Blood, Ashes, and Things Unseen

Chapter Two

When I return to Vat'ik House, Malon still sits at the bar where I left him, torchlight dancing across his pale skin. His mug is empty and his chair is tipped back, legs propped up on the scarred wooden counter. I sit beside him and cross my legs beneath me.

"I'm sorry," he says, barely audible above the ruckus of the room. A coin turns in his fingers, catching the light and sending it dancing to the far wall on which his eyes are fixed.

"There is no need to be."

Still he will not look at me, red rimmed gaze darting to the floor, the window, anywhere but my face.

"Malon." I say it with some force, willing him to turn.

Finally he does, and the guilt is written in every movement he makes. "I shouldn't have said what I did. It... it wasn't right."

I shake my head, hoping to dismiss his guilt. "It's not your fault. And I have some news."

Malon looks up expectantly, remorse slowly rewriting itself into curiosity.

"I talked to Solom," I say, about to share with Malon all the events that took place. But something makes me hesitate.

"Well?" he asks, leaning forward in his chair. "Did he give you a name?"

I glance about the room, Solom's words of warning still ringing in my ears, and relate the information I was given.

"Jassin," Malon intones, spinning the coin on the countertop. "Who is he?"

A sigh escapes my lungs. The name is unfamiliar to me, and I won't have a free moment to find out until my work at the palace is done. After a moment of deliberation, I reply. "I'm sure he is somehow related to the smuggling trade, or else he will lead us in that direction. In any case, he is somehow related to that strange phrase..." I trail off and look up at the ceiling.

"Perhaps he can give you insight into Laskir's mysterious death," Malon suggests. He pauses, then continues. "His death was unfortunate, but there are other wealthy men around the city who purchase... 'goods' through smugglers and the black market."

I lean back in my chair. If Nehava truly was captured by smugglers and brought to Jokulsa, she could have been sold to any number of individuals. My only hope is that finding the smugglers themselves would shed some light on her whereabouts.

"I'm going to turn in for the night," says Malon, and he tosses his coin onto the counter. He leaves, and it isn't long before I join him - tomorrow's preparations will begin early.

***

The room I have claimed is on the fourth floor, and at night I lie among dusty crates and other forgotten items. This night, though, I perch on the windowsill and look over the dark, frozen expanse of Jokulsa. As a little girl in Afreria, I would lie in bed and turn my head to look out at the stars, naming each constellation. Ambra the great steed would gallop overhead, while Berna and Belia chased each other endlessly across an ever-changing sky.

But here, in Jokulsa, the air is cold, dead, so choked in smog that the night sky can never clearly be seen. Even when I am able to make out pinpricks of light beneath the blanket of clouds, they are not the constellations of my childhood. They are frigid and lifeless, but at least here the stars and I have something in common - the city has not been kind to us.

Tonight, over the silent rooftops, snow starts to fall. It is grey, ashy, tainted by factories and greed. But still I sit by the window, watching as the sky begins to lighten over an ever-darkening world.

***

Malon and I begin preparations for the Zydan operation in the morning, and they continue for the next few days. Most of the process is familiar to me - we commit the layout of the palace to memory, and learn by heart every noble and official who will be attending the celebration. We collect weapons, and repeat to each other details of our cover stories until I can name every one of Duchess Ivelyne's cousins, uncles, and aunts, and can recite the Rizithian national anthem from memory.

What I am not so familiar with are the dress fittings and lessons in court etiquette. In his role as the servant Adnos, Malon will not be under such close scrutiny as I will, and he has been exempt from most lessons. Worse still, he attends and watches with amusement as my instructor berates me for the smallest of infractions.

At least the instructor is well known to me - Luven is his name, and he was a highly respected courtier. Until, that is, his relationship with the former captain of the guard was discovered. They were both thrown from the palace in dishonor, and we have worked together on many operations since.

When my frustration with etiquette lessons threatens to boil over, Luven suggests that I try on the gowns the dressmaker has made for me.

When I enter the room in a ball gown, Luven smiles and bends to kiss my hand. "How lovely you look, my lady Ivelyne."

"Perhaps," I say, allowing myself a small smile, "but how am I to move in such a contraption as this?"

I expect a facetious comment from Malon, but he merely frowns and turns away at my glance.

Luven chuckles. "If nothing else, you'll have plenty a place to conceal your weapons."

"The corset is a bit much," I muse, running my fingers along the ribbed bodice. Despite its inconvenience, the dress truly is beautiful. Cobalt silk, cream colored lace, and a full skirt are luxuries I have yet to experience. They are nothing, though, to the bright wraps and finely beaded scarves I wore to festivals as a child.

My mother would comb our hair, my sister and I, and wrap scarves loosely round our heads with hands calloused from labor and gentle with love. Saffron was my color, Nehava's was a deep, rich purple - neither of which I have seen in all my years in Jokulsa. Nor have I seen the swarthy skin of my people, or the red-orange soil, or the faces of my family.

For a moment, I am in Afreria. There is music, and laughter. My mother returns from the fields, my father presides over a steamy kitchen smelling of spices. Nehava is by my side, and we laugh together as only sisters can.

Then the image fades, and I am back in a cold, sparse room, wearing a gown that is heavy and plunges too low. The corset digs into my ribs painfully, and suddenly the longing for home is so sharp that I almost go to Heirel, right there and then, and tear up the contract before his eyes.

"Adaela?"

Luven takes my hand. His is cold, and I look down at our intertwined fingers. Mine are much paler than they used to be. So long I have been in this city, seeking my sister, I remind myself. If I do not find her, I have no one. So I will do this mission. I will wait three more years. And then I will find Nehava, and leave this forsaken place.