer, and you’re wearing gray,” Meira pushed, confused as to the significance of the sole color Kirsi had worn throughout their acquaintance.

“I am not Master Healer,” she replied. Touching her tunic at the collar, she passed her fingers over the fine embroidery of the same shade. “Color is for home; for my clan.”

Meira nodded, understanding dawning, “So each group has their own color, unless you’re a master of something?”

Kirsi gave a half-nod but wavered, considering her words as she tried to clarify, “Juri’a use color to ask for blessing. In north Juri’a use color for clan also.”

Meira had only ever used color for fashion and influence in the upper circles of Datran. Even there, the colors were not the exquisitely deep tones that imbued everything in the capital. To see color used to bring about blessings and meaning fascinated Meira in a way that her frilled dresses and parasols never had.

“So what does gray mean, then? Is your clan asking to be blessed for something?”

Kirsi’s smile wavered, and she looked back out across the kaleidoscopic view as she answered, “It means we are orphan.”

Meira’s jaw worked for a moment as she tried to come up with something to say, finding only aching sympathy. Kirsi turned her gaze back, forced friendliness returning to her expression.

“Come! We find food.”

Companionable silence lingered as they continued their exploration, but Meira’s curiosity continued to burn.

“Do you want to go home to your clan,” she asked gently as they rounded a corner in the eastern wing.

“No!” Kirsi exclaimed immediately, surprising Meira. The healer’s hands twitched in front of her body in the way that Meira now recognized meant she was trying to translate thoughts that were proving difficult.

“It’s an honor to stay for you, D’vasia. Clan stays to serve you and to serve Verena.”

At Meira’s snort of annoyed disbelief, Kirsi’s hands flashed out, gripping Meira’s wrists and locking their gazes. “You bring hope.”

Whatever part of Meira wanted to deny the Juri’a and all that they told her couldn’t deny the singing connection that erupted at Kirsi’s intense clutch. It pulsated through her, begging for release. For acknowledgement. Meira pulled her hands back.

“So where is Dusan and everyone else now?” she pushed, continuing towards the shafts of light dancing at the end of the hall where they walked.

“Clan is in the city. Dusan is with healers,” Kirsi told her, voice dropping a little as she admitted, “I hope to learn from them while here. Then I can save others like you saved him.”

Kirsi’s voice was full of admiration, but Meira felt the stifling expectation of a nation squeezing tighter, slithering up her throat. Her steps quickened. These people wanted too much of her, needed her in a way that she couldn’t fulfill. The need to escape surged, and she nearly gasped in relief as she stepped out of the hall and into the blinding sunlight. A voice broke through the brightness.

“If it isn’t the Soul Wielder.”